Page 137 of Revolve
THE SMELL OFantiseptic clings to the air, and the harsh fluorescents illuminate the checkerboard of pale blue and white tiles. All I hear is thesqueak,squeak,squeakof rubber soles against the vinyl floors.
“Will you stop pacing?” I grit out.
Kian stops abruptly, his hands stuffed deep into his letterman jacket pockets, before exhaling and continuing to pace the cramped emergency room. As is ifI’mthe annoying one.
The guys are in the waiting room, but Kian insisted that he needed to come with me. He was the one who wheeled me to triage. After I have my vitals checked and get an X-ray, we’re in a small room, boxed in by faded blue curtains that hang limply from metal tracks overhead.
I’m perched on the edge of the exam bed, the paper beneath me crinkling with every shift as my ankle throbs.
Kian’s footsteps continue to tap out a nervous rhythm, the sound amplified in the too-quiet space. His eyes flick toward me and then away.
“It’s not your fault,” I remind him. I said the same thing in the car on our way to the DU hospital emergency room. He didn’t respond then, and he doesn’t respond now.
Kian glances at his watch. “What’s taking so long?”
That’s when the doctor comes in. “You know, for a hockey player, this isn’t a terrible X-ray,” she says. “I held my breath when I heard it was one of the Dalton boys.”
“It’s not?” Kian asks.
She nods. “You’ve got a grade two ankle sprain, nothing surgical. But the ligament being partially torn makes things tricky. It’s not a clean tear, but it’s enough that you’re going to need rest. A lot of it. That way we avoid any long-term damage.”
“How long?” Kian pipes up.
“No hockey,” she clarifies. “Or any type of activity. For at least six weeks.”
Her words sound muffled by a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The Grand Prix final is tomorrow, and if we don’t perform, we won’t have a shot to qualify for Worlds in March. It’ll all be over. I’d have fucked it all up. Sierra would lose her last chance for a comeback. She wants this badly, and I promised I would help her get it.
“Can I get something for the pain?” I ask the doctor.
“You’ll get painkillers, some acetaminophen will do the trick, but if it gets bad, we can prescribe Toradol.”
“It’s bad now,” I say. “I’ll need Toradol.”
I can feel Kian’s questioning gaze. We’ve had worse injuries, and none of us have ever required something strong for the pain. But right now, I’m not doing this for me.
She hesitates, glancing at the splint on my ankle. “It’s not necessary if you rest. Follow RICE. I’m sure you’ve done that before.”
I shake my head, adamant now. “This feels so much worse than any other injury. I’d rather not be in pain during my final exams.”
“You can’t skate.” The doctor turns to Kian. “Hecan’tskate.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“Yeah, he won’t,” Kian chimes in hesitantly. “Our coach won’t let him.”
Her gaze lands on my swollen ankle, then shifts to me. I give her my most innocent look, and she sighs before saying she’ll be back.
“What was that about?” Kian asks the moment she’s out of earshot. “I know your pain tolerance; you would be the last person to take strong pain meds for a sprain.”
I shrug. “I need it.”
Kian starts pacing again. “Sierra’s going to kill me,” he mutters, then slumps on a chair.
“Sierra’s not going to find out,” I say.
His head snaps to me. “What the hell are you talking about? She’s going to know the second she sees you.” He points at the splint on my foot.
“She’s not,” I say seriously. “I’m still competing tomorrow. With or without the meds.”
