Page 273 of Bad Pucking Influence


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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?”

“What the hell, Noah?” Coach barks. “You chose a shitty time to hurt yourself l, kid. What happened?”

“I’m not sure, Coach. One minute I was fine and the next I was on the ground.”

“What were you doing when you fell?”

I look at the doctor as if he might have the answer, but of course he can’t hear what Coach is saying. “I saw a coyote and you’re supposed to scare them off with lots of loud noise, so I was running outside banging on a pot and then I guess I tripped.”

“You tripped?” he shouts. “Why the hell are you chasing off a coyote?”

I can’t stop myself from wincing at the anger in his voice, but at this point I’m committed to my lame excuse. “My neighbors said it’s been lurking around, and they’re worried about their pets. I figured if I was loud enough, I could scare it off for good.”

“It’s a wild animal. If it wants to eat your neighbor’s pets it’ll do that whether you make a ruckus or not. Jesus! What am I supposed to tell the press? You jeopardized your season so you could save Fido?”

“Rufus. And he’s a bulldog.” That part is actually legit. My neighbors dress him up in a little doggy jersey with my number for the games.

“That’s supposed to justify your stupidity?”

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