Playing Hurt Page 19

  Christ. My chest tightened at the unfairness of it.

  * * *

  —

  “Jesus Christ!” The pain had me shooting off the chair and nearly smacking into the ceiling of the doctor’s office as he pressed on the outside of my wrist. “Uh, sorry.”

  Dr. Engram smiled, looking weirdly satisfied. “Okay, that’s it. You have a split tear of the ulnotriquetral ligament.”

  “Say what?”

  “A split tear of the ulnotriquetral ligament. The UT is a ligament in the ulnar side of the wrist. It connects your two forearm bones. It’s located at the axis of the wrist’s rotation.”

  I nodded, rubbing the spot he’d just pressed.

  “This kind of condition is typically somewhat mysterious,” he continued. “I’ve had many patients come in with pain in that area of the wrist…” He indicated the bottom outside of his hand, which was where my pain was, when I had it. “They were stable, no sense of dislocation and the pain was mechanically related. Uh, meaning it happens with certain activities.”

  “Yeah. It only happens sometimes. So I’m not crazy?”

  “Not at all. We find normal X-rays and MRIs, just as you’ve had. Typically, ligament injuries involve a rupture, where the ligament is completely severed. But a UT split tear is different. The ligament is still attached to the bones on both ends, but is split open lengthwise.”

  I winced.

  “Years ago it was a mystery, but since the discovery of the ulnar fovea sign, which is the test I just did by pressing at that specific spot on your wrist, we can now be very accurate in diagnosing this condition.”

  “Can it be fixed?”

  “Yes. We can surgically repair it, and there’s about a ninety-five percent success rate.”

  I let out a breath. “Okay. That’s good.”

  “It’s an arthroscopic procedure where we’ll suture the ligament and repair the split. I’ve done it many times…there are a lot of people with this problem. Many of them can’t even relate their pain to a specific injury, so we’re not sure what the etiology is.”

  “I think it probably happened last year when I injured my hand.”

  “Very likely.”

  “So what’s the recovery period like?”

  “You’ll be in a cast for six weeks, then a splint while you do some physical therapy, and probably back to full strength within a few months.”

  My heart dropped like a stone. “A few months. That means I can’t play for months.”

  “Yes.” He met my gaze directly, steadily. “But odds are good that you will be able to play again.”

  “What if I wait?”

  “You could wait until the season’s over. Depending on when that is for you, you might be able to resume play in the fall in time for training camp. I guess it depends on your pain tolerance.” His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And your tolerance for how you’re playing.”

  “Will I do further damage to it?”

  “It’s possible that you could completely rupture the ligament.”

  Shit. “What about another cortisone shot?” I already knew what he was going to say, but I had to ask.

  “You’ve had four shots in the last”—he peered at my chart—“five months.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend any more. You run the risk of—”

  “I know, I know.” I rubbed my face.

  “At some point it’s just masking the problem.”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess I have to think about that.”

  “Your decision,” he agreed. “We can schedule the surgery fairly quickly if you want to go ahead with it.”

  I left the clinic with my head in a sort of fog. I was conflicted. I wanted this pain gone. I wanted to be able to turn a doorknob without pain shooting up my arm. I wanted to take a slap shot without dreading that it was going to hurt like fucking hell. I wanted to get out on the ice with all the confidence I used to feel, knowing I was capable of goddamn anything. I hated the way I felt, what I’d become. I wanted to live up to the hope the team and the fans had in me.

  But I didn’t want to let the team down now. I wanted to play. I wanted to help the team in the playoffs and be with them when we tried to win the Cup. We had a shot this year, an actual, realistic shot. Now, with all the damn injuries, I felt like I had to be there to help the team. And I didn’t want to be sitting in the press box when the team won the Stanley Cup—I wanted to be on the ice with them.

  I loved hockey. What would I do without it?

  Then again, the feeling of dread that filled me before every game, before every shot, the hesitancy I felt when going into a corner, mixing things up…that wasn’t serving anyone well, not me, not the team. I’d learned to compensate in some ways, avoiding movements I knew would hurt, but that slowed me down, made me too tentative. It was eating away at me inside, making me question everything.

  I wished Jordyn was with me. I’d almost thought of asking her to come, but that felt pretty pathetic. I was a grown man; I could handle this on my own.

  Just would’ve been nice to have someone to talk things through with.

  But I could go back to Chicago and talk to her there.

  The visceral need I felt for her right then was burning, urgent. And that was terrifying in itself. I couldn’t need someone that much when there was every chance she would reject me if I couldn’t play or be pissed off at me because I wasn’t going to have the surgery right away.

  So when I got back to Chicago, I called Brick. And we went out and got drunk.

  Chapter 20

  Jordyn

  Chase had come over a couple of times this week, briefly, but I felt like I hadn’t seen much of him. He’d been so busy with a trip to Winnipeg and Buffalo, and then three home games in a row, every other day, with practices and meetings in between. He’d been putting in extra time on the ice, working on some things with the assistant coach. But tonight, Friday night, he was coming over for dinner and an evening in, catching up and relaxing.

