Page 11 of Opening Strain

Surgery? No. Fucking. Way. “Grade three is worse than grade two?” This can’t be right. My gaze sears into Luke’s before returning to the doctor.

“Yes. For you to heal fully, you’ll need three to six months to recover.”

His statement hangs in the air.

“MONTHS?” I leap to my feet, instantly regretting my fast action as mygrade threepull protests. I slump back down.

“I understand you need to get out on the road sooner.”

“We leave in two weeks,” Luke mutters. I can tell he’s calculating how to reorder the tour to accommodate my stupid injury.

The doctor places his clipboard onto the desk. “The timeframe I gave you is to be back to full capability. However, you don’t need to be one hundred percent to perform so long as you take extra precautions, modify your choreography, and don’t aggravate the injury any further.”

I sit up. “I’ll do anything. How long?”

“I’m not going to say you won’t have pain, but I predict you’ll not have to move any tour dates so long as you work harder than you’ve ever worked before to rehab your injury.”

Next to me, Luke exhales a long breath.

My fingers flex. I can do this. “What do I have to do?”

The doctor stares at me. “I’m not saying this will be easy. In fact, you’re going to curse every second of your rehab, but if you want to meet your deadline, this is what you have to do. Put ice on your inner thigh for thirty minutes every three to four hours for the next two or three days.”

He hands me a packet of information. “Then, do these exercises at least twice a day, more if you can handle it.”

I open the folder and flip through a few pages. They don’t seem too difficult. I nod.

Without waiting for me to speak, the doctor continues, “Many of the exercises require someone to spot you. For best results, and by ‘best’ I mean fastest, I suggest you work with a licensed physical therapist. You mentioned this Jenna who diagnosed you last night.”

My stomach cramps and displaces the pain from my groin pull.

“No,” I respond at the same time Luke says, “Good idea.”

My hand goes to my good thigh and squeezes. Through clenched teeth, I mutter, “Not her.”

Luke lowers his head. “We’ll discuss this later, B.”

Then he returns his attention to the doctor, who has a blue pad in his hand. My neck snaps. “What are you doing?”

“I’m writing you a prescription for a muscle relaxant. If you’re going to be working as hard as I think you will, you’re going to need them.”

The doctor rips off a sheet of paper and extends it toward me. I remain immobile. I’d rather writhe in pain than get addicted like Darren did. Luke takes the prescription and pockets it.

The rest of the appointment continues, but two things play on repeat. One, no way am I taking any pills. And two, and equally asunshakeable, nofuckingway is Jenna going to be involved with my recovery.

When we’re in the car being driven back to the hotel, with my next doctor’s appointment scheduled for two days before our tour starts, I express my absolute no-gos to Luke. Tapping the armrest, he says, “I get it about the pain meds. We don’t have to fill the prescription, it’ll just be in my back pocket if you need it.”

“I won’t.”

“Fine. We’ll stick with over-the-counter meds.”

“Damn straight.” I stare out the side window.

“As for Jenna?—”

“Listen, Luke. I let her check me out last night because I didn’t have any other options.”

“The doctor did recommend you work with a physical therapist, and she’s the only one we know.” He pauses. “She did a great job on Darren’s wrist.”

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