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“I don’t know. It’s my right shoulder. Lots of pain, worse when I move it.Fuck!” I scream and not from the pain but the fact I’m about to be taken out of this game on an injury.
He touches my shoulder, and I wince. “Let’s get you off the field so we can check you out. Do you think you can sit up if we support you on your left side?”
“Yeah, yeah, I think so.”
He comes along the other side of me, and with Miles’s help, they get me standing to walk off the field. My face twists in pain at the inevitable movement of my right arm. Once I’m standing, the crowd claps to show their support and I raise my left hand in acknowledgment.
All I can think about are Shayna’s words at the gym—it could turn into something major that needs surgery.
Damn it. Anger heats my face, and if I had the ability, I’d punch a wall to dispel the rage building inside me. I don’t even know if I’m angry with myself, the guy who hit me, or the teammate who let our opponent tackle me.
Shayna’s on the sidelines, and instead of a smug “I told you so” look, there’s nothing but concern in her gaze.
Because we both know this is the “something major” she warned me about, and I have no one to blame but myself.
“How bad is it?” Joran asks as soon as I answer his call.
I would’ve thought my agent would be the first to call, but Kane beat him to it last night.
“They did an X-ray last night to make sure nothing is broken and that came back clear. I have to go for an MRI. Right now, my arm is in a fucking sling.”
Miles glances at me. He offered to drive me to the medical center since I can’t even get myself fromAtoBright now.
“What the hell happened? Was it that piece of shit who sacked you?”
My mouth presses into a thin line. “I don’t know what it was. Guess we’ll see what it is and go from there.”
“Jesus. This is not good, Lee.”
I’m so not in the mood for him right now. I grip the phone tighter. “You think I don’t know that? You think I want to be benched?”
Joran blows out a breath. “You’re right, I know, I know. It’s just hard to negotiate a contract for an injured player. You need to call me the second you find out what’s wrong and how long you’ll be out.” He hangs up without saying goodbye, which is just who he is, but where was the fucker last night.
“This is fucking hell.” My head falls back against the headrest of Miles’s Tesla.
“Listen, we’ve got the best of the best about to look at your shoulder. They’re going to tell you what’s going on and how to get you back out on the field the fastest.”
He’s right. One of the perks of being in our profession is the spectacular sports medical care we receive, but there’s only so much they can do. There’re things they can’t control, like your healing time and how your body cooperates.
“I can’t believe I’m in this fucking position.” I slam my left fist down on the console.
“Hey, man. Ease up.” He runs his hand down the center console. “Destroy your own shit.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“It’s okay, I know you’re good for it if you break it.” He smiles.
We drive in silence until we reach the treatment facility. Another perk to my job is I can get in at a moment’s notice, where others would have to go to a hospital for this kind of diagnostic test.
I tell Miles thanks and to take off while I undergo the MRI and wait for the results, but he makes up the excuse that he wanted to get a light workout in anyway, so he’ll just wait until I’m done so he can drop me off at home afterward.
I should’ve expected as much. Miles has a tendency to act like a big brother to everyone, not just Twyla.
The MRI doesn’t take long, then the team doctors take a look at my arm, checking my range of motion, then they go off to look at the X-rays again and review the MRI results.
I’m sitting in Coach’s office, waiting for them to return, shooting the shit about what went wrong in the game yesterday—both when I was on and off the field—while he squeezes a stress ball. Dr. Frampton and Dr. Carlisle walk in with drawn faces. Bile rises up my throat because I know without them even opening their mouths that the news isn’t good.
“Just say it,” I grate out.