  I’d been busy too. My writing was going well. In fact, I was excited about it.

  It gave me hope. Optimism. A belief that everything would be okay. I was getting better, and I’d be able to sing again. Chase was finally going to the Mayo Clinic and they’d figure out what was wrong with his wrist and fix it.

  It was all going to work out, and I’d even been thinking a lot about Chase and me.

  I was falling in love with him. Eh, forget that, I wasn’t falling. I was in love with him, all the way in, in a heart careening, blood singing, joyous kind of way. I missed him when we were apart, couldn’t wait to see him again. I cared about him so much.

  It probably started on our very first date, when he took me bowling. No, actually it probably started even before that, when we’d flirted on Twitter and he made me laugh and made my heart flutter even though he was thousands of miles away.

  It was the day at the hospital that I realized that my feelings for Chase were deepening. He was so kind to those kids, so caring…I just got lost in it, lost in my admiration and affection and appreciation of him.

  I organized the food for dinner—not that I’d cooked, let’s not be crazy—penne with vodka sauce, a salad, and garlic bread on my counter, ready to heat things up and toss the salad when Chase arrived. I also had a bottle of Barolo that had been highly recommended at the store.

  Not only had I been writing and daydreaming about Chase, I’d been dreaming about other things. I was supposed to fly back to Los Angeles next week for my appointment with Dr. V. I wanted to go, anxious to know how my throat was healing and if I could start singing. But I also didn’t want to go.

  I didn’t want to leave Chase.

  The last few months, despite the challenges we were both facing, had been magical.

  Why couldn’t I record my album in Chicago? My
musicians were spread all over the country right now. With technology these days and multitrack recording, we could probably do it here in my apartment. I smiled at that thought as I pulled two wineglasses out of a cabinet.

  Chicago was a big city with some excellent recording studios. I’d done some research and had talked to Joe Ryston, one of the senior mixing and mastering engineers at Tempo Studio. He’d worked with some of the biggest names in the business. Then I’d run the idea past Aaron. He was taken aback, I think, but he was willing to fly in and meet with Joe and his team, and do whatever we had to, to make it happen. I didn’t have to live in L.A. Sure, I’d have to go back there sometimes, and I’d go on tour again, but travel was part of the business. Tonight I was going to talk to Chase about this.

  I thought he had feelings for me too. He’d said he didn’t do relationships because he was too selfish, but he wasn’t selfish. I’d seen him with those kids. I’d seen him with his friends. And with me…He’d shown me so many times—in bed, with his generosity and desire to learn what made me feel good and give that to me, but also out of bed, with every date he arranged, every considerate gesture like making sure I was okay with candles on the table, every thoughtful act like bringing me pizza and champagne to watch the Grammys.

  The doorman called up to announce Chase and I opened my condo door to let him in. I smiled when I saw he was also carrying a bottle of wine. “Hey, babe.” He wrapped an arm around me and pulled me in for a kiss.

  I sank into it, the cool evening air he’d carried in with him dissipating, his mouth warm and hungry on mine. I love you.

  “Mmm. Missed you.” He brushed his mouth over mine one more time.

  “Me too. Come in.”

  He handed me the wine.

  “We’ll have lots to drink,” I said with a smile, turning toward my living room.

  He was at home here now, hanging his jacket in the closet, following me through the living room to the kitchen.

  “Which one should we open?” I held up both bottles.

  He eyed them, then lifted a shoulder. “You choose.”

  I decided to open the bottle he’d brought. I got out my new corkscrew.

  I had a hard time opening bottles of wine, but the first time I’d given Chase a bottle to open, he’d tweaked his wrist. I’d felt terrible and he’d been frustrated, so I’d gone out and bought a fancy corkscrew with a lever that was so easy even I could do it. I poured a glass and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.” He waited while I poured my glass, then held up his for a toast.

  I touched the rim of my glass to his. “Cheers.” I sipped the wine. “Mmm. Nice.”

  I moved across the kitchen to turn the oven on. “How was practice today?”

  “Good. Hard. Tomorrow we’re in New York. Things are ramping up. Games are getting intense, especially teams still trying to make the playoffs.”

  “You’re solid though.”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “So what’s happening with your appointment at the Mayo Clinic? How long is it going to take to get in there?”

  “Oh. Uh. I already went.”

  “What?” I whirled around to face him. “When?”

  “Last week. Wednesday.”

  I stared at him, a little disoriented. How could this be? “You didn’t say anything.”

  He shrugged. “It’s been crazy lately.”

  I blinked. He’d had plenty of opportunities to tell me. Why hadn’t he? A sudden coldness gripped my core. Was it…bad? My mouth went dry, and I croaked, “What happened? Do you need more tests?” I lifted a hand to my mouth, pressing my fingertips to my lips as I waited for his answer.

  “Nope.” He plucked a cherry tomato from the salad, popped it into his mouth, and chewed it, shaking his head. “He diagnosed me in the office.”

