“Can I have…a minute, please?” I ask.
He stands up, but doesn’t leave right away. “You got family to call?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
But even after he’s gone and I have my phone, I don’t call home. I’m not sure why.
That’s a lie, though. They’ll make me come home, and I’ll have to see Kylie and Oz. Mom let it slip a few weeks ago that they got married recently. So now she’s Kylie Hyde. She married him. I got wasted when I found out. Missed work the next day, and skipped practice.
I can’t go back.
Dad bought me my own health insurance policy before I left, so this’ll be covered by the deductible, and what’s not I can take care of on my own. I don’t need them to visit me. I don’t want them to.
They’ll be sad and tell me it’ll be fine.
It’s not fine.
I’ll never play football again.
I nearly cry, sitting there alone in the hospital bed. But I don’t.
* * *
A taxi takes me home. Timo swings by and gets my keys and then brings my truck back for me. I thank him, and he leaves, even though he clearly wants to stay and hang out. But he’s a football buddy, and I can’t handle that right now.
I flip through the folder of instructions I got when I checked out of the hospital. Primarily, I look through the list of outpatient physical therapists in the area. I settle on the closest one. It’s a mile and half away, so I can take a taxi there until I figure out a better way to get from place to place. Driving is out of the question for the immediate future.
At home, there’d be Mom and Dad to drive me to therapy. Or even Colt and Nell. Here? It’s just me. But I’m determined to do this on my own. It’s fucking stupid, even I know that. I should call Dad and tell him what happened, let him come get me and bring me home. But what then? Back to Vanderbilt? Where everyone will know me, where the pity over my ruined football career will be the talk of the whole college. It was bad enough when I dropped out at the end of my junior year and vanished, but if I were to show up a year and half later, in a fucking wheelchair? Fuck no.
Next morning, woozy from pain, I hobble with the help of crutches into the kitchen of my rented apartment and make coffee. It’s easier to drink it standing up than to lower myself onto a chair only to have to stand back up again. I call a cab and give the driver the address of the physical therapist.
It’s a storefront in a strip mall, sandwiched between a Supercuts and a dry-cleaner. Leveaux Physical Therapy and Fitness Training. I pay the small fare, grip my crutches in both hands, lean on them and lever myself to my feet. I find my balance, and then adjust my crutches and make my way to the appointment. It’s hot as hell outside, and I’m sweating by the time I reach the door.
Alan Jackson is playing from the overhead speakers, and it’s blessedly cool inside, the way Texans like it. It’s a fairly small space, filled to the max with weight machines of all kinds, free weights, treadmills, stair-steppers, and a space cleared around the perimeter of the room for a small walking track. I scan the gym: there’s an older man working a leg-lift machine, an overweight woman sweating buckets and puffing and gamely limping along on a Stairmaster. A woman with blonde, braided hair stands beside a young black guy with an athletic prosthetic from the knee down, encouraging him as he squats, lifts a free-weight bar, and stands up with it, lifts it over his head, and then bends, squats, and sets it down again.
A bell dings as I walk in, and the blonde woman pats the young man on the back. “Keep going, Nick. You’re doing great. Six more reps, okay? I’ll be right back.”
She approaches me, a bright, warm smile on her face. She’s gorgeous. Not real tall, maybe five-six or so, but she’s clearly fit as hell. She extends her hand to me, and I take it and shake, squeezing gently.
“Hey there,” she says. “I’m Cheyenne Leveaux. How can I help you?”
My gaze wants to roam down, take in her body, but I keep my eyes on hers. “Hi. I’m Ben Dorsey. I had a knee injury recently, and the hospital referred you as a physical therapist.”
Cheyenne nods. “Sure. Why don’t you come on back to the office and we’ll set things up.” She nods at a door in the back. We pass by the guy with the prosthetic. “That’s great, Nick. I saw that set. I think that’s good for today. See you Wednesday, right?”
“See you Wednesday, Cheyenne.” Nick waves.
Her office is clearly a converted storage closet, containing no more than a tiny desk with an ancient laptop, a filing cabinet, and a medicine ball rather than a desk chair. There’s a folding chair leaning against one wall. Cheyenne unfolds it and waits while I lower myself carefully onto the chair.
It’s interesting: she watches me like a hawk as I sit, watching the way I do it, but she makes no move to help me. When I’m arranged with my crutches between my legs, she takes a seat on the medicine ball, bouncing gently.
“So, Ben. Tell me what happened.”
I shrug. “Football. Took a hit to the knee, needed surgery…now no more football.”
“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” She leans with her back to the wall, crosses her ankles and props them on her desk.
Now that I have a moment to examine her in the context of conversation, I realize she’s older than my initial estimation. Originally, I’d pegged her to be a handful of years older than me, but now I’m realizing it’s more than that. She’s insanely fit, dressed in skin-tight yoga pants and sports bra, showing off ab definition I know a lot of guys would be jealous of, toned arms, powerful legs. But there are wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, a hardness in her gaze, a world-weary wisdom that only comes with age.
“What doesn’t seem fair?” I ask.
“How quickly a dream can be snatched.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t seem real, yet. I keep thinking I should be able to work it out and go back to playing next season.”
“The doctor was firm on the prognosis, huh?”
I nod. “Yeah, Dr. Lane was pretty clear. He said it’d take months to even be able to walk without a cane, and even longer before I’ll be able to jog short distances. Competitive ball will never happen again for me, he was very clear on that.”
She blows out a breath of commiseration. “I know Dr. Lane very well. He’s a great doctor. But I’m sure we’ll have you mobile quicker than expected, especially if you’re determined. I can’t promise miracles, meaning your career playing football is over for sure, but I can get you walking in no time.” Her gaze pins me. “As long as you’re dedicated, and determined. Your success depends on you.”