Page 125 of The Right Move

“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.”

“Well, that sounds awfully conceited for a man I’ve only known as humble.”

“It’s not being conceited, Indy. It’s knowing the facts. This entire team, this entire organization is relying on me, and I just failed everyone.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “Every fucking news outlet has my face plastered on it, has that fucking play on repeat.”

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