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I must not look thrilled because she turns the tablet toward me and points at the scan, pissed off. “Gracie. This is bad. This can do permanent damage. It may already have.”
“What do you mean by keep my weight off my foot?” Just the thought of it makes me squirmy.
“For the first week, I want you to keep all weight-bearing activities off that foot. You need to use a crutch when you walk. And absolutely no dancing. You need to modify your stretching routine so you can continue doing that for the next few weeks. And I want you to add some isometric work in with it.” She places the iPad down on her desk and sits down in front of her laptop. Her fingers fly across the keyboard while she’s looking atme. “I’m going to write up a plan for you—because all of thishasto be non-weight-bearing.”
“For how long, Brynn?”
Her fingers stop moving, and she looks up at me. She’s in Dr. St. James-mode right now. And I can tell right away, I’m not going to like what she has to say. “You’re realistically looking at five to eight weeks minimum, Gracie.”
“Five weeks,” I gasp in complete denial. “I can’t go five weeks without dancing.”
She walks over to a closet and steps inside. “My educated guess is it’s going to be closer to eight weeks. We’ll do everything we can though.” When she comes out, she’s holding a box. “And you’ll need to be in an air boot.”
“Come on... You can’t be serious. Brynn, I was dancing a week ago.”
“You were hurting yourself a week ago. No wonder you’re popping pain pills.”
“What?” I gasp.
Brynn sits down next to me, shoulder to shoulder. “You popped more Aleve yesterday than most people take in two days. You’re in pain, Grace. We need to manage the entire problem so it doesn’t get worse. Masking the pain won’t do that.”
“It’s over-the-counter, Brynn.”
“It is. And you’re going to need to continue to take it. But not that much. We’re going to add in corticosteroid injections too. We’ll manage it all, Grace. But you’ve got to do what I say. And you’ve got to stay off that foot. You said you told your company you’d be out for eight weeks. That means we’ve got seven weeks to try to get you where you need to be. And I think we can do it. But you’ve got to trust me.”
I nod my head silently. Because words completely fail me.
She opens up the air boot and slips it onto my foot. “How does that feel?”
“Like a death sentence.”
“It’s not that bad. I had one for half a soccer season in high school, remember?” Brynn picks up my discarded sneaker and stuffs it in her bag. “Come on. Let’s go drown your sorrows in Sweet Temptations cupcakes.”
“I’d rather have West End cheeseburgers,” I tell her as I carefully maneuver getting off this stupid table in this stupider boot.Fuck.
“Nope. Still too pissed off at Maddox for the condo thing. Compromise with The Busy Bee?”
“Fine,” I agree, too upset to fight her. “Five weeks?”
“Minimum. I want you to plan for eight.”
If I can’t dance for eight weeks, my spot in London is gone.
I’ll never be good enough to get my spot back after that.
Not there.
My heart sinks as Brynn leads me out of her exam room in the Revolution facility.
Eight weeks without danceisa death sentence for a dancer.
I’m sitting on the couch that night when someone knocks on our door, then lets themselves in. Only when I look over toward the door, it’s not someone. It’s several someones.
Maddox and Callen walk in, carrying take-out from West End, and they’re followed by Nixon, Ares, Bellamy, and Caitlin. “What are you guys doing here?”
When everyone starts speaking at the same time, I hold my hand up and decide to ignore everyone who isn’t Maddox orCallen. “You two—speak. And keep in mind that you now have my condo.”
“Listen, good twin.” Madman sits down next to me and stretches his arm out along the back of the couch. “You didn’t live there anymore anyway. Brynn was in the big place by herself. And technically, King Corp. owns both condos. So really, they’re communal family condos.”
