Page 103 of The Goalie in Room 1

He stared at my hand instead of taking it.

“That’s—that’s a stupid name.”

“Yeah, well, my parents were drug addicts and career criminals who spent more time in jail than out. They weren’t exactly bright to begin with.”

His therapist pressed her lips together.

Behind me, Matteo made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

The kid looked at my face again. Really looked this time.

“You’re actually Cash Benjamin.”

“Last time I checked.”

His gaze dropped to my crutches again. “I heard you were getting better.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

“I thought I was when I went to bed last night.” I shifted my weight, the rubber tips squeaking against the floor. “Then I woke up and needed the second one.”

“So?”

“So progress is bullshit.”

Matteo cleared his throat behind me.

“Not medically,” I added. “Medically, I’m sure it’s a beautiful, well-researched process full of reasonable expectations and measurable goals.”

Eli’s mouth twitched.

“But when you’re the one doing it? It fucking sucks. You bust your ass to get somewhere, then wake up one morning, and your body decides to be an asshole. Suddenly, you’re staring at a crutch you thought you were done with.”

The anger remained in his face, but he wasn’t reaching for the fallen crutch anymore.

“That what happened to you?” he asked.

“Don’t know yet. Matteo hasn’t looked at it. But it happened enough after the first three surgeries that I know the feeling well.”

“And you’re not freaking out?”

“I’m fucking terrified.”

The admission silenced the room.

I tightened my grip on the handles of my crutches. I could still feel myself sitting on the edge of the bed that morning, staring at the second crutch, trying not to see another failed recovery.

“But,” I stopped long enough to clear the frog named emotion from my throat, “throwing shit won’t tell me what’s wrong with my knee.” I nodded toward the resistance band crumpled against the wall. “It’s not going to do much for your hip either.”

Eli looked away.

His therapist bent, retrieved his crutch, and held it within reach without forcing it into his hand.

“Sit back down,” I said. “Let her figure out what hurts and why. Then you can decide how pissed off you are.”

His eyes snapped back to mine. “You always this bossy?”

“You should meet my surgeon.”