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Dr. Stevens, the best freaking orthopedic surgeon on the east coast, shifts his attention from Dad to me and back.
“I’m sorry for the wait, but there was an emergency they needed my assistance with…”
“Of course, there was.” Dad rolls his eyes. “Can we get along with this? Some of us try not to be late to their meetings.”
The doctor’s jaw clenches, and I’m not sure which one of us wants to deck him more at this moment. “Of course. Let’s get to business, shall we?”
The doctor opens the file and pulls out some papers along with an x-ray.
“Hmm…”
I shift in my seat, my foot tapping furiously against the floor as I watch my doctor from across the table. His lips are pursed as he looks at the latest scan of my knee.
This was it, the final verdict.
Mid-season last year, my ACL tore during a game, and I had to have surgery to repair it. After months of pain and healing and PT, it all comes down to this very moment, and I’m not sure if I’m ready.
My palms are sweaty with nerves. I brush them against the side of my leg, letting my fingers wrap around the armrest.
Why is this taking so long?
An elbow connects with my side, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turn my attention to my father, who just glares at me. It’s easy for him to be calm; it’s not like his whole life is on the line.
No, mine is.
My football career.
My future.
My promise.
“Can we cut to the chase already?” Dad asks impatiently. “Will he or won’t he be able to play?”
I’m not sure why he insisted on coming with me. It’s not like I’m five and need him here, and God knows he doesn’t fucking care, one way or the other.
“The scan looks good. It seems like everything has healed well.” The doctor turns toward me, pushing his glasses up his nose. “How do you feel, Prescott? Any pain?”
I flex my knee, feeling slight resistance that’s been there ever since the surgery, but the pain that’s been a part of my daily life for the last few months isn’t there. Then again, I haven’t been to the gym today, so I’m not even lying when I say: “It feels good. No pain.”
Not technically.
The doctor hums once again, his eyes going over my chart. “Based on the notes from Dr. Snow, she thinks you’re ready to get back on the field.”
My heart does a little flip in my chest. “So, I can play again?”
“I don’t see why not. The last few weeks, you’ve been progressively working on getting your muscles back, and while you’re still not at a hundred percent, I believe once you’re back to your normal training regimen, you’ll bounce back in no time.”
His words ring in my mind, but it takes a while for them to really register.
I can actually play again.
Really, truly play again.
I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, trying my best to compose myself. After months of healing and rehab, I’m cleared to return to the field.
Cleared toplay.
And just in time for my senior year to start.
