Page 61 of Rebel Hawke

Wren allows her eyes to meet mine again, but the look there has shifted from need to determination. “It’s time we have a very uncomfortable conversation.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises, and my spine stiffens. “About what?”

I give the woman credit. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. “About your shoulder, how fucked it is, and how you have absolutely no business training for a title fight in three months when you’re in so much pain.”

“Fucking hell.”

Releasing her, I step away, retreating three or four paces.

Her shoulders fall. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about it. I know you want to pretend like everything’s okay, but it’snot, Atlas. You have to let someone help you—”

“No one can fucking help me, Wren.That’sthe problem.”

Shoving my hands through my sweaty hair, I press my thumbs into the base of my skull where it suddenly throbs like someone is running a jackhammer against it. I pace away fromher. Needing distance from the words she threw at me like knives.

Silence lingers for a moment before her soft, uncertain voice filters through my frustration. “How do you know that if you haven’t let anyone try?”

I whirl to face her, finally letting all the pent-up aggravation flow out. “Ihave, Wren. I did bullshit physical therapy for months. Let the doctors and the therapist poke and prod me. Stick TENS units on me, fucking electrical shocks, massages, all sorts of treatments and workouts that were supposed to rebuild the muscle and make me whole, and you know where it got me? Fuckingnowhere.”

My final word booms around the locker room, bouncing off the metal lockers and old rafters like a bomb exploding around us.

Her bottom lip trembles, and tears start to pool in her eyes. “I know you feel that way, and I know it probablyseemslike it’s hopeless, but I’ve had a lot of patients in your situation—”

I gape at her. “Really? You’ve worked with a lot of people who got shot?”

She recoils slightly, and instantly, regret sits heavy on my chest for snapping at her. “Okay, well, no. Notexactlyyour situation, but I’ve worked with athletes who have had major reconstructive surgeries, who had to battle their way back, and I’m telling you right now that continuing to train like nothing’s wrong is only going to hurt you further and make it impossible for you to get to where you want to be.”

“Fuck!”

Pacing away from her again, shaking out my hands, I try to ignore that burning pain in my shoulder that merely confirms she’s fucking right. It’s been months and I’m getting nowhere. Not progressing. Stuck in this limbo that seems to go on forever.

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I release a frustrated groan. “What the fuck do you want me to do, Wren?”

“I want you to let me examine you, and I want you to give me copies of your MRIs, your treatment notes, and any other medical records you have so that I can look at them.” She inhales hard enough for me to hear it over the rushing of blood in my own ears, and I open my eyes to meet her concerned ones. “And I want you to tell me exactly what’s wrong. Everything you feel. Any time of day. All day. When you’re doinganything.”

“What good will that do?”

Besides making me admit my weaknesses and lay them all out in the open.

Exposing me.

Laying me completely bare.

She presses her lips together again and approaches me cautiously, stopping a few feet in front of me. “It’ll help me know what I’m dealing with so I can devise a course of treatment. We are going to work together, Atlas, to try to fix your shoulder.”

I shake my head. “I can’t do PT. I’m in the middle of training camp. By the time I’m done with my workouts with your grandfather, I’m fucking exhausted and in too much pain to do anything else.”

“Then you’re just going to have to dig deep and find some more fucking energy,”—her lips twist knowingly—“dig deep for that stamina Iknowyou have because what you’re doing at training camp isn’t going to mean shit if we don’t try to fix your shoulder.”

“What if—” I swallow back the words, not wanting to think them, let alonespeakthem. “What if itcan’tbe fixed?”

It’s the obvious question.

And at least two different doctors have told me that I might never fight again, that it might never get better.

I didn’t want to believe them, but the last few months have proven they might be right.

Wren fists her hands at her sides, like she’s trying to fight the urge to touch me when I’m so agitated. “Then you’re going to have a really difficult decision in a few months, but for right now, we stay optimistic.”

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