Page 68 of If All Else Sails
I didn’t intentionally set out to sabotage my recovery. Not atfirst. It started with the issue of getting around. Rideshare apps and taxis aren’t common in Kilmarnock, and trying to figure out transportation felt like too much. Then everything started feeling like too much.
Not physically. But more like I settled in under a weighted blanket of negativity I couldn’t—or no longer wanted to—shake.
By the time Jacob realized I wasn’t only avoiding his calls but not going to appointments, I was pretty set on staying put. I didn’t let myself play out the long-term effects of this behavior. It was easier just to get up each day and continue on as is. Alone. In pain. Completely miserable. Jacob sending people to “help” only made me angrier—at him, at myself.
Then he sent Josie. Probably the one person who could have pulled me out of this cyclone of self-destruction.
“Lisfranc isn’t super common,” Dr. Parminder tells Josie with another flash of dimples. “But we’re seeing it more and more. Not usually with hockey players, though. It’s not very likely to happen on the ice, so it makes sense Wyatt did this during another activity.”
I wait for Josie to make a crack about disc golf again, but this time she doesn’t.
“What kind of injury is a Lisfranc exactly?” she asks.
“Mr. Talkative here hasn’t explained it?” Dr. Parminder teases, and I briefly consider kicking him with my good foot.
Let’s see how his attitude is whenhe’srecovering from an injury.
“Believe it or not, no,” Josie says, taking a sip of coffee. “He won’t talk about his injury, but he won’t shut up about the new season ofThe Real Housewives of Orange County. Go figure.”
She grins at my scowl. And as our eyes meet, a little zing moves from my toes up my legs to my spine, lodging somewhere in my chest.
Dr. Parminder’s laugh breaks through the moment. “First, you’re not too far off,” he says. “Lisfranc is the name of the French doctor who first diagnosed injuries to this ligament. Jacques Lisfranc de St. Martin.”
I want to roll my eyes at Dr. Parminder’s terrible attempt at a French accent, but it makes Josie laugh. He offers her another unnecessary flash of dimples and runs a hand through his thick, dark hair.
I really hope we’re almost done with my treatment. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.
The stretches aren’t much fun either. Before this, he had me do seated leg raises with a resistance belt and practice pushing down on an exercise ball with my injured foot. All I could think about was how much I miss gliding on ice, the cut of my blades as I deke an opponent, the satisfying exhaustion after a game.
This all feels so...silly. Especially with Josie watching.
“There’s a specific ligament and a joint called the Lisfranc. Right here between the medial cuneiform and the second metatarsal.” Dr. Parminder taps the spot on the bottom of my foot. “The injury can be a tearing of the Lisfranc ligament or include other secondary ligaments. It can even encompass breaks in bones.”
“So, which kind of injury does Wyatt have?”
“Just tears,” I say, wincing as Dr. Parminder bends my foot.
“Two tears,” he amends. “Significant but not full tears. Thankfully. Ready to try some walking in the pool?”
I can think of a hundred things I’d rather do than walk in a pool, but Josie looks at me expectantly. “Sure.”
Grabbing my gym bag, I head to the small changing room just off the main physical therapy space. And if I almost fall over changing into my bathing suit, it’s because I’m in a hurry to finish this appointment.
Not because I don’t like leaving Josie alone with Dr. Dimples.
Though when I come out, he’s standing very close to Josie, his whole body turned toward hers like he’s some kind of satellite. As I crutch my way across the room, her eyes meet mine. She stumbles over her words, and a flare of pride goes up at the way her eyes widen, taking in my bare chest. Dr. Dimples steps back from Josie, his smile faltering a little when he sees me.
Maybe I don’t mind walking in the pool after all. And maybe he’s rethinking this particular exercise.
I’m not particularly modest—years spent in a locker room full of hockey players rid me of that quickly—but neither am I particularly prideful about my appearance. Part of it is genetic, with my height and build coming from my dad. The rest is a result of my body being my job and, as I’ve come to realize since my injury, my whole world. This is the weakest and most out of shape I’ve been in years, but I’m aware my body still doesn’t show it—yet.
I definitely feel it as Dr. Dimples starts me on a ten-minute walk in the pool with full weight—buoyed by the water—on my foot. I hate how challenging something so small is. I’ve been stupid, sitting in the cottage feeling sorry for myself. It shouldn’t have taken Josie coming and offering me a bargain to get me here.
But now I’m determined to give this everything I have. For me. Not for hockey or the team or Jacob. Not even for Josie.
Though, I’ll admit, it feels good to climb out of the pool and have her waiting for me, grinning like I just won gold, not like I just walked a few slow laps in a pool.
She hands me a towel, and I catch her eyes dipping to my chest as I dry off. Why does this make me want to flex every muscle I have? When her eyes snap back to mine and she knows I caught her looking, her cheeks flush.
