Chapter Thirty-Eight Vanya
I’m halfway through getting ready for the day, standing in my bedroom in front of the closet, a cup of coffee balanced precariously on the dresser behind me. Sunlight spills weakly through the half-open blinds, turning the room into a patchwork of light and shadow.
I’m reaching for a sweater, tugging it over my head, when my phone buzzes from the nightstand. Still wrangling the fabric into place, I glance over. Kyle’s name lights up the screen. That’s unusual. Normally, he’d text.
“Hello,” I answer, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear as I pull the hem of the sweater into place.
“Hey, Vanya,” Kyle replies, his tone unusually flat. “I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone else. Jeremy had a problem on the ice in Vancouver last night.”
The words don’t make sense at first. My stomach twists as I process them, my movements freezing mid-step.
“A problem?” I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady.
“He took a bad fall. Stayed overnight at the hospital there, but they’re flying him back today. He’s already in the air and should be landing in a few hours.”
“How serious is it?” I ask. My voice croaks at the effort to stay calm.
Kyle hesitates just long enough for my pulse to spike. “They’re saying it’s not. Bruising, maybe a strain. They didn’t see anything alarming in the X-rays.”
“X-rays are useless for his condition. We know this!” I screech.
My hand flies over my mouth, because I sound unhinged. Kyle doesn’t deserve my accusing tone. He’s simply sharing news. It’s not his fault I’m unhinged with worry.
“I’m sorry. I’m, um, just surprised,” I say regretfully.
“It’s OK. This is upsetting for everyone.”
“Why am I hearing this from you?” I ask. It’s a loaded question because Kyle has no idea Jeremy and I have been spending every free moment together for months. Four months, to be exact.
Kyle pauses. His next words come carefully. “I’m guessing he didn’t want to worry you. You know how he is.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” I state curtly.
“I’ll call you when he gets to the ortho wing at the hospital.”
“He isn’t going straight to our clinic?”
“It’s a precaution. The Mavericks want to keep a close eye.”
I mumble a dissatisfied goodbye and set the phone down on the bed. Jeremy didn’t call me. He didn’t even text. After everything we’ve been through, he still thinks he can shoulder this on his own, like it’s some badge of honor to minimize the injury.
My sweater suddenly feels too tight, too hot. I yank it off and toss it onto the bed, pacing the small space of my room as my mind spins. Why didn’t he tell me? Maybe he thought I’d overreact. Maybe he just didn’t want to admit he’d gotten hurt. Or maybe he’s so used to hiding his pain from everyone and I am not the exception.
I stop pacing and sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at my coffee mug. The bitter dregs sit at the bottom of the cup, mocking me.
I glance at the clock. He’s expected in a few hours. That should be enough time for me to figure out if I’m angry or worried or desperate or ridiculous. Or all of the above.
I might as well go to work. While driving, the roads are a blur, and my brain is in overdrive. The second I enter the medical wing, Sabrina greets me, her face pale.
“Did you hear from Jeremy?”
My stomach twists. “No. I heard from Kyle.”
“Dexter called me last night. It was horrible.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“The coverage is relentless on ESPN. And so are the speculations.”
Of course, I could have looked it up myself. What was I thinking? Maybe once I see how the injury happened, some of my anxiety will ease.
I lock myself in the office and pull up the game highlights on YouTube. The first clip is Jeremy standing tall in net, his movements sharp and decisive. The opposing team swarms the crease like a pack of wolves. They’re relentless, shoving and crashing into him in their desperation to break through. Jeremy braces, absorbing the blows, but it’s obvious he’s enduring more damage than he’s letting on. He removes his helmet to take a drink. The camera catches a flicker of distress across his face, gone in an instant.
But I see it. I feel it.
My hands tremble slightly as I grip the edge of my desk. “Get out of there, Jeremy,” I mutter under my breath, as if he can hear me.
The next play is worse. A long pass across the ice forces him to dive. He pushes off with his left leg—the motion I’ve warned him about a thousand times—and stretches out as far as he can. It’s enough to make the save, but the force of the play knocks him over, and an opposing skater collides into him mid-slide. The video cuts off and another player’s highlight begins.
