Page 50 of Getting the Grinder
I have to do a quick interview when I leave the locker room, and I don’t hate it as much as I usually do. Probably because I know I won’t be asked for an interview again anytime soon—once Melina makes me get an MRI of my knee.
I keep my phone turned off during games, and when I turn it back on, I find a text from my dad.
Dad: Great game. Saw your interview. Very proud.
Smiling at the screen, I text him to say thanks. He’s actually a good conversationalist in person, but over text he uses as few words as possible. I was hoping for a text from Mara, but I don’t see one.
I’m going back and forth on whether I should text her when I decide, fuck it. I quickly type out a message to her.
Leo: Hey, thought about you all day. Hope work was good.
“Abbott.”
I look up and find Melina giving me a serious glare. She’s a good trainer and I feel slightly bad for ducking out on her last night.
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
When I get up from the bench, she turns and leads the way into the training room. I get on the table, waiting for her to ask if she can examine me.
“Torn meniscus,” is all she says.
I shrug. “Might be.”
“Should I bother telling you about how much worse you could injure yourself by continuing to play on it?”
I shake my head.
“You might not need surgery. We might be able to rehab it. But if you keep playing on it, you’re definitely going to end up needing surgery.”
I don’t want surgery. But I also don’t want to leave my team midseason, even if it’s just for several weeks of rehab.
“I can tell by the way you’re walking what it is,” Melina says. “I could examine it, but I don’t need to. This is your body, man. You have to take care of it.”
I sigh heavily. “It was only bothering me a little until recently.”
“You need to stop playing and get an MRI as soon as we get home.”
I want to say no. But something inside me shifted last night when I was with Mara. I always thought that if I projected strength, it didn’t matter what was really happening to me on the inside.
When I told her about my anxiety and depression, and she didn’t look at me any differently, I realized how wrong I’ve been. I’ve fought my weaknesses for so many years. Lied and said I was fine when I wasn’t. I’m tired of that shit.
I nod, feeling anxious and relieved at the same time. It hurts like hell to play like this.
“I know it’s hard, but you’ll get through this,” she says.
I feel numb as I walk back out to the locker room and call Carter and Bash over to a quiet corner.
“I’m pretty sure I have a torn meniscus in my left knee,” I say.
Carter puts his hands on his head, his expression grim.
“Fuck,” Bash says.
I hate disappointing them, but I’m not at one hundred percent, and I can’t keep faking it forever.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Carter draws his brows together. “Don’t be sorry. Shit happens. We’ll get through it.”
