Page 115 of A Little Complicated

MAVERICK

The doctor clicks a few buttons on his computer as he checks the data from my last appointment and compares it to the results from today. His white, bushy eyebrows are bunched behind his glasses as he leans closer to the screen.

I should be used to this. Being poked and prodded. Having my blood drawn and feeling like a lab rat while my doctor looks over the latest test results.

He was out of town last week. It felt like a vacation for both of us, though I’m not sure it’s a good thing. The lapse between visits was almost long enough to make me forget my reality. Allowing me to believe I was normal. The past few months were nothing but a nightmare, and my days with Ophelia are my sweet, sweet future.

“Any new symptoms?” he asks without bothering to look at me.

I shake my head. “Nothing more than the usual. Dizzy spells. Shortness of breath. My memories are foggy sometimes.”

He nods. “Those are to be expected. Have you told your family yet?”

I wipe my palms against my thighs and shift slightly on the crinkly paper beneath my ass. “Not yet.”

His eyes shift from the screen to me. “Mav—”

“I know.”

“Your dad still believes this is physical therapy?” he prods.

I nod. After passing out on the ice last season, I came in for some tests, but since I’m over eighteen, my parents can’t access my medical records. However, they do receive the monthly bill from Dr. Scott’s office. I knew this would be the case, so I lied before my father even had a chance to question it, telling him I was coming to physical therapy for my knee. And because I’ve never lied to him, he bought it.

Dr. Scott turns the computer screen off, giving me his full attention and steepling his fingers in front of him. “And you’re still playing hockey, I assume?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I heard about the game this evening.”

“Uh, yeah,” I repeat. “It should be a good one.”

Slipping his glasses off, he sets them on the small desk tucked in the corner of the office and faces me again. “Maverick, there’s a fine line between using exercise to stay healthy and pushing yourself too hard.”

“I’m aware.”

“Hmmph,” he grunts under his breath as if he isn’t convinced.

“Just say it, Doc.”

He sighs. “It’s time, Maverick. I know you’ve been holding off on this for as long as possible, but the pressure playing hockey puts your body through is… Well, it isn’t sustainable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mutter.

“It isn’t enough—”

“This isn’t your decision,” I remind him. “You aren’t affiliated with LAU, and thanks to HIPAA laws, this is between you and me, andonlyyou and me unless I decide otherwise.”

He bites his tongue, his frustration palpable. We’ve had this conversation a hundred times since my diagnosis, but he still manages to bring it up each time I come in for an appointment. I get it. He’s a doctor for a reason. He wants to help people, and I’m making his job especially difficult. I feel for the guy, but this is my life.Mine.He doesn’t have to understand my decisions. However, he does need to accept them.

“What happens when the team physician decides to perform another physical, Maverick?” Dr. Scott pushes. “Your condition didn’t show up on the results from your prior years because they didn’t know what to look for, but after today’s test…” He shakes his head. “They will find this, Maverick. Honestly, it’s a miracle they haven’t already.”

Staring blankly in front of me, I run my tongue along the top of my teeth. “Like I said, I’ll keep it in mind.”

He nods. “Fine.” Turning back to his desk, he grabs his glasses and stands, offering me his hand. “I’ll have the nurse call in your new prescription.”

“Thanks, Doc.” I shake his hand.

“Be careful.” He tugs me closer, leveling me with his stare. “I’m serious.”

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