Page 14 of Colliding with Ten

I exhaled, checking off two catastrophes.

“But there is a small tear on the medial collateral ligament, likely grade two. The fibers are damaged and stretched. It’s painful, as you already know, but grade two MCL tears typically heal without surgery. You’re looking at six to eight weeks in a brace before you’re back to yourself.”

I listened. He said it as if it were simple, as though in six weeks my body would do relevés at will. All those months of conditioning would be lost. I huffed a breath at the thought.

“The MCL has excellent blood supply,” he said, continuing, noting my frustration. “Grade two tears heal well with proper rehab.”

“And the ACL?” I asked, holding my breath. My voice was small, sounding far away in my head. The MCL was important. But tearing through the ACL as a dancer would mean a coin flip on whether you ever came back the same.

“The ACL is only a grade one sprain, which is just a stretch of the ligament. It’s holding.”

I pressed my hand to my face and breathed into it, because the alternative was sobbing from relief in front of a stranger. If I couldn’t dance, then I would lose my spot on the team and would have to go back to California to finish a degree I didn’t want. My dance career would be over. Theresa, who had come with me, placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a small smile. It calmed my panic.

“What does that mean for dance? For ballet?” I asked.

“Like I said, rehab. It will build back your strength and awareness of your space. Your proprioception.”

Just another fancy word for my body noting its own position. I couldn’t do ballet without it. I was grateful the headbanging didn’t cause permanent damage.

“Nothing is guaranteed. But a grade one ACL sprain in a young, fit patient with a dance background. I expect a good prognosis.”

Sinking back onto the stretcher, I was relieved for several seconds before doubt crept back in. Two months sounded manageable, but during that time I wouldn’t know if my knee would handle a single-leg landing or if I’d have to fight for turns that were once effortless. Passing a doctor’s exam wasn’t the same as holding a relevé on pointe for eight counts. I still had a chance, but it balanced on a needle’s point.

They wrapped my knee in a compression sleeve, fitted it with a hinged brace, and gave me crutches to use until it stabilized. The whole process took less than ninety minutes from field to hospital to discharge. I hoped my recovery would be just as efficient.

When we returned to the stadium tunnel, the game had already ended, but the atmosphere was still vibrant. Reporters moved past the Hawks’ locker room, where rap music drifted into the corridor. Across from them, the Stallions’ equipment crew wheeled crates toward the buses.

They brought me back to the same training room I’d left hours ago, laid me on the cushioned training table, and propped my knee on a folded towel. One of the trainers told me AJ would take me home. He was probably worried and angry, too. Theresa hugged me and left me to change for home. She still had on her cheer top but had replaced the skirt with athletic pants for the hospital.

Minutes later, the door swung open, and he walked in wearing fresh clothes, but looking like he’d run a marathon. His eyes swept over me. Then he crossed the room in three strides.

“What do I always say, Ayla?”

I reared my head back, caught off guard by his tone. “Uh, please don’t ruin my life with your antics,” I said, mocking him.

He shrugged. “That too, but that’s not the one,” he said, shaking his head. He pointed a finger. “What do I always say?”

I sighed, fighting a smile. “Never turn your back on a live field.”

“Exactly.” He threw up both hands, exasperated. “Why do you never listen to me?”

I grinned. “Maybe because you sound like Dad when you say it.”

“That’s not funny,” he shot back. “You know I’ve got at least ten new gray hairs since they left with you. I counted them.”

The door opened again before I could answer. Micah, a Hawks wide receiver and AJ’s best friend on the team, strolled in. He wore a grin and a mischievous look.

“Ten new gray hairs?” he said, eyebrows up. “Bro, that’s optimistic. Try fifty. You were pacing the locker room like you were waiting on a paternity test. You were this close to a full silver fox transformation,” Micah said, holding up his index finger and thumb with a tiny gap in between.

AJ glared, as if he was holding Micah responsible for undermining the authority he never had. “Micah,” he grumbled.

Micah just grinned wider, leaning against the wall. His gaze softened when he looked at me. “Glad you’re okay, Ayla. You scared the hell out of everyone.”

“Yeah, me too,” I admitted.

AJ exhaled, his frustration dropping. “How’s the pain?”

“Ehhh,” I said, waving my hand to say so-so.