Page 45 of Meet Me at the Metro

Opening the examination room door again, she disappears out of the room for a moment, and Connor’s brown eyes meet mine.

“It’s going to be alright, Ellie.”

“But what about dance? What if I—”

Nurse Sutton walks back into the room with a wheelchair, interrupting me. “You ready?”

So thoughtfully, Connor stands from his seat and offers me an arm for stability as he helps me into it. When he’s sure I’m situated and comfortable, he happily takes hold of the two handlebars behind me and pushes me down the hall, following close behind Nurse Sutton as she weaves us through the clinic. As my friend veers my wheelchair into a small, dimly lit room housing an X-ray machine, I mutter a quick prayer to myself and hope that this injury isn’t as bad as my gut is anticipating it to be.

An hour and a half passed, filled with X-ray scanning and overwhelming anticipation as we waited for my diagnosis. I’m relieved when the doctor finally enters the room again.

“Please, tell me some good news,” I half-joke as she makes her way over to me.

“Good news, it isn’t broken,” she tells me, throwing me a weak smile. “Bad news, you’ve got a grade-two sprain in your left foot. Which is surprising, considering you only rated your pain as a six.”

“Grade two?”I gulp, trying to slow my racing heart as Connor lets out a sigh beside me. “And that’s out of how many?”

“Grade two out of three. It’s a moderate sprain. You’ve got a partial tear in your ligament, and it’s causing it to stretch loose. You need to make sure to keep off of your ankle for the next few days, and once the swelling has gone down some, you can start doing small exercises to rotate your foot and get back its range of motion.”

“Okay,” I mutter, my mind piecing together all of the medical jargon and contemplating how much movement and progress this level of injury will hinder me in terms of classes. “How long is it going to take to recover?”

“It’s hard to say,” she shrugs. “I would wage about six to eight weeks until you’re able to move your foot fluidly.”

“Six to eight weeks?”I gasp. I look to Connor, gauging whether he heard the same thing I did. He returns me with a sad glance, immediately verifying my fears. “But that’s over half of the semester. I have a dance class three days a week. I can’t afford to fall behind. I can’t afford six to eight weeks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she frowns. “You’re most likely going to need to figure out some sort of arrangement with your instructor or drop the course. If you don’t give that ankle proper time to heal, you could be looking at a permanent injury.”

My stomach twists into fierce knots as my mind sorts through the possible outcomes of all this. I’ve only been granted one school year here in London, and if I’m forced to drop out of my dance course, I won’t meet the credit hours I need to complete the term. This means my grant will be revoked, and I’ll be absolutely screwed.

“I’ve prescribed you some pain and anti-inflammatory medicine. You can take them as needed. The bruising will spread and look darker over the next two to three days, but if the pain or swelling worsens, please see us immediately.”

All I can manage to do is nod and hope that Connor remembers the nurse’s orders because I haven’t retained much of what’s been said outside of‘sprained ankle’and‘six to eight weeks.’

“I hope the rest of your day starts to look up, Miss Mattice,” the nurse practitioner says as she heads to the doorway. “Please take it easy on that foot.”

“Will do.” I gulp as I watch the door click shut. For a long moment, my eyes are glued to the beige tiles of the clinic floors while I think over Theo’s words from last night. I once again curse the fact that his worry was right.

Connor’s brown eyes convey sincere sympathy as they glance toward my wrapped foot. Together, we sigh, and as the dread of today’s news soaks in and I come to terms with my new reality, I blurt out the only words my mind can form.

“What in the hell do I do now?”

14

HOT AND HEAVY

E L L I E

I’m suddenly awakened by the taunting and slow caress of hands running up my legs. The intoxicating gentle strokes turn my breathing shaky as they move upward, and I widen my lower limbs in response. Goosebumps spread across my body like wildfire, drawing me further out of my sleep as calloused fingertips trace the dips of my waistline as if admiring newfound treasure.

“That feels nice,” I hum with satisfaction.

“What about this?”

It's the only warning I get before hot breath begins to spill against my collarbone and gradually moves toward the crook of my neck, lips nearly grazing my skin.

“I hate you. You know that?”

The deep, gruff voice sends a pleasurable chill up my spine. I shiver at its familiarity. “Why’s that, Teddy?”

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