Page 54

Cross woke slowly, swimming up to awareness, registering sticky eyes he didn’t want to open, and a foul, dry mouth.

New pain burned in his throbbing ankle under a blanket of the good drugs.

Surgery. Again. He didn’t let himself think about that too closely.

“Wurf?” He licked his lips and tried again. “Water?”

A straw tapped his lips and he sucked eagerly. Cool liquid bathed his leathery tongue. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” A soft voice.

He took a second mouthful, a third. Slow breaths. He didn’t hurt as much as he expected but he had a feeling that was coming later. He was spending the night, so probably tomorrow, after they unhooked his IV. He moved his left hand and felt the tug of the line.

“You with me again?”

Cross blinked his eyelids open and squinted. Oh, that was Marie. “Again?”

“You were awake before but speaking in tongues. It was entertaining.”

“Sorry.”

She laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Just teasing.”

He shook her touch off, although the motion made his neck ache. She wasn’t his mother. Not that he wanted his mommy, just had a weak moment there. “Rusty?” Speaking of someone he did want.

“He’s at work for another hour. I’ve been texting him nonstop. You could’ve let him take the day off.”

Cross struggled with his cottony brain to remember what she was talking about… oh. “It was just a routine procedure. And Rusty’s only been on the job a week. He can’t request a personal day for someone who’s not his anything.”

“Yeah, speaking of that, little brother.” She leaned closer. “Why are you still not his anything?”

“Huh?”

“You like this guy, right? A lot?”

“I guess,” he mumbled. Like was a flavorless word for how he felt about Rusty.

“I saw you on TV with him yesterday.”

“Huh?” That made no sense. “Like a paparazzi video?”

“No, hon.” She patted his shoulder. “I guess I shouldn’t say this while you’re still out of it.”

“I want to hear, though.” His heart monitor beeps picked up speed. If there was a media problem, he’d have to warn Rusty. God, this was why he’d hesitated in coming out. The attention would suck—

Marie said, “Shh, hush. I’m sorry, it was nothing, just this little news spot about a kids’ program at the community center, with you as a bit of color.”

“Oh.” He closed his eyes and pulled in a breath. Then another. “You could’ve started with that info.”

“I said I was sorry. But anyhow, there you two were, side by side, being good buddies.”

“We are good buddies.” Then he grimaced. “Ew, yuck, thanks for making me say that. I sound like a hick farmer.”

“Hey, careful there, Rusty is a hick farmer, right?”

Cross was just losing all the way around today. To the dark behind his eyelids, he muttered, “Can you just say what you want to say?”

“Scott Edison is out publicly with his two men, and the world didn’t end. Is it worth being in the closet, when it means Rusty has no right to be here when you let them chop up your ankle?”

“I don’t know, all right?” His voice got louder than he meant it to.

“I can’t decide anymore. But it’s a one-way street.

You can’t close that door once it’s open.

It’s not even about me being queer.” He’d decided he could handle that, if he had to.

“Reporters will be after Rusty to ask him what it’s like to be the boy toy of an NHL player. ”

“He’s a bit big to be a boy toy.”

“He’s a teenager and I’m thirty. He earns ramen-noodle money and I’m a LaCroix.

He’s in the ECHL and I’m in the NHL. No matter what we say, people are going to dismiss him as arm candy, a gold-digger.

” Cross coughed, his throat dry, until his sister tapped his lips with the straw for a cooling mouthful.

“If— when he makes it to the AHL, they’ll say I helped him somehow. ”

“If he plays well, they can hardly claim you’re on the ice playing for him.”

“I don’t know.” He raised his hand— then raised the other one without the IV— and rubbed his face. God, I want Rusty here. As my boyfriend. But was that selfish?

Marie massaged his shoulder and gave him another sip of water.

He opened his eyes to meet hers. “Thanks. Sorry, I’m a mess.”

“No, I’m stupid.” She waved him down when he would’ve objected. “You know what I mean. I just… I have to head out. This meeting’s vital, and I already cut my flight time close. I wish Rusty was here to take care of you for me.”

What about Mom? But his mother had never been good with injuries and hospitals and blood. “I’ll be fine. Hey, how come you saw a little puff piece about a community center?”

“I have a notification alert for stories that mention you. This was different from ‘His injury status remains unclear’ so I checked it out.”

“It’s a good cause. We could throw a little money to them, help with expenses.”

