Chapter 1 #2
“Okay, Doc,” I said, taking a deep breath, “give it to me straight. How much is today’s visit, and is there really nothing that can be done, or are you just saying that because I no longer have insurance?”
He motioned toward the chair sitting at the end of the desk before taking the one he’d sat in previously. “Cash, there are a few experimental options and things I could surgically attempt, but there’s no medical necessity for them—”
“There is if it gets me back on the ice!” I said.
Why couldn’t these yahoos get it through their idiot heads? I was a hockey player. I’d been a hockey player for more than half my fucking life. If there was something I could do to play, I’d fucking do it.
“Cash, the risks out weigh the potential benefit. I won’t do a surgery in that case.”
I thought through what he said and asked, “Is there a better doctor out there who can do those things? Not saying you aren’t a good man, but I know from experience there’s always someone better or just as good but in a different way.”
He smirked. “I understand that sentiment. And yes, there is a doctor, but he only takes referrals. And there’s an intake process before he ever lays eyes on them.”
Finally. “You mean Vale?” I asked, knowing for a fact that the man did indeed mean Dr. Thaddeus Vale, a world-renowned surgeon and the top dog in orthopedic surgery and sports injuries. The number of careers he’d saved tallied into the thousands.
Hesitantly, he responded, “Yes. I mean Vale.” The doctor whose name I forgot before I ever walked into the office wasn’t an idiot.
My intent slowly pieced together on his face as hesitation turned to realization.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Why you’ve been to so many surgeons since the team declared you unfit?
” He flipped through the chart on the screen while I bit my tongue.
“Twelve different surgeons spread out across the country since June.”
“Will you do it?” I asked. “Will you make the referral?”
He took a deep breath as he stared me down.
When he exhaled, it was loud and harsh, but then he said, “No. I will not.” He held up his hand and said, “For the same reason the doctors before me refused. Another surgery is not medically justified because the likelihood of getting you back on the ice is about the same as the moon falling out of the sky and landing at my feet.”
I stood, walked out of the room, down the hallway, through the lobby to the world outside, and I kept going, limping every step of the way. When my leg burned and throbbed more than it had just sitting in the office, I stopped.
The park.
The park, which sat two miles from the medical pavilion where my appointment had been. Finding a bench, I sat, stretching my aching leg out along the bench next to me.
What the fuck was I going to do?
Light faded from the day as I sat on that park bench, turning the sunny California sky dim.
My stomach growled, and I sighed, pulling out my phone to order a rideshare.
It had to be my right fucking leg. It wasn’t bad enough that I got fucked up.
I had to get fucked up in a way that made a shitty situation shittier.
I sighed at the cost. Another thirty bucks down the drain, all because I hadn’t been released to drive yet.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have batted an eye at the sixty dollars I’d spent getting rides to and from the apartment, but now…
Now, I worried about every damn penny. For two years I played for the Breakers, squirreling away every dime I could, but now I had nothing coming in, and the Benjamins in my bank account kept disappearing.
I’d even sold my truck, not that it’d been worth much, figuring that once I got back on the ice, I could buy something else.
Now, I had to face reality. For the first time since I was little, homelessness was a very real possibility. I scoffed at the word. People prettied it up as “unhoused” nowadays, but screw that. There was nothing pretty about my situation.
I had around fifteen grand in the bank, thanks to all the flights and hotel room charges I racked up trekking all over the country in the hopes of finding a surgeon who wasn’t a fucking scaredy-cat or who would pick up the phone and refer me to Dr. Vale.
What I had left might, might buy me six months, but only if I could find another couple of roommates.
As it was, I would need to cover the entire rent for the month since Mason and Nolan had already moved out.
That dropped me to just over ten thousand.
“Should’ve kept the fucking truck. At least then I could sleep in it.”
The rideshare showed up. I got in.
“Holy shit! Dude! You’re Cash Benjamin.”
I smiled and nodded without comment, but inside my head, my voice rang loud and clear. I was Cash Benjamin. Now I’m just a nearly homeless, dumb-as-fuck, washed-up hockey bro without a plan.
At the house, I nodded at the driver, said, “Nice to meet you,” and got out. Inside, I walked through the living room and dining area to the kitchen, skirting furniture I refused to admit was no longer there. I sat on a barstool at the counter with my laptop, trying to make a plan.
Two hours later, there was clearly no plan. There were no options. Nothing would keep me from leaving this place behind. Covering the rent for the month was not possible.
Although there was always the option of pulling a Benjamin family trick out of the hat and overstaying the lease. Depending on what the laws were…
No! Fuck that. I’d raised myself to be better than where I came from.
Unable to face reality anymore today, I stumbled through the house— thanks to overdoing it when I stormed out of the doctor’s office— and fell into bed.