Chapter Twenty-Eight
Collateral Damage
As the initial celebration begins to wind down, the team heads toward the tunnel, but I find myself moving at half-speed, each step a fresh agony. Regan appears at my side, her blue eyes scanning my face with concern. I try to mask the pain, but she sees through it immediately.
"Stop pretending you're fine," she says firmly, slipping her arm around my waist. "Let me help you."
"I've got this," I protest weakly, but my body betrays me as I wince with another step.
"Sure you do, tough guy." Her voice is teasing but gentle as she supports some of my weight. "Consider this professional courtesy from one athlete to another."
The warmth of her body against mine provides a different kind of pain relief than any medical staff could offer. I find myself leaning into her more than seems strictly necessary, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo---something crisp and clean like winter air.
"Thanks," I murmur as we slowly make our way toward the locker room. "Not just for helping me limp off the field like a wounded animal. For being here."
I swallow hard, surprised by the sudden emotion catching in my throat.
Regan's eyes soften for a moment before that familiar competitive spark returns. "Don't get all sappy on me, Hannigan. I've got a reputation to maintain."
By the time we reach the locker room entrance, Coach Harmon is waiting with our team doctor. Their faces tell me everything I need to know before a single word is spoken.
"MRI first thing tomorrow," Coach says, his expression grim. "Ice it tonight, stay off it completely."
The doctor nods in agreement. "We'll know more after the scan, but don't start writing your retirement speech just yet."
Regan's arm tightens almost imperceptibly around my waist. "He'll be fine," she says with such conviction that I almost believe it myself.
"Listen to your girlfriend," the doctor says with a half-smile. "She sounds confident."
"She's not my girlfriend." I smile at Regan. "She's my wife and my best friend."
Regan grins. "I'm also your personal cheerleader. Someone's got to keep his spirits up."
She winks at me, and despite the pain radiating through my leg, I feel a flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with my injury.
After the doctor and coach leave, Regan helps me to a bench outside. "I'll wait while you get cleaned up. Take your time."
"You don't have to stay," I tell her, even though I desperately want her to. "I'm sure you have Olympic training or something."
She shrugs. "Bohdan gave me the night off. Said I deserved it after watching that disaster of a fourth quarter."
"Bohdan called it a disaster too, huh?" I try to laugh, but it comes out as more of a pained groan.
"Actually, he called it a 'magnificent display of human stubbornness.' I'm the one who called it a disaster." Regan's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Now go get cleaned up before you stink up the whole hallway."
I hobble into the locker room, grateful for a moment alone. The pain in my leg is nothing compared to the tightness in my chest whenever I look at her. It's been like this since we reconnected---this constant push and pull between us, the old familiarity wrapped in something new and fragile.
Showering takes twice as long as usual, every movement calculated to avoid putting weight on my injured leg.
By the time I emerge, most of my teammates have cleared out, leaving behind nothing but sympathetic looks and empty lockers.
I dress slowly, wincing as I pull on my sweatpants over the wrapped knee.
When I finally emerge, Regan is leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone. She looks up when she hears the door.
"That took forever," she says, slipping her phone into her pocket. "I was about to send in a search party."
"Sorry." I attempt to smile, but the expression falters. "Turns out showering on one leg is an extreme sport. Maybe you could give me some pointers."
She rolls her eyes but takes my gym bag without asking, slinging it over her shoulder. "Come on, I'm driving you home. And before you start with the whole 'I can manage' routine, save it. I've already texted Bohdan that I'll be late tomorrow morning. He gets why."
"You don't have to do that," I say, even as relief washes through me at not having to face the empty apartment alone tonight.
"I know I don't have to." Regan's voice is soft as she helps me toward the exit. "I want to."
The drive to my place is quiet, but it's a comfortable silence. When we hit a pothole, I suck in a sharp breath as pain shoots through my leg.
"Sorry," Regan winces, reaching over to squeeze my hand briefly before returning hers to the wheel.
That simple touch lingers on my skin long after she pulls away. It reminds me of all those years ago when everything between us was new and uncertain. Now here we are again, in a different kind of uncertainty.
When we arrive at my apartment, Regan helps me inside with practiced efficiency. She's seen me injured before, but never quite like this. She maneuvers me to the couch with surprising strength, propping my leg up on a cushion.
"Ice, elevation, compression," she mutters, more to herself than to me. "Where do you keep your ice packs?"
"Freezer, top shelf," I reply, watching her move through my apartment with easy familiarity. It strikes me how natural this feels---her being here, taking care of me. Like we've somehow slipped back in time to when we were everything to each other.
When she returns with the ice pack, she places it gently on my knee, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. Our eyes meet, and I see something there---vulnerability, maybe. Something she usually keeps hidden behind quips and competition.
"Thank you," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "Not just for this. For being there today and so many other days."
Regan kisses me gently. "You mean so much to me, Mike, and you know I'm always here for you."
"Don't know how you do it. Being there for all my games and still finding time for all your own practice sessions." I lay a hand on her cheek. "Once the Super Bowl is over, I'll be your biggest fan out there. And I know you'll make the Olympics next year."
"The next Winter Games will be my last, one way or another."
I watch with a smirk as Regan repositions the pillows she tucked under my knee. "Maybe we'll both retire then---have some babies."
She bursts out laughing. "Some babies? Exactly how many are you planning on?"
I shrug. "Don't know. You can decide since you're the one who has to go through pregnancy and childbirth."
Regan's laughter is the best medicine I could ask for right now. She sits down carefully beside me on the couch, making sure not to jostle my leg.
"Well, Mr. Hannigan, I appreciate you deferring to me on the quantity," she says, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "But maybe we should focus on getting you healthy first before we start planning our future dynasty."
"Fair enough." I reach for her hand, lacing our fingers together. "But I'm serious, Regan. Watching you fight for your Olympic dream---it's inspiring. I want to be there for every moment of it."
She looks down at our intertwined hands, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "You know what's weird? All these years I've been laser-focused on the Olympics, never letting anything distract me. And now..."
"Now what?" I prompt when she hesitates.
Regan takes a deep breath, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my heart race despite my exhaustion.
"Now I find myself thinking about after. What comes next when the Olympics are over. I've never let myself do that before." She squeezes my hand. "And somehow, you're always there in those thoughts."
I pull her closer, ignoring the twinge in my leg. "I like the sound of that."
"Don't get cocky," she warns, but her smile betrays her. "The MRI could show nothing serious, you know. You might be back on the field in a couple of weeks."
"And if it's worse?" I ask, voicing the fear that's been lurking since I felt that pop in my knee.
Regan's voice is steady, determined. "Then we deal with it. Whatever it is, it's not the end of the world, Mike. It's just a new chapter."
I'm struck by how much I want to believe her---how much I need to. Regan has always had this ability to make the impossible seem manageable. She immediately shifts into caretaker mode, adjusting the ice pack and checking the clock.
Will I get well fast enough to play in the Super Bowl?
Only time will tell.