Page 14

As we continue down the corridor, she’s already flicking through the papers I’ve given her.
“Hmm, an MCL,” she says, more talking to herself than me.
I know exactly what my injury is, but I play dumb, just so I don’t get frostbite on the way to the treatment room. “What’s an MCL?” I say as we reach the doorway.
“A medial collateral ligament strain,” she replies, opening the door for me to enter. “The medial collateral ligament is a small, thick band of tissue on the inner side of the knee joint that connects the thigh and shin bone. The injury is common inathletes, particularly in soccer and other contact sports, like ice hockey.”
The room is as clean and bright as the outer office, but inside, it looks like something out of aStar Trekmovie, with strange-looking apparatuses placed in different areas of the room. Okay. I’m impressed. John said she was good, but I didn’t expect such advanced equipment.
“Can you get up onto the bed for me, please?” she says without lifting her head from reading.
With no effort, I do as she asks, sitting there with my long legs resting on the floor while she continues to read.
The doc told me that it could take a couple of months to heal, but I’m not up for that. I need to be back on the ice, and soon, before I go stark raving mad with boredom. Sure, it’s painful, but pain is part of being a player. I’ve never yet come off the ice without a bruise, scrape, or swelling somewhere on my body.
When Emma is finally finished reading, she places the notes down on her desk and turns to me.
“Can you tell me where the pain is, Mr. Steele?”
“Only if you call me Ryan,” I reply. “I mean, I’m a paying patient. Isn’t it my right to be called what I want?”
She continues to gaze at me, and apart from the muscle in her jaw tightening, she stands there perfectly still with no other reaction. I’ll give her her due. That takes some skill. Especially given the fact that I’m being purposefully pedantic.
For a long moment, we seem to be stuck at an impasse, and then she takes a deep breath in and says, “I’m going to need you to remove your trousers and lie down on the bed, please.”
I nearly smirk at her complete avoidance of my name. She’s a clever one. But I do as I’m asked, and a second later, lying in the sports shorts I wore for this very occasion, I watch her approach the bed.
“I’m going to examine your knee. This may be painful.”
“Fire away,” I say confidently. “It’s been poked and prodded already.”
But I have to swallow my pride when her warm fingers press into my knee and I wince at the sharp pain.
“Sorry,” she says, sounding genuinely sorry.
“It’s alright,” I pant.
She continues to examine me, and I continue to moan, trying my best to swallow the sounds that are threatening to break out of my throat.
Not so cocky now, are we?
The agony continues for another minute, and then relief comes when she takes her hands away.
“Okay. You have quite severe damage to the ligament. It’s going to need intense treatment.”
Emma’s tone has changed. She now sounds like she actually cares, or like she’s talking to any other person but me. While I’m surprised, it also feels quite nice.
“You’ll need to come back here every day for at least two weeks. After that, we can assess the progress you’re making.”
“Great,” I say, sitting up on the bed.
“Please lie down again,” she says emotionlessly. “While you’re here, we might as well start your treatment now.”
“Oh. Sure thing.”
Another surprise. I was under the impression that I was being tolerated.
This is her job, you know.