Page 65 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

I nod, casting Peyton a look that says this conversation isn’t over , then glance around the union building, searching for an empty space. In the far, right corner of the outrageously large room, I see just the spot.

With each step, I feel these painful balls in my knees, smacking against one another like a torturous Newton's Cradle. Once I'm semi-isolated from the chaos, I click on the notification, and log in to my patient portal.

You have new test results , it says.

Lucky me.

After staring at the sentence for what feels like forever, I suck in a breath, and scroll down.

Once I read these results, everything becomes real.

Of course, I know, it already is. The pain is real. The unpredictability is real. The unraveling of every plan I ever had for my life is real.

But this places the gravestone.

It confirms that the meds aren't working. It confirms I'm getting worse. It's going to dictate what happens to me next.

I'm no stranger to pain. Not just from RA, but from a lifetime on the ice. I'm used to ripping off Band-Aids that have fused to the skin.

And that's what I need to do now.

I shift my gaze back to the luminescent screen, and read the results.

Ultrasound Examination

View: Adequate

Findings: Presence of boutonnière deformity in the right fifth digit. Synovitis and joint effusion noted in both patellas. Left wrist shows moderate tendinopathy. Structural damage identified in the right medial patellofemoral ligament.

The upside of being a bio major is that I can actually understand all of this.

The downside? I understand all of it, and it's bad.

My finger’s shot, which isn’t news. There’s fluid pooling in both knees. The tendon in my left wrist is either inflamed or starting to break down, and the ligament that’s supposed to keep my kneecap in place is falling apart.

My throat tightens, an itching sensation spreading down my esophagus like I've put a whole kiwi in my mouth and swallowed. In my chest, a sinkhole forms. I know it could be worse. The report could’ve said my knees were breaking down completely.

It could’ve told me my elbows were past saving, or that my shoulders were beginning to disintegrate.

But just because it’s not the worst-case scenario doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking suck.

I look back at the screen, scrolling down to the blood tests. Before I even begin reading them, my vision blurs, and I feel a sharp pain in my lungs. Taking in a breath that's not nearly soothing enough, I blink away the tears and press on.

Blood Test Results:

CRP: 38.2 mg/L Normal Range: 10 mg/L

CRP is C-Reactive Proteins. Elevated proteins indicate inflammation, which is exactly what you would expect with Rheumatoid Arthritis. What I didn't expect is for the levels to be over ten milligrams higher than my last test.

CRP: Worse.

Next is the Rheumatoid Factor. Those are antibodies that are self-destructive.

They get confused and attack your own healthy tissue instead of doing their damn job .

If you have RA, you likely have a high Rheumatoid Factor, hence the name Rheumatoid Arthritis.

My last result was at 87.6 IU/mL. Now, it's at…

RF: 122.9 IU/mL

The normal is below 20. Awesome.

Rheumatoid Factor: Worse.

I check the ESR next (The Erythrocyte Sedimentation Rate), then the Complete Blood Count., all of which are elevated.

As I read result after result, that coarse, itchy lump in my throat swells.

Worse.

Worse.

Worse.

My eyes move to a boldened word from beneath the list of labs.

Surgery.

What a terrifying word. At least to me. The thought of going under anesthesia, of being poked, prodded, and cut open is terrifying. Spending months recovering in a way that is visible to the world around me terrifies me even more.

I have spent so long trying to be normal. Trying not to let people see how broken I am. And while I know the only way for it to get better is to treat it, I'm still not prepared for everyone to know.

A disability isn't something people should be ashamed of. I believe that, truly, I do. But just like Peyton struggles to believe she deserves to be Captain, I can’t seem to believe I’m not broken.

"Everything alright?"

My eyes snap up, landing on Peyton. The moment I blink, the tears that I had fought to hold back start to fall. I quickly swipe them away, sniffing.

.“I’m—” A sigh slips out of me, my gait uneven. The limp’s getting harder to hide. Peyton’s brow pinches as she watches me.

“Do you need to sit down?” she asks, tone shifting toward worry. Before I can respond, she disappears toward one of the booths and comes back hauling a folding chair over her shoulder like a firefighter. She sets it down in front of me and unfolds it.

“Sit.”

And because everything hurts, I do. The second I lower myself, the burn in my knees flares like it’s punishing me for giving up. But slowly, it eases.

“Do you need water?” she asks.

“I’m fine, ” I snap, then soften. “Thank you.”

She nods and drops down beside me on the cold, hard floor.

“Aren’t you gonna miss your physics thing?” I ask, still sniffling.

She shrugs. “Nah. I’ve got time.” Her chin rests in her palm, and her eyes meet mine, round and curious. “So… you finally gonna tell me what's going on?”

Peyton's pushy, but in this strangely respectful way. Like she’s always listening, even when she’s needling me.

