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“Perfect. You have room for mine then. I’ll put it away and hide in your bedroom until the coast is clear.” Coast is clear? Great. Now, I’ve invoked Scooby Doo. Too bad I can’t ask Noah’s doc for an MRI because something is clearly off with my brain.
I hop up before my mouth can do any more damage to my totally badass image and head off to find my keys. But before I can make it too far, I hear my name.
“Tripp?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.” Noah offers me a sad smile, and it hits me that he’s scared of what comes next.
You and me both, big guy.
Chapter 15 – Noah
Dr. Cutter checks the images he took with the portable x-ray on his laptop while I sit helpless on the couch, trying not to panic.
Given our performance last year, and the way we’ve been looking so far, I know in my heart we have a shot at the cup this year. Or we did. Not to say our backup goalie can’t do the job, or to sound cocky myself, but there’s a reason he’s the backup. He doesn’t have my reflexes. Or my size. He’ll give us a fighting chance, but guys like Niko will have to step up, and he’s already playing at an elite level at the most elite level there is.
It's not realistic to think we’ll get through an entire season without suffering some injuries among the team, but to start the season that way… To get hurt off the ice no less… I fucked up. Put the entire team and our season at risk. And now I’m going to lie about how it happened.
Tripp doesn’t deserve the fallout that will come his way if people find out he was here. We were both horsing around, but I’m the only one with a contract that states I won’t take unnecessary risks. And while I regret that my decision could affect the team, I don’t regret those moments with Tripp. We were flirting, both of us, and it felt natural. I liked it. I want to do it again, without the chasing and the injury, of course.
I knew before I hit the ground that something was seriously wrong. The pain hadn’t even come, it was just the unfamiliar motion of my ankle that tipped me off, and I was probably on the ground a full two seconds, knowing I was in trouble, before the agony hit. It’s faded to a dull ache now thanks to the ice, which gives me some hope that things might be better than I first thought. The fact that the doctor hasn’t said anything for nearly fifteen minutes isn’t helping my mental state though.
God, I wish Tripp was sitting next to me.
Knowing he’s in the house helps, but if he were here he’d probably say something ridiculous to distract me, like, “I wonder what my dick looks like on an x-ray?” to which Dr. Cutter would probably gasp and turn beet red and maybe even have to wrestle the thing away from Tripp when he tries to take his own picture.
I know the man is an acquired taste for most, but I envy his ability to say whatever comes to mind. It’s refreshing. And even though it’s sometimes obnoxious, I like that he’s not afraid to be himself.
“Do you need anything for the pain?” Dr. Cutter interrupts my imaginary scene as he finishes wrapping my ankle.
“No, why?”
“You’re wincing, but you’re also kind of smiling as if you’re trying to ignore the discomfort.”
Sounds about right. Tripp does have the unique ability to make people laugh and cringe at the same time. “I’m just trying to think positively,” I fib.
“That’s an excellent attitude to have. Thinking positively really does help with the healing process.”
“Speaking of which, what sort of process am I looking at?” I hold my breath, as if a lungful of air can ward off the bad news.
“You're looking at a mild grade two sprain.” When I don’t exhale he elaborates. “There looks to be some partial tearing of the ligament. Primarily, in this section here.” He points to a spot on the image that doesn’t look all that different from the rest, at least to my eye.
“It’s quite a small tear, so you aren’t looking at extensive downtime. You’ll need to stay off it for seven to ten days, at which point we’ll start physical therapy. You’ll gradually return to weight bearing, with a full recovery in approximately four to six weeks.”
“Seven to ten days? As in, do nothing for seven to ten days?”
“You can do some range of motion exercises, just don’t put any weight on it,” the doctor says.
Okay, not ideal, but that puts me back on the ice before Thanksgiving, which is well before All-Star week. As long as we aren’t in last place going into that break, we should have plenty of season left to make the playoffs. Hopefully, that will soften the blow when I break the news to the team.
“Would you like me to talk to Coach Nydek, or do you want to do it?” Dr. Cutter asks.
Normally, I’d own my own mistakes, but in this case the good doctor will be better able to communicate what my prognosis is. “You go ahead. I’m sure he’ll have questions.”
Dr. Cutter nods and pulls out his phone—I'd thought he’d leave to make the call instead of doing it here—meaning I’ve only got a few minutes to come up with a reasonable explanation for what I was doing when I sprained my ankle. I’m still trying to work out what that could be when he passes me the phone. Great.
I clear my throat before putting it to my ear. “Hello?”
