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“Are you the surgeon?” He looked at me skeptically.
“Yes, I am. I have had a chance to review Mr. Blakefield’s x-rays and it looks like it will be a rather simple surgery.”
He scowled. “There’s nothing simple about putting my star quarterback under the knife.”
“I can understand your hesitation. But I assure you, I’ve performed this same type of procedure before and I expect it will be fairly smooth.”
“When can he play again?”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“Play. When can I get him back in practice?”
“He has a fracture that will have to heal on its own, and moving bones back into place is going to also add to the healing process. I’d say with physical therapy and cooperation from the patient, he’s probably looking at eight weeks. That’s optimistic.”
“Eight weeks! We don’t have eight damn weeks.” The man’s cheeks turned bright red, and for an instant, I thought he might pick up one of the expired magazines and throw it across the room.
“Maybe it would help if you told me how the injury happened.” I still didn’t have any details after I was whisked from the fourth floor.
“We were running drills this morning. The boys had a rough night last night, so I was throwing it at them a little hard.” He hung his head. “Anyway, Wes slipped and the line ran right over him. Complete accident, but one of the cleats crunched his hand. Freak thing to happen in practice.”
“I see.”
The coach continued. “We knew when Wes stood up holding his wrist that it was serious. We did the x-rays on-site at our facility.”
That explained why some of the procedures had been completed before I was paged.
“Well, Coach Howell, I think he’s ready for surgery. I’ll give you an update as soon as we’re finished. Try not to worry. The good news is his life isn’t at stake, and he’s going to make a full recovery.”
The coach turned toward me. “Football is his life. If that hand isn’t better than it was before, you might as well kill him.” His eyes blazed right through me, and I felt a chill go down my spine.
“Like I said, I’ll let you know when he’s out.” I hurried out of the waiting room and headed to prep for surgery.
The nurses stopped whispering when I walked in the door. They were looking through the glass at the huge figure lying on the operating table. This entire scenario was absurd. It was a broken hand, for God’s sake. This wasn’t a triple-valve replacement. I sighed and started scrubbing in for the most important hand repair of my life.
3
Wes
I could hear a beeping sound next to my right ear that was driving me fucking nuts. My eyes opened to a dim hospital room. I tried to sit forward, but nausea slammed into me and I sunk into the pillow. Fuck.
I looked at my right arm, which was propped up by some sort of contraption. There was a tube running into my veins and a blood pressure cuff on my left arm that kept turning on every fifteen minutes.
My mouth felt dry and I licked my lips, looking for water.
It all came back to me. The Dean. The nurse. The bottle of scotch I drank. I closed my eyes.
I never should have stepped on the practice field still drunk, but it wasn’t like it was the first time I had done it. Half the team was still blitzed after last night.
I knew the snap was bad the instant I took it. I turned to try to recover it, lost my balance, and landed on my back. We were all so shit-faced no one had any balance. Canon came roaring over the line, and before he could stop, his cleats ran right over my hand. The instant I heard it, I knew what it was. A break.
The practice field was as quiet as a church. The trainers rushed me into the facility and splayed my hand on a table to x-ray it. As soon as they saw it, I was slung into a car and dropped off in the operating room at San Antonio Mission Hospital, being prepped for emergency surgery. Coach was with me the whole time.
Of all the fucking accidents to happen, why did it have to be my right hand?
There was a knock on the door and Coach walked in. He scratched the back of his head with his visor. “How you feelin’, Wes?”
“Could you hand me that water?”
