Page 31 of Sliding Into Love
Inside the room, Dr. Chadna sanitized her hands and patted a paper-covered examination table in a silent order for Ethan to sit. Last night, he’d refused to accept the crutches Dr. Chadna had offered, so he limped over to the table and boosted himself up with a crunch of paper. He backed up so his leg was propped up enough for the doctor to roll up his sweatpants and hiss. Black and purple stained his knee, and it was swollen to more than twice its normal size. Gently, the doctor rotated his leg and poked and prodded the swelling.
“How bad is it?”
“I’ve had worse injuries.” Ethan shrugged, avoiding the doctor’s assessing, dark brown gaze.
“Tough guy, huh?” Dr. Chadna stared at him for a moment before pressing down on the worst of the swelling.
Ethan jerked his leg away and resisted the urge to snap at the doctor.
“I thought so. You need to be honest with me,” she said coolly, “or I can’t do my job.”
“Fine,” Ethan grunted. “It hurts.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the ghastly bruise.
“Right.” Dr. Chadna sounded exasperated. “I’m sending you for an MRI to be sure nothing is torn. Given your range of movement, I don’t think you did any serious damage, but better safe than sorry. Ice it and stay off it, and you’ll be fine to play again in a few weeks.
“But—” he started to speak, but the doctor interrupted, holding up a hand.
“No buts. If you play on your knee, the probability of severe injury increases. I’ll check it again once you’re back home.”
Ethan scowled and shoved off the table, leaving the room and slamming the door behind him. Marshall waited, leaning back. He didn’t say a word, just tapped a bent, arthritic finger on the arm of the desk chair like a king on a throne, instead of a warped old man.
“Can’t play.” Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. “For the next week.”
“Pathetic.” The old man spat the word like poison. It was one of his favorites.
“I dislocated my knee last night when I scored thewinningrun. Remember?” Ethan bit the words out just short of a snarl. Marshall always brought out the worst in him, all the anger he always kept pent up, but it was rare for him to speak up, no matter how angry he was.
Marshall snorted.
“Wrap it and pop a pill. Or better yet, play through the pain. You’ll never get better if you can’t play through it. Focus on the pain, and maybe you’ll throw a half-decent game for once.”
Ethan took a step forward, settling into a stance like he was bracing for a punch.
Or about to throw one.
“You’ll never live up to your name. You’re nothing like your father or your uncle.” Marshall’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.
Not many people would ever measure up to Ethan’s father, a Hall-of-Fame, god-tier pitcher. And Ethan bit his tongue to keep from retorting about never wanting to be anything like his uncle.
“So, youwillpitch tonight.” Marshall sounded smug. “Or you can warm the bench for the rest of the season. Maybe I can reconsider your place on the roster if you’d prefer.”
Ethan hung his head, defeated, his dark hair concealing his face as his hands clenched into fists at his sides at the command.
Slowly, he limped away, the pain shooting like fire through his leg. Every door he found, he slammed. In the locker room, he tossed his bag with a crash onto the wooden bench in the center of the room, and it tipped over, spilling its contents on the floor.
“Fuck.Fuck.”
Half his shit rolled out of the bag, and Ethan groaned at the pain shooting through his leg as he knelt to retrieve it. He’d neglected to take the pain medication the doctor had given him the night before; it wasn’t the same thing, but he didn’t want to risk embarrassing himself again. How ridiculous he’d been with her flashed through his mind, and he threw his cleats onto the bench with a satisfying crash. For good measure, he slammed his batting helmet back into the bag with all the force a six-foot-three professional athlete possessed. A few slams. More like ten. Once he’d replaced everything he’d dropped, Ethan threw the offending bag into the locker he’d chosen, pulled a stretchy bandage and tape out of his pocket, and sank uneasily onto the bench to attempt to stabilize his knee.
“Need a hand?” Derek’s bright voice cut through the silence in the room.
“I’ve got it,” Ethan snapped without meaning to. Another fuckup.
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere with ice on that?” Derek asked, sitting next to Ethan and pulling a bag of sunflower seeds out of his pocket before dropping a handful in his mouth.
“Coach says I’m playing.” Ethan pulled his foot on the bench, rolling up the leg of his sweats. His knee was still purple and swollen to triple its usual size. Derek reached out as if to poke it. Ethan swatted Derek’s hand away. “It’s fine.”
“Yeah, but won’t you make it worse if you run on it?” Derek said around a mouthful of seeds, spraying a few shells.
