Page 124 of The Right Move

Ron spots me while on the phone with a scowl. He offers me only a tight-line expression and a half-hearted wave.

It’s in this moment I realize the entire organization is riding on these MRI results. Riding on Ryan himself. A weaker man would fold under the pressure, but I can guarantee when I open the door to his room, I’ll find him calm, cool, and collected.

Stevie opens the door to prove I’m right. Ryan sits in a private hospital room with his knee propped and covered in ice, eyes closed, leaning back on the pillow behind him, headphones in, blocking any outside noise.

I can see the layer of old sweat drying to his forehead that he hasn’t been able to shower off yet, and his freckled cheeks are still a bit tinted from exertion. Besides that, you’d have no idea he’s just experienced something potentially season-ending.

“Ryan.” Stevie shakes his arm, gaining his attention as he takes out his headphones.

He opens his eyes to look at her, blank and rigid, not showing any sign of emotion until she moves out of the way so he can see me.

That emotionless expression instantly shifts when Ryan furrows his brows as deeply as possible, then bites his lower lip in an attempt to hide the tiny tremble that passed through it.

“I’ll um…” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the hall.”

As soon as Stevie closes the door behind her, Ryan drinks me in with his eyes, lingering on my work uniform.

“What are you doing here?”

“Zanders told me what happened.”

“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.”

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