“But why are you here?”
His blue-green eyes are begging, pleading for me to give him the right answer. Because besides his sister, not a single soul in that hallway is here for him. They’re here to check on their asset, not him as a person.
As soon as I open my mouth to answer, the door opens and a man wearing a white coat sneaks inside, followed by Stevie and who’d I assume to be the team doctor. They pinch their way through the door, quickly leaving the chaos in the hall behind them.
Stevie rounds Ryan’s bed on the opposite side of me as the doctor puts his MRI images on the screen which lights up from behind. We all stare at the pictures as if we have any idea what we’re looking for. Even as I squint, I can’t make out anything from the black and white images.
“Clearly, this is your knee…”
The doctor begins his spiel, but I accidentally tune him out when I feel Ryan’s hand reach for mine that’s dangling next to his bed. Looking back, I watch him thread our fingers together all while keeping his attention focused on his doctor.
I give him a slight squeeze of encouragement before concentrating once again.
“As you can see here”—he points to a specific part of the image—“the anterior cruciate ligament has been stretched, but there are no visible tears.”
Ryan exhales a deep sigh of relief, laying his head back on the bed and closing his eyes.
“It’s a grade one, but you’re very lucky. If your legs weren’t so strong, we’d be looking at a complete tear, surgery, season-ending injury. You need to be careful on it.”
Ryan quickly nods in agreement before the team doctor takes over.
“We’re looking at three to four weeks off the court if you’re taking proper care. We’ll be doing physical therapy every day. I’ll set you up on a treatment plan, so you don’t have to think about anything other than getting back on the court.”
I look down at Ryan with bright eyes. This is good news, but he doesn’t seem to be taking it that way. His severe and stoic expression is back.
“A month?”
“A month,” his doctor confirms.
A heavy silence lingers in the room.
Ryan unlaces his hand with mine. “Can I go home now?”
The room shares nervous glances before Stevie cuts in. “Your agent is working on making sure there’s a safe way to get into your building. Media is everywhere, including the apartment.”
He shakes his head in annoyance. “Of course, it fucking is.”
“Ron is going into a press conference to make a statement. Once the word is out, the chaos will die down,” the team doctor says, handing Stevie a note explaining tonight’s at-home treatment. “Let’s stay here for a few hours and once the coast is clear, you can head home.”
I’ve never seen more people crowded outside of a building as I did when I got home from the hospital. Even poor Dave was being bombarded with questions about Ryan’s injury when he was only manning the door, trying to do his job.
I watched Ron’s press conference on the television while I changed out of my work uniform and unpacked. There seems to be an equal sigh of relief from fans as well as speculation of what this will mean for the team’s playoff prospects with their star out for an entire month.
I don’t really understand how it all works. All I know is the expression Ryan wore when he asked us all to leave the room so he could be alone, was not one of reprieve. It was one of disappointment and frustration.
I’ve tried to look up ACL sprains online to know what to expect as far as recovery, but there’s not much on the matter when it comes to a professional athlete, especially one as in shape as Ryan. Through my minimal research I’ve learned he’s really fucking lucky it wasn’t worse.
A few hours after I got back, the crowd outside our building was cleared and Stevie got the okay to bring her brother home.
What I didn’t expect was for him to barrel in the front door on crutches.
“Hi.” My stare lingers on his wrapped knee.
“Hey,” he exhales, unable to look at me, hobbling to his room. “I’m going to bed.”
Stevie and I share a knowing look. In true Ryan fashion he wants to be alone when the last thing he needs is to mentally beat himself up in silence.
“Actually,” I interrupt him. “I set up the couch for you.” I gesture towards it. A pillow is fluffed on the ottoman to prop his leg, and his latest read is sitting on the armrest.
He eyes me. “I just want to be alone.”
“And I don’t.” I motion towards the couch once again. “Shall we?”
Reluctantly while rolling his eyes, Ryan hobbles over to the couch and plops down on the spot I made for him, lifting his foot onto the pillow with caution.
“Wonderful.” I clap my hands together.
Stevie silently giggles from the doorway before setting the note from the team doctor on the kitchen island. “I’ll leave this with you, Ind. I’m going to go check on Rosie, but I’ll be back later once Ryan’s meds are filled.” She closes the door behind her while throwing out, “Love you, Ry!” over her shoulder.
Checking over my assignment for the night, I grab an ice pack from the freezer and hesitantly unwrap Ryan’s knee to find it looking more like a balloon than a body part.
“I know,” Ryan groans. “It’s fucking horrible.”
Securing the ice pack over his injury, I take a seat on the couch next to him. “It could be a lot worse. You got good news today. I don’t know why you’re so upset.”
“Good news?” He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “You call this good news? I’m out for a month, Ind.”
“Well, you could’ve been out for the season,” I shoot right back. “Or worse, you could’ve landed on your head, and I don’t even want to think about what those consequences would’ve looked like.”
He shakes his head, looking away from me. “You don’t get it.”
I turn his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Then explain it to me.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling through his nose. “I was one wrong move from an ACL tear. That’s a whole year of recovery, and you know what happens to most guys who try to come back from that? They snap their Achilles tendon the next season because their leg strength is shit. Now we’re looking at a two-year recovery. By then, I’m almost thirty. There’s no way in hell I’d ever be able to make it back to the level I’m at now. My career would be over.”
“Okay? But none of that happened.”
“But it could’ve. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “My career could’ve been over, and basketball is all I have. That’s it. It’s my entire life.”
I attempt to hide the hurtful sting his words cause.
“I’m out for a month. That might sound like nothing to you, but a month in my world may as well be the rest of the season. I’m the reason we’re on a playoff track. I miss a whole month’s worth of games? We’re fucked. We may as well call it now.”