“You check on us every five damn minutes already.”
“Exactly. Now, I’m cutting it down to three.”
“Kyrie!”
His laugh filled the room as he pulled me tighter against him. I couldn’t do anything but shake my head.
This man was going to drive me fucking crazy before I made it to nine months.
But sitting in his lap with his hand covering my stomach, and that proud-ass smile on his face, I knew I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I sat on the edge of the exam table while the doctor looked over whatever the hell he had pulled up on the computer.
My ass had been sitting there for damn near ten minutes, waiting for this nigga to say something. The longer he stayed quiet, the more impatient I got.
“So, what we looking like?”
He glanced over at me. “Give me a second, Kyrie.”
“You had about six of them.”
He laughed and shook his head before turning his attention back to the screen.
I leaned back on my hands and sucked my teeth.
Patience had never been my strong suit, and sitting around, waiting for somebody to tell me whether I could get back to doing what I loved wasn't helping shit.
The last few weeks of rehab had been going well. My strength was coming back, my range of motion was damn near where it needed to be, and I wasn't dealing with the same pain I had when I started.
As far as I was concerned, I was ready.
I just needed this nigga to agree.
Finally, he turned away from the computer and faced me.
“Everything looks good.”
My eyebrows lifted. “Good enough for what?”
“Your strength has improved significantly. Your range of motion looks good, and based on what I'm seeing today, I'm comfortable clearing you to return to practice.”
I stared at him.
“For real?”
“For real.”
A slow grin spread across my face.
“Full practice?”
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”
And just like that, my smile faded.
“Man.”
He laughed. “You'll return with some restrictions to start. Your team medical staff will have everything they need, and we'll gradually increase your workload depending on how your body responds.”