Page 36 of Ice-Cold Truth

“What happened?” He ushers me over to the examination table as Sam takes a step back.

“Took a bad hit during some…horseplay,” Sam says vaguely as I ease myself onto the padded vinyl surface with his assistance.

The doctor wastes no time in probing the area around my shoulder with deft fingers, applying strategic pressure. I can’t stifle the groan of agony that escapes my clenched jaw.

Dr. Kleiner’s brow furrows as he continues probing the inflamed area around my shoulder joint. Sharp stabs of agony radiate outward with each press of his calloused fingers.

“Easy there, doc,” I grit out through clenched teeth, sweat beading on my forehead from the searing pain.

The physician grunts, stepping back to regard me with a grave expression. “I’m afraid this injury is more serious than we thought, Jack. That shoulder is in rough shape.”

I let out a humorless chuckle, shaking my head ruefully. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it, Kleiner. I know my body, and this shoulder has been a ticking time bomb for months now.”

Sam shifts uneasily beside me, guilt etched across his features. “Shit, man…I’m really sorry about that hit earlier. I never meant to make things worse.”

Waving off his apology, I turn my attention back to the doctor. “So, what’s the verdict? Am I gonna need to go under the knife?”

Kleiner lets out a weary sigh, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Based on my examination, I’d strongly recommend immobilizing that joint and getting further imaging—an MRI at minimum. I suspect you’re dealing with a severe rotator cuff tear and maybe even some fractures in there too.”

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach as the reality of his words sink in. Surgery would mean an extended recovery period, months of rehab and missed games. My mind flashes to Reginald’s gruff countenance, the vein throbbing in his forehead when he gets riled up.

“You know as well as I do that Reginald won’t sign off on that, doc,” I say flatly, meeting Kleiner’s sympathetic gaze. “Not with the playoffs just getting started. He’ll demand I play through the pain, no matter how bad it gets.”

The doctor’s jaw tightens as he gives a solemn nod of agreement. We’ve been down this road before with other players’ injuries over the years. Reginald’s win-at-all-costs mentality leaves little room for ethics or player safety concerns.

“I could try talking some sense into that thick skull of his,” Kleiner offers halfheartedly, though his tone lacks conviction, “But you’re probably right. He’ll just dig his heels in further.”

Frustration bubbles up inside me as I rake a hand through my damp hair. I should have dealt with this nagging issue months ago instead of letting it fester, but the lure of another championship run was too strong, and the fear of disappointing my teammates and the fans too great.

Now I’m paying the price for my stubbornness. The dull, throbbing ache in my shoulder is a constant reminder of how far I’ve let this go.

“So, what are our options here?” asks Sam, his brow creased with worry. “Jack can’t just keep playing like this, can he?”

Kleiner purses his lips, considering his next words carefully. “Well…I could give you a heavy dose of anti-inflammatories and pain medication to get you through the next couple games, but that’s just a temporary band-aid, and it comes with risks of its own.”

I nod slowly, my mind already made up. Gritting my teeth, I meet the doctor’s concerned gaze head-on.

“Do it. Load me up, Doc. I’ll take whatever I need to stay on the ice.”

Sam’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Jack, you can’t be serious, man? That’s just asking for more damage down the line.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I snap, rounding on him with flashing eyes. “What other choice do I have here? You heard the man. Reginald will never let me get this properly treated until the season’s over.”

Kleiner clears his throat, a pained expression on his weathered features. “Jack’s right, Sam. With the way Coach Matthews operates, this is likely our only play for the time being.”

The doctor moves to his medicine cabinet, retrieving a syringe and small vial. He makes quick work of drawing up a dose, flicking the barrel to dispel any air bubbles.

“This is a potent cocktail—heavy-duty anti-inflammatory meds plus a long-acting opiate for pain management,” Kleiner explains as he swabs my bicep with an alcohol pad. “It should get you through the next couple games at least.”

I give a terse nod, steeling myself as the needle pierces my skin. A dull burning spreads out from the injection site as the clear liquid is depressed into my muscle.

Almost immediately, I can feel the drugs starting to take effect. The throbbing ache in my shoulder recedes to a dull, distant murmur as an artificial calm washes over me.

“How’s that?” asks Kleiner, eyeing me carefully. “Any relief yet?”

“Yeah…yeah, that’s better,” I say, rolling my shoulder experimentally. The pain is still present but now muted, almost as if it’s happening to someone else.

Sam shakes his head, an unreadable expression on his face. “I don’t like this, bro. You’re just putting a band-aid on a bullet wound here.”

---