Page 41 of Game Face

“Twice the speed. Two styles. Different gears. A little reminder to use all the tools in your toolbox this weekend, yeah?” He quirks a brow as we step into the intersection.

“I maybe see why Nolan told you to cool it with the analogies,” I razz.

“Bahhhhh! No way! That was my best one yet,” he says, his stride long and his step full of energy. He’s heading back into the unknown with fight in his legs, and I think maybe it’s the stuff he isn’t saying that resonates with me most.

Two more hours pass before the doctor finally pops into the waiting room post-surgery. Reed, Nolan, and I are on our feet in seconds, meeting him halfway across the room. I’m tempted to push past him and rush down the hallway to her bedside, but she’s probably still waking up so I pay attention to what he’s saying.

“It went very well. I’m really pleased with what we were able to do for her. She’ll be in a lot of pain, which is normal from a procedure like this, but with the right regimen, and her stubbornness, I think we’ll see Peyton on her feet in few weeks.”

“Oh, that’s—” Nolan chokes up, covering her mouth as her tears finally rush out. She’s been holding a lot in over the past week. She needs this release.

“That’s amazing, Doctor. Thank you.” Reed pulls Nolan into his side, holding her close as she sniffles and her body quivers.

“Byon her feet, do you mean she’ll be walking next month?” I ask, knowing there are semantics to everything he says.

He nods at first, but the hesitancy in his eyes makes me wait for his words.

“Right, so . . . she’ll be able to start therapy. We’ll get her fitted for an exoskeleton for her right leg, and that’s going to take some time for her to get used to. It’s basically like a wearable robot that activates the muscles and helps retrain the brain and nerves how to work together. Balance, however, is something she must find on her own. It can take weeks for some patients. I get that she’s going to want to come out of this running, so we need to work with her to set reasonable expectations. At least at the start.”

We all exchange glances and nod, and I wonder if Dr. K has seen Peyton’s binder. He may want to add a few more sections and steps. But also, he doesn’t know Peyton the way we do. She removed those steps for a reason.

“She’s waking up, so if you all want to head up to her room, she’ll be in there shortly.” Dr. K shakes Reed’s hand first, then Nolan folds into him with a hug that he chuckles through. I think he’s probably used to people’s physical relief and gratitude. I’m half-tempted to hug him myself, but I keep it to a firm handshake, though I do cover his hand in both of mine.

Nolan calls her parents while Reed calls Buck and Rose. I can tell when he’s talking to Ellie, who is just as focused on the fact that we went to McDonald’s as she is her sister’s surgery. I send a text to Whiskey and Tasha, as promised. And then we wait . . .again.

When they wheel Peyton into her room about thirty minutes later, she’s groggy but clearly anxious. I stand back while her mom helps her get comfortable, letting the nurse hook up her fluids along with that annoying heart monitor. The doctor stops in to give an abbreviated version of what he told us in the waiting room, Peyton’s mouth locked in the sweetest dopey grin. Now’s not the time to tell her this, but she looks the same way after a few too many at Tate’s or the Catwalk.

The one thing she seems to really cling to from the doctor’s recap, however, is exactly as he warned—that she’ll be on her feet soon. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s going to probably be months before she does anything remotely close to running. But who the hell am I to tell her that anyway? Who the hell are any of us? If Peyton Johnson wants to run sooner than the world thinks she should—can—then she’s going to. And I am never going to stop her.

She dozes in and out every few minutes, finally settling into her pillow as her gaze sticks to mine once the room clears outand her parents give us a little time alone. I take her right hand in mine, closing both of my palms around it to feel her pulse and keep her warm. I watch her eyes fight to stay open, her lids growing heavier every time her lashes brush the crests of her cheeks. She finally gives in so I lean over and kiss her softly. Her upper lip quivers against mine, pulling up on one side.

“I can feel that,” she says, eyes still closed, smile growing.

“There’s magic in my lips. What can I say?”

I sit back, ready to watch her for a while, when her right pinky twitches against my palm. My gaze drops to our tethered hands just as her finger moves again, and I nearly leap out of the chair.

“I can feel that,” she says again, just before falling fully into sleep.

Suddenly, I think I might be able to run all the way to Western for our game this weekend. All six hundred miles. Then turn around and run right back the moment the clock runs out.

“I feel it, too,” I whisper.

I feel it, too.

Chapter Eighteen

“I’ll make you a deal, Peyton,” Dr. K says as he leans on the deathtrap walker at the foot of my bed.

That’s my name for it. Deathtrap Walker. It’s a ridiculous contraption, and I feel like I would have fewer obstacles to contend with if they simply pushed me out of bed and told me to figure it out. This thing is—a lot. It has brakes, for Pete’s sake.Brakes!

My eyes shift to my father as he stands in the corner of my room near his handiwork. He went out and bought a bigger TV for the game. Ridiculous. But also, atta boy.

“You should entertain his offer,” my pops says.

I exhale, and it hurts a little. Everything hurts a little. A lot of things hurt a whole bunch. But the hurt is good. The fact is, I hurt in most places. Not everywhere, but most.

I level the doc with an impatient expression, my mouth pinched at the corners, my stomach growling finally for real food.

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