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His gaze locked on mine, wary now.
“Yeah,” he admitted with a pained sigh.
I nodded in understanding. “You have an injury?”
Johnny looked from my face to his leg, a frustrated expression crossing his features.
“I have something, alright,” he muttered under his breath, and then released another agitated sigh before blurting out, “I fucked my adductor muscle when I was sixteen. It was brutal. Nothing helped, and it was compromising my game. I was in constant pain, Shannon. Constant. The physio wasn’t working and I couldn’t cope with the pain anymore, so I gave in and had the surgery at Christmas.”
He sounded angry with himself, which pushed me to ask, “And you’re mad because?”
Johnny shook his head and then ran a hand through his hair. He was quiet for so long that I didn’t think he was going to answer me, but then he mumbled, “It’s not healing.”
“Your leg?” I whispered, concern bubbling up inside of me. “Or your stitches?”
“Both?” he offered with a resigned shake of his head, then whispered, “All of it.”
This was a strange admission between two relative strangers, and I got the distinct feeling that Johnny didn’t overshare often.
He looked annoyed with himself, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he was injured or because he told me about it.
Either way, I had the biggest urge to comfort him.
“Well—” Pausing, I twisted in my seat to look at him and gathered my thoughts before saying, “It usually takes a lot longer than a few weeks to recover fully from an operation. You’re not a machine, Johnny. The healing process takes time. A teammate of Joey’s had surgery last year to have his hamstring repaired. It took five months until he was match fit.”
“It’s been ten weeks,” he shot back, his tone taking on a hard edge, mirroring the frustration in his eyes. “My surgeon told me that I’m on track to full recovery, and my GP cleared me to play after three weeks. It was supposed to be a minor procedure but it looks fucking horr—” Johnny stopped short and shook his head, exhaling a frustrated breath. “It shouldn’t be taking this long,” he reiterated, glaring down at his thigh like it was the enemy. “It’s a fucking mess.”
“You were given the all clear to play after three weeks?” I frowned. “That doesn’t seem like a long enough time frame for your body to heal,” I heard myself respond, tone gentle.
“Yeah, well, I was,” he huffed.
“Johnny,” I said quietly. “You should probably only be going back to training now.”
He shook his head and muttered, “You don’t get it.”
No, I definitely didn’t, but that didn’t stop me from saying, “You said your stitches haven’t healed?”
He gave me a wary look but didn’t respond.
“Can you show me?” I asked. “I’m good with stitches.”
I’ve had enough of them.
“Shannon, I had surgery on my adductor,” Johnny bit out, tone thick, eyes laced with confusion.
“I know,” I replied. “But I’ve seen a million sports injuries on legs and knees, so maybe I can tell you what the problem is?” Shrugging, I added, “It’s probably just taking longer to heal because you’re on your feet all the time.”
“My leg’s not the problem, Shannon.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just presumed because I saw you limping,” I replied. “Is it your thigh?”
“No,” he deadpanned.
My cheeks switched from mildly warm to hot as a furnace in the time it took me to register that Johnny’s injury was positioned much higher than I had originally thought.
My mouth formed an O as vivid images of severed boy parts entered my mind.
“Yeah,” Johnny bit out derisively, looking both frustrated and uncomfortable. “Oh.”
