Page 76 of Moonlighter
I’ll send a check instead.
I fold Nate’s message in two and drop it into the recycling bin. Eric’s message, though. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. Instead, I open my top desk drawer and slide it inside. I’m not quite ready to be his friend, I guess. The memory of his hot kisses and his sexy smile is still too vivid.
It will probably be vivid until I’m eighty-five years old. It really was that hot.
“Your car is downstairs!” Rolf calls.
“Thanks!”
I close the drawer on the message, get my bag and go.
20
Late November
Eric
I siton the bench in the practice facility while skaters whiz past me. It’s loud in here. The sound of pucks smacking the boards is the soundtrack of my life.
It’s supposed to be, anyway. But I’m sitting on the bench with three ice packs on my knee.
My left knee. The one formerly known as mygoodknee.
And I’m trying not to panic.
Last night—during the overtime period—I took a hit and went down hard. But there was no bigpop. No excruciating pain. I got right up again, but I could tell that something wasn’t quite right.
Afterward, I was in some pain. There was swelling, and it was no better in the morning. So they sent me for an MRI.
Doc Herberts prohibited me from practice today. He wouldn’t even let me take the morning yoga class. So I’m sitting here like a bump on a log while he talks to an orthopedist on the phone.
“Yeah, okay. Good stuff,” Doc says. “Bye.”
Good stuff. That has to be good news, right?
He hangs up and turns to me. “He agrees that it’s a minor ACL tear. Not a complete blowout. But you need a surgical repair.”
Fuck. “Soon?”
“That’s right. You’ll be back at physical therapy immediately. And off crutches in a week, probably.”
The sounds of the rink grow dim in my ears as I try to wrap my head around this. After three months of increased pain in my right knee, I was already scheduled for another round of scans and appointments with the specialist.
Now none of that matters, because I’ve torn myotherACL.
“Is there anyone who’d say I don’t need this surgery?” I croak.
Slowly, Herberts shakes his head. “Not unless we wander up Atlantic Avenue and ask random Bruisers fans we meet in the street.”
“Well, let’s try that.” But the joke falls flat, because somewhere in my thick head I know that Doc is right. Not only that, he’s sugarcoating it, too. Because after I go through surgery and several weeks of rehab, I’ll still haveanotherproblem knee.
Unless I’m very lucky. But I’m often very lucky.
“So when can we do this?” I grunt.
“Does tomorrow work for you? Grizzaffi will pull some strings to get you into the midtown clinic in the morning. ACL repair is an outpatient procedure these days. You’ll need someone to sign you out afterward. But you can sleep in your own bed tomorrow night.”
“Great.” As if that really matters. I know I should feel grateful that professional athletes don’t wait in line. But I only feel grim.