She asks but never demands. At Pineview, when I needed space, she gave it to me but sat closely.

Waiting. Not prying, just present. When I told her about the RA, it was the same.

No fixing. No claims of alternative medicine that have been proven by nobody but a church in Arkansas. She just listened.

It’s terrifying.

I’m scared that she’s filling the void that helped me keep my balance. That the weight of her presence in my life has tipped the scales of my cynicism, pushing me toward something dangerously close to contentment.

You know, when she’s not completely driving me up a wall.

“It’s stupid,” I say.

She grins crookedly. “Stupid’s my favorite.”

I narrow my eyes. “What does that make me?”

“Are you suggesting you’re my favorite?” Her brow arches victoriously.

Fuck.

I roll my eyes, biting back a somber smile. “Whatever.”

My fingers dance nervously along the edge of my phone, and I gather the courage to look into those golden, glowing eyes.

"I got some blood tests done," I admit finally, my voice dropping at the end. I straighten my posture best I can, and continue. "And an ultrasound."

Her expression drops even more than I expect. But the strange thing is, it doesn't bother me this time. Maybe it's because I know Peyton doesn't pity me like others. She feels bad, sure. But she doesn't let me wallow. She doesn't let it consume me.

"How bad is it?" she asks softly.

I shrug. "Not great. I haven't read the full treatment plan though. I'm… scared ."

Admitting that for the first time makes me nauseous, but it's also relieving.

I'm tired of pretending that this isn't scary.

That waking up every day not knowing to what extent you'll be able to function is daunting.

It's not just about pain, or exhaustion.

It's about how much of life I will miss out on because my vessel hates me.

Peyton places a palm over the top of my hand, tracing her thumb over the seam of my glove. "Do you want me to read it to you?"

My eyes snap to hers in surprise. "You would do that?"

She smiles. "For you, I'd read the goddamn dictionary."

My eyes begin to well again, so I look away as I hand her the phone. The entire time I stare at a crevice in the hardwood oak floors, her hand stays on top of mine, smoothing across my gloved knuckles.

"Ready?" she asks.

I nod.

"Following the review of blood labs and ultrasound results, my findings conclude that the patient continues to show evidence of active Rheumatoid Arthritis, indicated by—"

"Could you, maybe, just read what it says about treatment?" I ask hesitantly. I feel bad. She's trying to help. But listening to all the medical talk is something I just can't handle right now.

"Right," she says, fingertips tapping against the screen as she scrolls. She clears her throat. "The plan is to increase your DMARDs, start physical therapy, and get an arthroscopy for the knee effusion and tendon damage. Also surgery on the pinky, and a brace for your wrist."

Everything goes numb. I stare blankly at the sea of people moving through the room and wonder how many of them are doing the same.

How many are shutting out their pain, hiding the broken parts so no one looks at them differently.

I wonder how many had their dreams stolen by a diagnosis, and if any of them have found new ones worth chasing.

Even though it was naive, some small part of me believed AIHL could be it. That I could re-form hockey to something that included people like me. But I've heard nothing from Peyton's dad. And asking would only invite disappointment I'm not prepared for.

"Do you want me to give you some space?" Peyton's voice snaps me out of it, and I turn to face her.

"No," I answer quickly. Maybe too quickly. Quick enough to imply the truth:

That I want her here. That I trust her with this.

That somehow, even without fully knowing what I’m going through, she makes me feel understood.

She doesn’t ignore my limits. But somehow, she makes me see what I can still do in spite of them.

And being around her doesn’t just make me miss who I was before all this. It makes me want more for who I am now.

"I want you to stay."

The corners of her full, pink lips pull up. "Okay," she says. "I'll stay."

Her eyes fall back to my phone, and her hand slips from mine, thumbs moving dynamically across the screen. A furrow creeps into my brow.

"What are you doing?" I question.

She glances up. "Research."

"For?"

"This is a part of you," she says simply, those soft golden eyes flicking back and forth between mine.

"I want to know everything about it. How it works.

How I can help. You need physical therapy?

Cool, I'll drive you. Your ankles hurt? I'm going to find the best compression socks on the market.

Send me your grocery list, and your favorite scent of Epsom salts.

I'll get you one of those sponges on a stick. "

A laugh spills out of me, and I stare at her as she keeps rambling.

"I want to understand what causes flare-ups. I want to know what ‘no spoons’ means and why people tweet about it at 2 a.m. I want to know all of it—because it’s you.

And no, it’s not all of you. It’s not even close.

It’s the least interesting part. But if I learn this, I get more time to learn the rest."

Still smiling, I shake my head. "All of that, and you still cant pronounce the damn word."

She scrunches her nose. "I can. Rheumah—roo… no. You know what, spell it for me again. Slowly.”