“Sorry,” I murmur when my endeavor to remove his shirt causes him more pain.
After standing on a chair so our difference in height doesn’t hinder my ability to undress him, I dump his muddy jersey on the ground then warm up my cold hands by rubbing them together.
Air hisses between his lips when I press around the area that is swollen and red. “I need to check the possibility of muscle damage before I can guide it back in. More times than not, popping a shoulder back in can make matters worse.”
He doesn’t reply, and I don’t mind the silence. Furthermore, I’m comfortable with my assessment. His shoulder has popped out of its socket, but only barely.
“I’ll need to apply pressure to your arm to see if we can slip it back into place.” I lower myself onto my knees before flattening my back on the carpet beneath Elvis’s dangling arm. Because we have such contrasting heights, I have no choice but to use this method. “Tell me if it hurts too much.”
I wait for him to grunt in agreement before circling one of my hands around his elbow then clamping his wrist with the other. When I pull down, the groan that tears from his throat fills my eyes with tears. I know I’m hurting him, but with this being the lesser of two evils, I don’t have much choice.
“Keep going,” he pleads when I back off. “I can feel it sliding back into place. You just need to pull a little harder.”
I’d laugh at the double-meaning of his words if they weren’t laced in pain.
“We’re supposed to slowly guide the ball back into your shoulder, not ram it in there.” I’m grunting, the strain I’m placing on his arm felt by both of us.
I stop weighing down his arm when a familiar pop sounds through my ears, closely followed by Elvis’s relieved sigh. When he moves to a half-seated position, I shout, “Wait! I need to make sure everything is in the correct position before you can move.”
“It’s good. It’s fine. I’m good.”
When he heads for the door, I clamber to my feet. I barely beat him to the exit a mere second before he charges through it. “Where are you going? Your arm needs to be placed in a sling.”
“No, it doesn’t.” His wild eyes bounce between mine, his chest movements frantic. “It’s fine. Look.” He rotates his shoulder, his expression blank. I would have believed he wasn’t in any pain if his eyes didn’t flare with every rotation.
“You need an ice compress, a sling, and a full work-up by aproperdoctor. You’re not going back onto the field tonight, E, and perhaps not for the rest of the season.”
My strides to the ice bin halt when he growls, “Give me a shot of Toradol, and I’ll be good to play.”
“You can’t play! You’re injured!” I pivot to face him, my twirl slow since I can feel the anger radiating out of him. Fury is rising from my gut as well. The images of him and Lillian broadcasting through my head on repeat are too frustrating to stay on the back burner where I placed them when he was injured. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you dislocated your shoulder. That’s an instant sideline for six to eight weeks.”
Devastation fills his eyes as he steps closer to me. “It’s playoff month. I can’t be sidelined for six weeks. Just give me a shot of Toradol and keep your mouth shut. That’s all you need to do.”
“You want me to lie? To say we didn’t just pop your shoulder back in?!” I thrust my hand to the massage table holding his dirty jersey. It trembles as badly as Elvis’s thighs did when I showed him my trick to minimize back pain. “I can’t do that. It’s morally and ethically wrong. Besides, it’s just a game, I’m sure your team will survive without you for a few weeks.”
“This isn’t just a game! It’s my fucking life! Everything I’ve been working my ass off for the past year is out there, waiting for me, but you’re standing in my way! This isn’t a stupid dance recital, Willow. It’s my fucking career! It means more to me than anything.”
I take a step back, physically stunted by his words, but before I can fire off a rebuttal, the ruckus I expected earlier breaks the silence between us. Players pour into the room Elvis is blocking from my view with his brooding frame, their mood hanging as low as my heart rate.
“Hey, what's the deal? One minute I see you charging down the sideline; next minute, you’re being carted off the field on a stretcher.” Elvis acts like Foster’s tap on his shoulder isn’t hurting him. “Don’t worry, man, you’re not the only one wanting to hide your face in shame. We’re getting slaughtered tonight. I’m glad you’re up and moving, or we’d have no chance of a comeback.”
Elvis raises his brow, silently demanding I remain quiet. He shouldn’t waste his precious time. I’m too stunned by his scorn to say anything.
“What was it? A cramp?” Foster slips through the thin gap between Elvis and the doorframe so he can see his face. “You should eat more bananas. They’re full of potassium.”
Staring right at me, Elvis lies, “Yeah, it was a cramp. I’ll be sure to take your advice on the bananas.”
Happy he’s helped his fellow teammate, Foster backhands Elvis’s chest before returning to the locker room. “Elvis is alive and ready to rock this place! Now the rest of you fuckers need to get your heads in the game! We can win this; we’ve just got to fight for it.”
His excited cheer inspires a joint one from the players surrounding him. It also doubles the grit in Elvis’s eyes. They’re no longer brimming with pleas. They’re arrogant and cocky, as confident I won’t rat him out as he is about winning tonight’s game. That’s all that matters to him, right? The game. Not me. Not my dancing. Just the game.
“Is it true? Was it just a cramp?”
In his excitement, Coach Salter yanks Elvis back far enough to help me hatch my escape plan. After snagging my bag from my desk and my cell from the top drawer, I hightail it out of the room. I make it three steps out of my cubicle when a hand clutches my elbow, stopping my hasty retreat. I pray it is Elvis, but there’s no zap shooting up my arm, crushing my dream as quickly as it surfaced.
I bite the inside of my cheek, warning my eyes to hold in their tears before slinging them to the person accosting me. Coach James’s hold isn’t firm, but the concern in his eyes is.
His lips twitch as he prepares to speak, but I beat him to the task. “I’m done.”
