Page 67 of The Groupie

I nod and take off the compression brace, my boot, and my sock. I hope to hell this quick service means he’ll rubber-stamp me and send the report without a problem. Think positive.

Better yet, stop thinking. My phone pings. It’s another text from Zak.

Good luck today with Yancey. I’d say break a leg, but I’m afraid you would.

I laugh involuntarily. My body always reacts to him, betraying me, thumbing its nose at good sense, and it pisses me off.

After a light knock on the door, Dr. Yancey enters and sits on the rolling stool in front of me.

“Let’s see what we have here. How does it feel when you put pressure on it? Do you feel any pain or instability?”

“No.” A fat lie. “It feels much better than before.” Honest to God truth.

He manipulates my ankle, then presses and prods it while I maintain a stoic smile. Even when I feel a surprisingly sharp pain with one of his twists. I refuse to give in to the wince that screams through my body.

“There’s a very slight swelling, but if you’ve been walking around on it, even with the compression brace, that’s to be expected.” He let’s go of my ankle, rolls on his stool over to the computer on the counter, and looks through his electronic file.

After a minute, I can’t stand waiting. “How is it? It feels great. Am I good to go?”

He looks up and barely changes his expression. “Mr. Banner has sent some stringent requirements from the Olympic team physician that you need to meet, but looking it over…” He returns his gaze to the computer while my heart nearly stops at the mention of Olympic team physician involvement. Fucking Chuck. If he’s sold me out, I’ll … I don’t know what I’ll do. Besides start over. The wrench in my gut almost makes me cry.

“Yes, it appears you’ll meet the requirements. I’ll write the report and have it sent to Mr. Banner today. I understand your urgency to rejoin the Olympic team.” He stands and finally smiles as he reaches out a hand to shake mine. “Good luck, Ms. Flynn. I hope you win a medal.”

* * *

After the appointment, I may as well be walking on air. I don’t remember the last time I felt this good, and I treasure the moment despite the other things weighing on me. Mamma and, I finally admit to myself, Zak. Because the idea of never seeing him again stings every time it enters my consciousness.

As soon as I get home, my upbeat humor dampens and Suzie, Mamma and Mr. Argyle spend a quiet evening eating dinner like it’s our last meal. After I’d texted Chuck the good news, I had to ignore a string of texts and calls from him, turning my phone off.

It’s not until I go to bed at night and set the alarm on my phone that I turn it back on and notice I have several missed calls from Zak. A few minutes later, I’m under the covers and my phone rings. It’s Zak again. I hesitate to take the call, but in the end, my racing heart and traitorous body win out.

I owe him the courtesy, don’t I? That’s my rationalization as I press the green call icon.

“Rylee. I’m glad you answered. Sorry I’m calling so late, but I waited to hear from you about your appointment with Dr. Yancey. I’m about dead from curiosity. How’d it go?”

“He gave me the all-clear. He’s reporting that I’m fit to compete.”

“That’s fantastic, Buttercup. I’m happy for you.”

I can hear the smile in his voice and my chest tightens so hard I swear I can feel it crack.

“Thank you,” I whisper the words.

“Mamma’s surgery is tomorrow?”

The way he refers to her as Mamma, so familiar, should put me off, but it doesn’t. On the contrary, it nearly chokes the life out of my will to resist him. But not quite. Either way, emotion clogs my throat and I can’t speak even if I did have something I to say. Everything that runs through my head is all wrong. I miss you. Come to the hospital with me tomorrow. Let me go and never call me again.

I can’t say any of those things and after a few seconds of silence, where it feels like he hears the things I can’t say, he finally clears his throat.

“Tell her I said good luck with the surgery. I’ll be thinking of you all.”

“I… thank you. I have to go.” I end the call and viciously swipe the damn tears that drip down my cheeks. What’s wrong with me? He’s a fling, a man I barely know and so not good for me the way he makes me depend on him, doing all those favors, helping me as if I want or need his help.

From the first night I met him, he’s been insinuating his kindness, starting with the ice pack.

How can I resist that? How can I stand up to relentless thoughtfulness?

But I need to because no matter how relentless it seems, I know it will end someday, probably sooner than later.