Page 10 of Opening Strain

I let her go and she steps away. Next to her, Callum, dressed in his homeland’s tuxedo—meaning a kilt—reaches out to shake my hand.

I raise my chin toward Quinn. “You got a keeper.”

He wraps his arm around her. “Don’t I know it. We’re actually going to Scotland to do a film about my family soon.”

“You’re in amazing hands.” I mean all this praise, and more. I direct my next comment to Quinn. “The way you captured our struggles didn’t feel intrusive. You showed our progress like it really was. The absolute reason why you’re going to win an Oscar.”

Quinn giggles. This lightness in her is new—and a welcome facet of her personality. I’d bet my left nut Callum had something to do with bringing it out. “I don’t know about an award, but I’m thrilled you liked the finished product.” She cranes her neck. “Have you seen Jenna anywhere? Someone from your team pulled her away and I haven’t seen her since.”

I swallow. “Yeah. Well, that was for me.” I point to my leg. “I managed to pull a muscle and a roadie brought her to check me out.”

Her boyfriend asks, “Is everything okay?”

I sigh. I can be real with these two. “I’m hoping Jenna’s diagnosis is wrong, Callum. She said I’ll need six weeks to heal and we’re going on tour in two. Luke’s taking me to a doctor tomorrow.”

Quinn hugs me again. “I hope everything gets fixed up for you. Rumor has it your upcoming tour is going to include stadiums. I have no doubt but that you’ll be in tip-top shape for it.”

“Thanks. This is so surreal.” I tap my thigh. “I’m sure I’ll be fine soon. To answer your earlier question, though, Jenna disappeared after checking me out and I think she snuck out the side door of the green room.”

“At least I got her to sit through the movie. If you see her again, please let her know I’m in her corner. She seems very fragile.”

Fragile.

Quinn’s analysis lingers long after she and Callum are pulled away. She’s spot-on. Not that it matters to me how Darren’s girlfriend is faring. Not. At. All.

At nine the next morning, I’m poked and prodded and pushed in all directions by the doctor before being whisked away for x-rays and an MRI. Approaching the monstrosity of a machine, I ask if this is necessary and am assured it is. Sighing, I get into it and pretend to be in a recording studio. At least it’s over relatively quickly, and soon enough I’m sitting in the doctor’s office again.

Luke checks his watch, and I resist the urge to know how long we’ve spent in this building. All I want to hear is take two more Advil and everything will be fine. However, the throbbing in my thigh warns me of a different result.

“How’s it feeling, B?”

“A little worse since the last time you asked me, considering I’ve now been through a shitload more tests. Felt like Jenna did at least five. Do you really think all this fuss is necessary?” My left foot, attached to my good leg, taps the floor. I try to switch to the other side, but the throbbing stops me. A deep sigh comes out of my soul.

Our manager cracks his knuckles. “Listen, I’ve been doing some calculations. We’ve already sold out the early part of the tour, and the thought of rescheduling it gives me hives. If you’re not up to performing, though, we don’t have much of a choice. I can get my assistant on it—probably add three more to help her.

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m not letting UC down. I’ll be fine to tour, just you wait.” Without the band, I would be nothing. I send up a prayer I’m right.When have my prayers ever been answered? I add, “Maybe we can put a chair off to the side if I need to take a break.”

The doctor returns, carrying a huge stack of papers. He sits behind his desk and I want to throttle my diagnosis out of him.Stop stalling, man, and tell me the verdict!

“I’ve reviewed all your tests. The good news is you’re in fantastic shape, which is a definite plus.”

“He hits the gym at least six times a week,” Luke supplies.

I don’t let my gaze wander from the doctor, who seems somewhat impressed with my workout regimen. I have my reasons for doingthis, none of which are his business. With deliberate redirection, I ask, “So what do you think, doc? When will it stop hurting me?”

The doctor rubs his nose. “The tests show you have a groin pull, Mr. Hardy.”

“Bennett,” I correct him. Again. “That’s what Jenna said. She diagnosed it as a grade two pull, with a three-to-six-week recovery time. Thing is, I’m scheduled to go out on tour in two weeks.”

The doctor’s brows pull together. “Well, this Jenna was half-right. Is she a doctor?”

“No,” Luke supplies. “Physical therapist.”

“Ah,” the doctor says. “Good instincts. She was almost spot on, except for the grade.”

I perk up. I knew it—this will all be over in a much shorter timeframe than Jenna predicted. I rub my hands on my thighs, careful to avoid my injury. “Great. I’ll be fine in no time, right?”

The doctor shakes his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not the direction this is going. You actually have a low-level grade three pull. It doesn’t require surgery.”

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