  “What is it?” I clasped my hands, taking a couple of steps toward him, my eyes wide.

  “He did a test, just pushed on a certain spot on my wrist and from that he could tell what the problem is. It’s a split ligament.”

  I lowered my chin and waved a hand for him to continue.

  “Usually when a ligament ruptures it detaches from the bone. But in this case, it’s still attached at both ends, it’s just split down the middle. He showed me pictures. That’s why they couldn’t see it on the MRI.”

  I listened intently, my gaze fastened on his face. “So that’s good. Right?” My heart pitched unevenly.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s good. At least we know what’s wrong now.”

  “And they can fix it.”

  “Yeah. Arthroscopic surgery. Ninety-five percent success rate. I guess that’s pretty high.”

  Relief flooded through me, making my fingers and toes tingle and my knees go soft. “Oh thank God. I was so afraid you didn’t tell me because it was bad news. Those are excellent odds. And you’re young and fit. It will be perfect. So when do you have the surgery?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I think I’ll wait until the season’s over. Then use the summer to recover.”

  I sucked my bottom lip briefly between my teeth, thinking about what he’d been going through. “But…”

  “I want to play. I can’t be off now. We have a chance to go all the way this year, but with so many guys out with injuries, I can’t let the team down.”

  He was going to keep playing? With an injured wrist? What if he damaged it even more? Jeez, every time he played it hurt. He knew damn well it was affecting his game, and he hated that. Why would he put it off? “Are you afraid of the surgery? I know you said before you didn’t like the idea of it.”

  “Bah. I’m not afraid of the surgery.” He swallowed some wine. “It doesn’t sound bad. It’s arthroscopic surgery, so they’re not going to be slicing my arm open to stitch up the ligament.”

  I studied him. He said he wasn’t afraid, but I knew him now. I saw the tendons standing out in his neck, the movement of his Adam’s apple. If he wasn’t afraid of the surgery, what was he afraid of?

  I moved over to the small table in the dining room adjacent to the kitchen and sank onto a chair, still watching him. “You have to have the surgery, Chase.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  The sharpness of his words made me flinch. “What are you saying? Why is this even a question? There’s something wrong; they can fix it. What if you do more damage to it when you’re playing? What if that meant they couldn’t fix it? Is it worth risking your entire career to win the Cup right now?”

  “That’s not going to happen. I’ll be fine.”

  “Aaargh! How can you say that? You think you’re invincible?” My heart was really rollicking now, my fingers shaking.

  He scowled. “I’ll be fine. Jesus. At this point in the season, probably two thirds of the guys are playing hurt.”

  “Playing hurt. Sure. I get that. But playing injured…that’s different.”

  His jaw tightened. He knew the difference.

  “There’ll be other chances to win the Cup,” I added.

  “We don’t know that. The team’s been playing well this year but every year is different.”

  “You’re young. You have a lot of years left to play hockey. You have to do it, and you have to do it now.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  I slowly moved my head from side to side. “I don’t understand this.”

  “It’s not that complicated.”

  My lips parted and my eyes tightened. “I…I wish you’d told me.”

  He rubbed his chest, breaking eye contact. “I was going to.”

  “Oh yeah? When?”

  “Maybe later tonight. I don’t know. We’ve barely seen each other.”

  “Yes, we have! You were here two nights this wee
k.” I shook my head. “This is crazy, Chase. I can’t believe you’re putting yourself at risk. You need to have that surgery.”

  “And what if I don’t?” He lifted his chin.

  I scrunched up my face. “What do you mean, what if you don’t? I just told you…”

  “If I don’t have it, you’ll be pissed…right?”

  “Um…”

  “Yeah. You will.” His jaw tightened. He looked away from me, his mouth a tense line. I waited for his next words. I could see he was angry and figuring out what to say. “Look, you’re going to California next week, right?”

  I nodded slowly, confused.

  “If everything’s fine and you can sing again, you’re going to stay there, aren’t you?”

  I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth. This was what I’d wanted to tell him tonight, all excited to share my plans, but now…this wasn’t going how I’d pictured. I swallowed, my throat aching, but not because of my vocal cords. “I don’t know. I—”

  “Shouldn’t have done this.” He shoved a hand into his hair and looked past me. The moment stretched out, a two-ton silence descending on us. Then he shook his head.

  My mouth fell open. “Shouldn’t have done what?”

  “Shouldn’t have gotten involved. I should’ve known better. Fuck.” He closed his eyes briefly and pushed out a sharp exhalation.

  “With me? You shouldn’t have gotten involved with me? What are you saying?” My voice rose, my stomach going rigid, my heart thudding.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.” He shook his head again. “I should go.”

  “Wait!” I jumped to my feet without thinking. “What the hell, Chase?”

  “Shhh. Don’t yell. You’ll hurt your throat.”

  I curved my fingers over my throat, staring at him, one part of me touched that he was concerned about my throat even in the middle of a heated argument, another part of me terrified.