“Fuck!” I yell and nearly throw my phone across the room. I search specifically for his name and come across the footage played in sports shows. It picks up where Jeremy pushes off his left leg and lands on his back.
The helmet obscures his face, but I can picture the expression of stubborn stoicism underneath. It’s hard for a man like Jeremy to stay down on the ice. It had to have been brutal if he didn’t get up. The trainers are by his side within seconds, the commentators speculating in hushed tones about what might have happened.
I can’t breathe. The worst-case scenarios hit me like blows of a sledgehammer. Instability. Ligament tears. Cartilage damage. A catastrophic injury that could end his career. Or worse, leave him with irreversible damage.
The trainers kneel beside him on-screen, their words inaudible. The stretcher arrives.
I hate seeing him on it. Hate the image of him being wheeled off. His body, usually so strong and graceful, deflates as they roll him off the ice.
My phone buzzes, jolting me back to the present. It’s a text from Kyle. He’s heading to Columbus General for a few more tests, but nothing alarming.
Nothing alarming? Did he not see what I just watched? Did he not notice the way Jeremy’s leg twisted? The way he couldn’t move on his own?
I pick up my phone and stare at the message, my grip tightening. Jeremy didn’t even tell me himself. Instead, I find out like this. I force myself to take a deep breath, setting the phone back down with shaky hands.
The only thing that is clear to me is that I should go to the hospital. I should be there when he arrives, even if part of me is undeniably angry.
Angry that he keeps pushing himself like this.
Angry that he didn’t call me.
Angry that I feel more like a flustered girlfriend than a competent doctor.
I stay seated, my hands clenched into fists, trying to wrestle down the ache in my chest. Every corner of this office reminds me of him, so I leave.
“Sabrina, please cancel my appointments today,” I tell her steadily although the pressure behind my eyes threatens to burst.
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Are you checking on Jeremy?”
Unable to trust my voice, I nod vaguely.
I had meant to go home to wait for Kyle’s call but find myself nearing the hospital instead. Once parked, I sit in my car like a weirdo. Jeremy’s face floods my mind, his teasing grin, the way his hair sticks to his temple after he pulls off his mask. How he pretends he’s fine even when his body is screaming. I knew this would happen. I knew it.
My palms slam on the steering wheel. The memory of our conversations surges, those heated exchanges where I’d warned him, begged him, to take his pain seriously. My frustration bubbles up, molten and scalding.
Pulling out my phone, I undergo my personally inflicted hell of watching the video on repeat and trolling the Mavericks hashtags. Sports analysts fill my head and drive me crazy. By the time I get out of my car, panic is eating my insides. I’m in a zombie state, walking through the parking garage and into the lobby. The acute, sterile smell of antiseptic, which always reminds me of late nights in med school, jars my senses.
He’s not even here and I’m already a useless mess. After walking aimlessly, I find myself in the cafeteria. The barista barely glances at me as I order. “Large black coffee, please. Extra hot.”
If I can’t stop the nerves, I might as well burn them out of my system.
I take a tentative sip while looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows facing a garden. A row of tulips, still tightly closed, lines the path. My finger traces the condensation on the window and, just beyond, wind stirs the budding leaves on the trees. From here, the spring scene looks surreal, gorgeous yet separate from the hospital’s cold, fluorescent reality.
The world keeps moving outside, but in here I’m paralyzed.
Waiting.
I sit and my leg starts bouncing uncontrollably.
Still waiting.
I walk in circles and stare at my phone. No calls, no texts.
Still fucking waiting.
I scroll to Kyle’s name for the tenth time in the last five minutes, hovering my thumb over the screen. It chimes and I swipe to answer.
“Is he here?” I don’t even say hello to Kyle.
“He just got checked into the hospital. Wait, are you already there ?”
“I, um, I’m on my way. Do you know the room he’s in?”
Kyle directs me to the third floor. The walk down the hallway feels longer than it should. Despite the boulder of anxiety growing in my chest, I attempt to keep my expression neutral. If Jeremy sees me upset, he’ll just deflect, crack a joke, and try to make me laugh.
And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, funny about this.