Page 3 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

Serious faces, pain killers, prescriptions, so many words—none of them are clear.

Headache.

Crutches.

Severe tear. Level three. May need surgery unless I go to PT three to five times a week, complete rest for the leg, brace, avoid stairs, can’t bend it, ice it...

Agent is AWOL.

Philly and Toronto text. Say too bad. Say, “Maybe next season.”

Coach calls. Rest and heal. Job is still here. We’ll get through this.

Mom and Dad call. So upset. Only son. Poor baby. Fly in from Scotland?

No.

Do you have a girlfriend to look after you?

Shut up, Mom. Not the time.

Don’t you talk to your mother in that tone, young man, or I’ll come over t’ ye and break the other knee.

Thanks, Dad. Real helpful. I don’t say that out loud. I’m injured, not an idiot.

Or am I? Maybe I am. Don’t know.

Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad.

My career is over... Even if I can play again, it’ll be on the same old team, and I’ll be a year older, with a potentially recurring injury. No major league is going to want me.

The King is dead.

Go home now.

Morning. Feel hungover.

Try to move. That’s an adventure.

Groggy.

Gotta pee.

You ever see a man trying to learn how to use crutches while concussed? With a full bladder?

There was almost an accident.

This sucks.

Bryce texts.

Bryce AKA Furball: We’re taking turns driving you to PT. My turn today. Need help getting to the car?

Kings aren’t supposed to need help.

My knee still looks like it’s giving birth to a potato.

King: No.