Page 3 of What About Us

I want to be at home with my family. I want to be in my mountain house with my views and the fresh air.

Fuck it.

I tap the screen of my phone and call my surgeon, Dr. Rutherford, and he answers on the third ring.

“Hendrix,” he says. “I trust all is well?”

“No, it’s not. I want a meeting with my medical team today. As soon as possible.”

“I, uh, I’m not sure what everyone’s schedule⁠—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about everyone’s schedule. I want a meeting at one o’clock at the team offices.”

I hang up, blow out a breath, and drag my hand down my face. I’m not usually this guy. I keep my cool. I’m lighthearted. It takes a lot to piss me off.

But being trapped in Denver while I hobble around my penthouse near Union Station when I want to be in Silver Springs is irritating the fuck out of me. This is a waste of time. I can do training and therapy at home just as easily as I can here.

And I’ll be fucking damned if I’ll stay here for the next six to nine months to heal. I want to see my brother get engaged and meet my niece. I want to spend time with my dad. I need to tell the asshole who proposed to Ava that he’s not good enough for her.

I have shit to do that doesn’t involve wasting away in Colorado.

“I need to go home.” I stare across the table at my team of doctors and therapists, and all of them look . . . concerned.

“Listen, I know you usually go home in the offseason, but if we’re going to get the knee ready in time for⁠—”

I hold up a hand, interrupting Dr. Rutherford.

“I know. But I’m telling you that I need to go home. To Montana. With my family. I leave tonight.”

“For the weekend?” Steve, the physical therapist, asks.

“No.” I shake my head and lean back in the chair. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. When I get close enough to playing, I guess, but we’ve already established that I’m out for the next season. I can hire a physical therapist in Montana that can consult with you. I’ll do the same for doctors.”

The room goes quiet.

“I wish you’d reconsider,” Dr. Rutherford says, but I shake my head.

“I won’t.”

“Perhaps you can come to Denver for monthly check-ins?” Steve suggests.

“I’ll consider it, but I won’t promise. I’m telling you, this is what I need. I’ll heal faster there.”

I don’t waver as the medical team for the Denver Flurry share looks, and then I stand and walk out of the room, pulling my phone out of my pocket as I stride down the hallway toward the elevator that’ll take me down to the parking garage.

I haven’t been this optimistic and excited about anything since the injury three months ago. I can walk without a crutch, but I still limp when I’m tired, and I’m wearing the fucking brace to keep my knee stable.

The dizziness has gone away, thank fuck, and I only have occasional headaches these days. Mostly I still have issues with sleep and memory, which I might just be stuck with forever.

And that fucking sucks.

It’s not like I don’t remember anything at all, but there are little pockets of time that I can’t recall. Sometimes, I stumble over remembering simple words. And I hate it.

Once I’m in the car and out of earshot from anyone else, I dial Tucker’s number. My brother answers right away.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”

“I’m coming home,” I reply, and just those three words make me feel better. “I’m flying in tonight. Can you grab me from the airport?”