“I’ll mention it to the Foundation staff.” She pushed up out of her chair. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Positive. I’m just going to sleep anyhow.”

“The doctor seemed pleased with the surgery when she talked to me. She said she’d be by later.”

“That’s good.” Cross didn’t want to think about the surgery.

“There’s a man on your door, like usual, so if you need anything and don’t want to ring for the nurse, give a yell. The security guy’s Sven tonight, you know him.”

“Got it.”

She hovered. “You want more water?”

He did but he said, “Go catch your flight.”

“Keep in touch. Text, FaceTime, whatever. Although I’ll be in Japan, so remember the time difference if I don’t answer.”

“I will. Go on.”

When the door had closed behind her, Cross lay very still in the bed, counting his breaths.

This was better than the first time. His left leg felt fine.

Not even a residual ache with the meds onboard, although he had muscle to rebuild.

His right ankle was no worse than at first, and he wasn’t as scared.

That’s a lie. Last time, he’d hoped he had simple fractures, painful and frustrating, but straightforward to heal. This time he knew better.

Don’t think about that. Don’t think about that.

Don’t, don’t, don’t. He tensed and relaxed every muscle in his body that wasn’t his throbbing ankle, one by one.

Mindful relaxation. Did it again, naming them because he’d memorized an anatomy chart one time, thinking that it might be useful.

Deltoid, biceps brachii, brachioradialis…

A nurse came in to check on him, with the doctor behind. The doc waited as the nurse took his vital signs, then she sat in the chair at his bedside. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.”

“Pain under control?”

He wouldn’t have said no to a little boost from the IV, but he wanted a clear head. “Fine.”

“Everything went well. I still think it was a wise decision to get the ankle replacement now, rather than try a different stabilization. The bone healing was still quite poor when I went in there. If we hadn’t done replacement today, I am certain we’d have been back doing it another few months down the road. ”

“That’s…” Not good , not reassuring , but perhaps, “helpful, to believe I made the right choice.”

She met his eyes as if trying to convince him. “You did. All my clinical judgement says so.”

“What now?”

“Recovery and rehab, just like in all the materials I sent home with you. The cast stays on for two weeks and you keep the foot elevated ninety percent of the time. You get a boot at two weeks, with more mobility but still elevating. Go back to a shoe at eight weeks.”

“And full healing takes a year.” He ground out those words, like he didn’t know, like he hadn’t tossed the options around in his mind till he thought his brain would run out his ears.

“By one year, you should have all the strength and mobility you’re likely to achieve.” She said it steadily.

“And I might be able to skate, to play hockey again?”

She winced. “ Might is the operative word. I’ve done a lot of these surgeries and some of my younger patients with the simplest surgeries go back to nearly full activity. Skating isn’t ideal, and you may need a custom boot—”

“Not a problem.” Sometimes being rich was lifesaving. Heart saving, anyway.

“But returning to NHL competition level is a huge reach. Especially with your added soft tissue injuries. I hesitate to say no to a dedicated patient, but going beyond recreational skating isn’t something you should expect.”

“Well, fuck.” His throat clamped down on any other words.

“Roger.” She gazed at him with compassion in her eyes.

“We discussed this, went through it before you signed consent. I told you there’s almost no chance of a pro-athlete level of performance.

Skating fast, yes, having fun, stick handling, even a no-contact league.

I have skiers who went back to their sport, but I tell them I will dump them if they do moguls and jumps.

Impacts can loosen the implant, and hockey is all about impacts.

Not as much as a ski jump, but being crashed into the boards?

There’s no guarantee if you wreck the implant that we can ever do the surgery again. ”

He knew that. Had known it when he made the choice. But he’d hoped maybe they’d get in there and find things weren’t as bad as the CT looked. “Right.”

She pushed up from her chair. “I’ll be back in the morning before you’re discharged. Keep the leg up, and don’t be shy asking for whatever pain medication you need. Pain reduces healing.”

“Thanks.”

“You take care. I think you’ll find this recovery will be faster and less painful than the last. A lot of the soft tissue healing has already happened.”

After she left, he lay there, looking up at the ceiling and blinking his stupid eyes.

He’d try his best to make it back on the ice.

All he could do. Maybe it would be worth permanent harm to get another year or two in the League.

After all, players went back after concussions, with each one increasing their risk.

Hockey players were dedicated and tough and optimistic. And nuts.