But I’m at the arena tonight because sitting beside Mom’s bed watching her not recognize me doesn’t help anyone.
At least here I can do something. Fix something. Save someone.
The universe apparently disagrees.
We’re up 3-1 going into the third when I hear it—that wet, sharp pop that every sports medicine professional dreads.
Not the usual thud of body against boards. Something breaking inside.
Rodriguez goes down and doesn’t get up.
“Fuck,” Jake mutters, already moving.
I’m onto the ice before I fully process what I’m doing, medical kit in hand, and by the time I reach him Rodriguez is white-faced and clutching his knee like he can physically hold it together.
“Something popped.” His voice is high, panicked. “Doc, something popped bad.”
I drop to my knees beside him, hands moving over his gear even though I can’t see anything through the shin guard and sock. Can’t assess until we get him off the ice, but the way he’s clenching his teeth is answer enough.
“Don’t move it,” I say, keeping my voice steady even though my hands want to shake. “Tell me where it hurts.”
“Inside. The knee.” He’s breathing too fast. “I felt it tear, Doc. I felt it.”
Roman appears, crouching on Rodriguez’s other side, and I’m grateful for his presence even as I focus on the kid in front of me who might have just ended his career at twenty-four.
“You’re okay,” Roman says. “Doc’s got you.”
“Cap, I heard it?—”
“We don’t know anything yet,” I interrupt, because I can’t let him spiral. Can’t let him convince himself it’s over before I’ve even examined it. “Jake, we need to get him to medical.”
The crowd is silent in that awful way that means they know. That means they’re already mourning this kid’s season, maybe his career, and we haven’t even gotten him off the ice yet.
Between Roman and Jake we get Rodriguez onto the stretcher. I keep one hand on his shoulder as we move, trying to project calm I don’t feel.
The applause follows us into the tunnel—supportive and pitying in equal measure.
In the medicalroom I grab scissors immediately.
“Okay, I need to cut the tape and sock so I can actually see what we’re dealing with.”
My hands are steady as I cut through the sock and remove the shin guard underneath. When I finally expose the knee, it’s already angry and swollen.
Shit.
“Scale of one to ten,” I say, palpating carefully around the joint.
Rodriguez hisses. “Eight. Nine. Doc, I felt it pop?—”
“Some injuries sound worse than they are.” It hurts to lie to him. “We won’t know until we image it.”
I’m trying to brace it as best I can when the door opens and Winters strolls in.
He doesn’t look at Rodriguez. Doesn’t acknowledge the terrified kid on my table. Just looks at me with that expression I’ve come to hate—the one that says players are inconvenient obstacles to his perfect season plan.
“How bad?” he asks.
Not “Is he okay?” Not “What can we do?” Just “How bad?”
