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“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?”
“No, Coach.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. I just reacted.” I’m familiar with how Coach looks when he’s disappointed, but until this moment he’s never worn that expression because of me. I’m both ashamed and grateful that I can’t see it.
“Of all the… You know this falls outside the team’s coverage, right?”
“I… What?”
“You got injured on your personal time. That means the team isn’t responsible for your medical, your pay while you’re out, or to keep you on the roster.”
Getting cut at my age is like the kiss of death. It’s too soon. I’m not ready to be done with hockey. Or the Bulldogs… The oatmeal I had for breakfast threatens to make an encore appearance. “You think they’ll cut me?”
“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.”
