Page 39 of Goalie Secrets
“Will it, though?” he asks sharply, turning to me. I’m struck by his features which look more drained than when he’s in the midst of physical exertion.
“You’re worried about the tests results.” His lowered gaze confirms that me stating the obvious helps no one. “Jeremy, knowledge is power. There isn’t a lot of research on this condition. Certainly nothing that relates to a prime athlete.”
“Great. I’ll be a guinea pig.”
“No. Even if you’re the first athlete with EDS to undergo these tests, there’s nothing experimental about it. Dr. Leroi’s protocols and methods are proven in the medical community. As your doctor, I would never expose you to anything dangerous.”
He nods and exhales, both motions lessening the tension in his shoulders.
“You’ll be there with me the whole time?”
“Absolutely.”
“And when the results are in.” His words are thick and troubled. Like the wordresultsis achingly difficult to say.
“There won’t be a full report today, but yes, of course. Both Kyle and I will work through the findings with you. It’s going to be OK, Jeremy.”
To emphasize my point, I wrap a hand around his forearm. He looks down where we’re joined, which makes me self-conscious about physically comforting him. I pull away. He places a hand over mine, stalling our separation. Eyes locked to mine, Jeremy speaks with unexpected sincerity.
“Thank you for stepping in today. You didn’t have to, but I’m grateful. I’m sorry I’ve been a pushy jerk, forcing you to talk about that night.” He pauses and swallows with difficulty. “You want to forget what happened, and I should respect your choice.”
“Tha-thank you,” I stutter.
He releases me and sinks back into his chair with his eyes closed. I’m mesmerized by thick lashes sitting on smooth skin, by lips pressed in a hard line, by the pristine profile of a man I’m finding harder and harder to dismiss as simply a patient.
Still, I welcome his words of gratitude and respect. I’m his doctor. Anything else that happened between us should be erased from memory.
Good luck with that.
“Quantum magnetic what?” I ask while laying on a scanning table. Overhead is a high-tech contraption that pivots in different directions.
“Quantum magnetic resonance imaging,” Dr. Leroi clarifies. “It can visualize soft tissue with sub-millimeter precision.”
Not sure what that means, but I nod, confirming my willingness to undergo all the tests they have planned today.
There was a time in my life when I thought the level of pain I experienced on the ice was a normal part of playing hockey competitively. The first time I collapsed in pain, I was fourteen years old. We had won the National Juniors Championship. When you get that far, you basically double your season.
At the sound of the buzzer, all the will it took to keep me from surrendering to the full body assault of pinching torture within my ligaments had evaporated. That was the first time I told my mother how bad it was. I kept it hidden because I knew we couldn’t afford medical treatments on top of hockey expenses.
But admitting my struggles changed everything for me, because it opened a world in which I didn’t have to be ashamed of my condition. Pain humbles you, so I learned to ask for help. That’s why I’m here, under the scrutiny of experts who I trust because I have to.
Kyle was a life saver. His corner of the medical field is the only one that looked at the whole picture of my connective tissue disorder instead of band-aiding the array of symptoms. And with Vanya in the room, they can zap me with whatever quantum shit because I know she’s looking out for me, too.
“I’ve never seen these bioelectronic sensors before,” Vanya says to the doctor. She’s standing against the far wall, beyond my vision. “Do they measure the fluid dynamics within the joint capsule?”
“Exactly,” Dr. Leroi sounds pleased, like Vanya is the star student. “If you’ll help me work him through some controlled movements, we can track the subtle abnormalities,” Dr. Leroi instructs Vanya.
She complies by coming closer and laying a hand on my knee. When I catch her gaze, she offers a reassuring smile.
“Are you still doing OK?” she asks me.
There’s no point answering. The machine has kicked in and drowns out any chance of a conversation. This goes on for what feels like hours.
When the procedure is completed, I’m led into a waiting area while Vanya consults with the doctor about the next steps. I scroll through my texts and regret it immediately when I see one from my father. Without reading it, I shut off my phone and shove it in my back pocket.
Finally, I’m summoned into another room. At the center is a treadmill surrounded by high-tech gear, like something you’d find in a futuristic sci-fi training facility.
Vanya is as amazed by the set up as I am. There’s some discussion between the doctors and the technicians while motion sensors are strapped to my legs. And then, I’m shoving my feet in weird boots. They’ve got sensors in them, reading every movement. Cameras surround me and track me from various angles.