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“No, I think you’re too valuable for that. But I wouldn’t expect them to pay your bills.”
“I understand,” I mumble. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
“Good. Now as for what to say, I obviously can’t lie to management, but as far as the public is concerned you suffered an undisclosed injury during training, and you’re expected to make a full recovery in four to six weeks. When you come back I don’t want anyone targeting what they think might be a weakness, so until you’re mobile you will not so much as step foot outside your house. Have Dr. Cutter run your PT from home. Got it?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“I’ll notify the team. I expect daily updates until you’re cleared to come back to practice.”
“Okay.”
“Good. So help me if I find out you try to fight off another fucking coyote… Are we clear?”
“Yes. Got it.” I hand the phone back to Dr. Cutter and sit with my head bowed like a little kid who’s too ashamed to look his parents in the eye. He speaks to Coach a few more minutes—about what I can’t say since I’m too numb to pay attention—then startles me out of my stupor when he rests a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t get too discouraged. You’ll recover from this in no time.”
Pressing my lips together I give him a curt nod.
“I grabbed some crutches while you were on the phone with Coach Nydek.” He tilts his head toward the corner of the couch where I now see they’re propped. “I’ll be in touch next week to schedule your PT. We’ll go over what equipment you have here and what the therapist will need to bring. In the meantime, keep that foot elevated, ice for twenty minutes four times a day, and take Advil for any swelling.”
Nodding again, I make a pathetic attempt to smile. “Send me the bill for today please.”
“No need to worry about that right now.” He picks up his bag and grabs the portable x-ray machine. “I’ll see myself out, so you don’t need to get up. We’ll talk soon.”
I watch until he’s out of sight, hearing the click of the front door a few seconds later. Then I collapse against the back of the couch with a shaky breath.
The dull soreness I felt while the doctor was here morphs into a throbbing discomfort, only now it’s not just my ankle but my head that aches in rhythm with my beating pulse. That couldn’t have gone any worse.
“Cut you?” I gasp when an angry voice pierces the silence. “They’re going to cut you?”
Tripp. I forgot he was here.
“It sounds like they could, but Coach doesn’t think they will.”
“He doesn’t think…? You’re like, the star of the team. They’d really let you go over a sprained ankle?” He paces back and forth, an uncharacteristic look of disgust on his face. “What kind of organization is this? Players get hurt all the time, is this how they treat you when it happens?”
“When you get injured on the ice, no. When you get injured off it…” I realize too late Tripp will do the whole blaming himself thing as those words sink in.
“Ohmigod.” He sinks onto the couch. “I cost you your spot on the team.”
“No, you didn’t. I just told you it won’t come to that.” I’m not sure why since I'm worried about being cut myself, but convincing Tripp that won’t happen somehow makes me feel better.
“But you told the doctor to send you the bill. That doesn’t mean you’re off the team?” He props his elbows on his knees and rests his head in his hands as if the room is spinning and that will stop it.
“It means the team won’t cover my expenses for injuries I incur on my personal time.”
He looks up at me, open-mouthed “Wow. Even my insurance covers me when I’m not working and I’m just a lowly artist.”
“I’m sure my insurance will cover it, it just won’t be free like it is if I get hurt during a game or while I’m training.”
“Still sounds shitty if you ask me.” His offended look is back, which makes my heart do this strange little flutter.
“It’s a business, and I’m a commodity.”
“That’s a very Thor thing to say.”
I cock my head to the side. “It is?”
