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“You did that all on your own. Now get your ass up and get to the shower. You reek of alcohol, and Dr. Snow will not appreciate it.”
“I don’t care if she’ll appreciate it or not because I’m not going.”
Nixon makes the sound of the buzzer going off. “Wrong again. She’s expecting us in…” he glances down to his wrist, “forty minutes. She cleared her schedule because I took my sweet time in charming her, so you’ll get up, shower, drink some goddammed coffee, and then we’re going to see her so she can tell us how the fuck we can fix your leg so I can kick your ass for making my little sister cry.Again.”
You and me, Prescott? We’re broken. Everybody is counting on me to be strong and to beat this thing, and I can’t do that if your broken pieces are mixed with mine.
“There is no fixing it.”
Not my leg.
Not my future.
And certainly not Jade and me.
I’m saying that I’m going home. I’m going home so I can heal, and for your sake, I pray that you can do the same.
There is no healing for me.
No forgiveness.
“We’ll see about that.” Nixon crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you getting up, or am I doing it for you?”
“It’s useless.”
“So is fighting it. Because I’m not giving up.”
I hear the words he leaves unsaid. I’m not giving up. Not on your leg. Not on you.
“Fine.” Groaning, I push to my feet. “Suit yourself.”
If he doesn’t want to give up, I’ll show him just how hopeless it is so he can finally get the hell out of here and find somebody else who needs saving.
* * *
“Why the helldidn’t you come here as soon as this happened?” Dr. Snow grumbles as she looks over the x-ray of my knee.
Nixon’s eyes narrow in that annoying I-told-you-so way, but I just shrug. He was the one who wanted to come here, so he might as well deal with her.
But before he can say anything else, Snow waves her hand in dismissal. “Football players, of course, because you dumbasses think you’re badass and can play through the pain as if injuries heal themselves.” She shakes her head as if she wants to throw a few more choice words but is biting her tongue. “At least the season is over, but playing pro…”
“I’m not planning to enter the draft,” I say, my voice hoarse from lack of use. “I’m going to me—”
My words trail off as I realize that, no, I’m not going to med school because I failed my MCATs—just another failure in a row. What’s one more, right? I guess I should be used to it by now. I’m used to being the disappointment.
“Good, because looking at the x-ray and from what I’ve seen you’ve been using to deal with it,” the note of disapproval is clear in her voice. “I really don’t think you could play pro even if you wanted to.”
“Well, I’m not playing pro, so can we go?”
“Not if you want to use that leg without a limp.”
I open my mouth, but Dr. Snow raises her brows as if silently daring me to protest. I shut my mouth.
“Good. Let’s get to work, shall we?”
* * *
“I don’t need babysitting,”I grumble an hour later as we get out of Dr. Snow’s office. A shiver runs through me as the cold air slams into me. My clothes are damp with sweat and clinging to my skin.
