Chapter 16 Oakley Kate
Oakley Kate
“It is not the end of the world, you know,” says Jett, handing over the death trap crutches like they might bite.
“He stayed on the line until two in the morning, Jett. And I’m pretty sure he has to be up and functioning not long after that.”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she points at me. “Those are the actions of someone who loves you,” she sings.
“Stop,” I beg, not wanting to hear the same spiel again. “We’re just friends. Barely that at this point.”
“And now, you’re back in your hometown, hanging out with his kid sister, and calling him at night. If this isn’t a single-guardian hockey romance, then I’m not the best editor in Havenwood.”
“You’re the only editor in Havenwood.”
“My point exactly.” She grins. “Besides, from what Noah has told me, Silas is just as much a caretaker as your brother is when it comes to those he loves. And I’m telling you without seeing it myself. He. Loves. You.”
She leads the way into a small coffee shop on the corner of Maynard and Washington, her dark-brown locks twisted into an intricate braid down to the small of her back. The little shop also happens to be around the corner from the specialist that Silas set up.
I grudgingly gave in this morning after I realized the team’s athletic trainer had already told them to expect my call. Stupid misplaced guilt. I was still going to put it off, but a call from the coach’s wife, Hannah, pushed me to make the call.
The receptionist said they were booked for the next two weeks, but when I mentioned who referred me, the doctor took the call and told me to come in on his lunch break. A call to Jett and here we are.
I don’t know how I lucked out with the absolute best not-sister-in-law ever, but I’m thankful she and my brother found each other.
“Do you trust me with your drink choice?” she asks as we head toward the counter.
At my nod, she starts talking in foreign coffee language.
I’m not big on the fancy drinks, just that it’s iced and sweet.
Since moving to Havenwood and going in on a coffee shop slash book store slash indie author services, Jett has become somewhat of a coffee connoisseur.
Once we have our drinks, we start the short trek around the corner to the doctor’s office. I take a sip and nearly moan at how inappropriately good it is while Jett laughs at my expense.
“What is in this thing, friend? So damn good,” I say as I suck down another gulp.
“It’s something Kelsey calls a Toasted Haven. It was one of the first drinks she created when we rebranded. It’s got graham crackers, caramel, chocolate, and marshmallow cream flavorings. Gives a little Christmas sparkle year-round. It’s even better frozen.”
My eyes widen as I chug more of the odd combination, all the sweet, tasty goodness of a s’more without sacrificing the fresh-ground coffee flavor.
As we step through the sliding glass doors into the medical building, I immediately locate the elevator. Jett hesitates for a split second, and I swear she takes a step toward the stairs.
“Please tell me you aren’t going to make me take the stairs,” I say, the sarcasm only slightly masking the edge of panic I feel at the thought of maneuvering up steps like this.
“Of course not.” She waves me off, but her unease at riding what she calls a “metal death trap” is evident. She got stuck in one during a storm, and it scarred her for life. Fun fact: that entrapment is how she and Noah met.
Jett eventually jabs the call button like it might eat her finger.
When the doors open and we step in, she says, “At least it’s only two floors.
Noah says smaller buildings like this typically use a hydraulic system instead of a traction elevator like the ones he works on.
” As she spouts off random elevator facts, the elevator takes us up a floor without a hitch.
We step directly into the lobby of the orthopedic office, where a man in his late thirties steps around the desk with a welcoming smile.
His dark-gray scrubs cling to his frame just enough to make it obvious the man actually uses his gym membership.
He’s attractive, sure—strong jaw, green eyes, a touch of salt-and-pepper in dark hair—but he's not my type.
“Oakley Slater, I presume,” he says as we move closer.
“That’s me,” I mumble as my nerves swarm. I shove a thumb in Jett’s direction. “Jett is here for moral support, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. Nice to meet you both. I’m Dr. Bradley. Let’s get settled in room one and we can see what we’re dealing with.” He nods to my leg before guiding us into the fanciest exam room I’ve ever seen.
I settle into one of the cushioned chairs and try to elevate my leg without being obvious. Jett snorts a laugh when Dr. Bradley pulls a small stool from under the exam table and gently positions my foot.
“Here’s the deal,” he says, no-nonsense in his tone. “I’m not thrilled with the X-ray angles Steele Valley Medical sent over. We’ll snap a new X-ray, then I’d like to do an ultrasound to check ligament integrity. Sound good?”
I nod, too nervous to trust my voice.
As he turns off one set of lights and rolls over a computer on wheels, he tells me to remove the boot while he gets set up.
“Gel might be a little cold,” he says before dabbing a small amount on a wand then rolling it over the side, back, and top of my ankle as he studies the grainy screen.
“While I’m not seeing anything to suggest soft tissue damage, I’m a little perturbed that the other office didn’t take these steps.
With where that fracture is sitting and with how much bruising is along the side of your foot, it’s a miracle you didn’t rupture or tear anything.
And my professional opinion? You might get lucky and let it heal on its own. ”
“But…”
“But your best chance at a full recovery is surgery. You look athletic. Regardless of the sport or activity, I’d strongly suggest inserting a pin or two. I know that isn’t what you want to hear.”
Jett goes still beside me, the little spinner Noah gave her twirling between her fingers. She may not know my fears about surgery, but the girl isn’t a fan of feeling out of control, either.
“So, if I ever want to skate or run again, I don’t really have a choice,” I say flatly.
He winces. “If we’re talking routine wear on that ankle, then yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
Letting my head thump against the wall behind me, I swallow back the fear clawing up my throat—fear of going under anesthesia, of memories I’ve shoved deep and locked tight.
“Schedule it,” I whisper, not looking at him.
With the promise of the receptionist calling me with scheduling details when she returns from lunch, Jett and I make our way downstairs.
It’s a tense silence. Partly because Jett doesn’t always read situations well, so she keeps quiet if she doesn’t know what to say.
But mostly because I’m so keyed up with fear and anxiety over the next steps for this stupid freak accident.
I blame that on why I nearly miss the six-foot-four wall of a man leaning against a gray SUV as Jett and I step back into the summer heat.
When my brain catches up to my eyes, I damn near miss a step, my crutches no longer moving in sync with my leg.
Silas’s eyes lock on me as he kicks back against the passenger door. His crossed arms pull at the navy compression shirt, his biceps and traps on full display. One ankle crosses over the other, showing off his defined calf and part of his thick thigh.
I suddenly have the urge to hunt down every woman who has walked by and seen him. I need one of those memory wipers from the Men in Black franchise, because no one else should get to look at this man.
As that thought sinks in, I snap back to reality and cut what is hopefully a menacing look at Jett. I damn sure didn’t tell him about today after he stayed up all night for me.
“Why is he here?” I hiss at my supposed best friend.
She has the audacity to shrug, as if she is innocent in the loss of my restraint.
“I don’t know all the history between you two, and that’s fine.
” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder as she continues.
“But that man knows you better than anyone else. You can deny it all you want, but Silas Harrison is wrapped around your cute little sparkly pinky. Talk or give him the silent treatment. That part is up to you, but let the sexy hockey man take you home.”
I’m torn between stomping my foot in frustration and thanking her for getting him here. As much as I hate relying on anyone, Jett is right about one thing. Silas knows why this entire scenario has my stomach in knots.
Before I can decide which emotion to follow, Jett hugs me and bolts for her car. She hollers over her shoulder to Silas, “She’s all yours, hockey guy!”