Page 7

Later that day

Hamish

They say time slows down when something life-changing happens, but for me, time's doing the macarena on a sugar high. I'm propped up on a hospital bed, knee wrapped so tight, it looks like someone tried to turn my leg into a mummy cosplay.

Amy's clutching my hand. I can tell she's worried I might bolt. I do hate hospitals, but considering I have the mobility of a traumatized elderly sloth right now, her concern is completely unnecessary.

"Hamish McCormick!" A man with dark, curly hair in a bushy mess bursts into the room. He’s wearing a lab coat, wire-rimmed glasses, a stethoscope, enough gray ear hair to fashion a fur coat for a hedgehog, and the world's biggest grin, like he's just won front-row tickets to a Taylor Swift concert. "I'm Dr. Jelshi. Orlando Jelshi."

He thrusts out a hand, realizes my hand is already being held hostage by Amy, and pats my foot instead. My good foot. Vigorous, enthusiastic patting. Like I'm a Labrador he's just rescued.

"I was watching the match," he says, practically vibrating.

If hands could talk, his would be an auctioneer.

"Saw the proposal! Magnificent! Emotional!

Unexpected!" His voice jumps an octave. "But before that—BOOM!

" He mimics an explosion with his hands.

"Down you went! A majestic oak felled by a single, tragic stroke of the ax. "

Amy makes a sound that is half gasp, half choked laugh.

"I turned to my wife," Dr. Jelshi continues, "and I said, ‘Darling, I pray to all that is holy that I get to be his orthopedic surgeon!’ And here we are! Dreams do come true. Normally, the neuros get all the sports hits. This time, I get to have all the fun!"

I'm staring at him, wondering if the hospital has a psych ward and if maybe he wandered out of it. How do you verify whether a medical professional is for real? Amy scowls, brow furrowing deeper than a shar pei's folds.

"Fun?" she starts, using a tone I know all too well. It's the same tone I (rightfully) got when I rang her at 3 a.m., the night before Shannon and Declan's wedding, for a shag.

"So! Let's talk about your knee," he says before she can go further, pulling up the x-rays and MRIs with a flourish. The man acts like he's David Copperfield, about to make a rabbit appear out of my torn ACL.

"You've got a complex tear of the anterior cruciate ligament," he says rapidly, pointing. "Partial tearing of the medial meniscus—" he taps the image with a laser pointer that I am positive he keeps holstered on a belt, "–and some nasty bone bruising. Blavek did a number on you."

Amy winces. I feel her squeeze my hand tighter.

"I wish I could say 'ye should see the other guy,' but ’twas nae the bastard's fault. Just doin' his job." I blink. Didn't know a blink could feel so sad.

"That asshole needs to be kicked off his team," Amy fumes. "Out of the league. I want his head on a pike."

You can see the Marie coming out in my girlfriend–nae, now she's my fiancée. I like the ring of that.

I just smile at her, then look at her hand. Speaking of rings, where the hell is it?

"Blavek's been penalized. No need to go overboard.

I've injured many a player maself, all part of the job.

" Her bare ring finger makes me feel inadequate.

Does she not like the ring I picked out for her?

Does it smell of socks and she hates it?

The fuzziness of the last few hours is beginning to clear.

I proposed. She said yes. So what's the problem?

"But," Dr. Jelshi says, practically skipping in place, "with surgery, physical therapy, and sheer Scottish stubbornness, you can recover!"

"Damn right I will," I growl, bringing myself back to the task at hand: healing my knee. That's the spirit. Now we're talking. "When can I get back on the pitch? The team needs me."

"Well…" he says, and the room temperature drops by about twenty degrees.

"Well... what? " I bark. Footballers don't want to hear "Well…" from physios, orthos, neuros, or anyone in charge of keeping our bodies going.

"Well…" is bad.

"Well…" is what they say before the words "I'm sorry" come out of their mouths.

And when you reach "I'm sorry," contracts get canceled. Endorsements are lost. Careers are over. Women leave you.

Worlds end.

Who am I if I'm not a striker? I'm too young to be done. This can't be it.

It can't .

I won't let it.

Dr. Jelshi gives me the kind of look you'd give a dog right before telling its owner that the Rainbow Bridge is a lovely place and not to be afraid of it.

"At your age…"

"MA AGE? " I bellow. "What the hell does ma age have to do wi' ma knee? I'm no' here fer a longevity assessment, Doctor. Ma age has naught ta do wi' ma knee!"

Amy lets go of my hand and scoots her chair back. Coward.

"Thirty-four’s the peak o' human performance!" I roar. "I’m in the best shape o' ma life! I've got the restin' heart rate of a Himalayan sherpa! The core strength of a Greek god! The stamina o’ a porn star!"

Amy gives me an approving look on that last one. Good to have her on my side there.

Even if she's not wearing my ring.

"Yes, yes," Dr. Jelshi says, hands up, placating me like I'm a drunk uncle at a wedding. "You are an exceptional specimen."

"Thank ye."

"But…"

There. Another dreaded word.

"...tissue healing slows with age. Recovery is harder. The level of performance you require–"

"Are ye sayin' I'm finished?" I demand, voice cracking. The San Andreas fault lives inside my throat. The crack itself feels like it’s in my damn knee.

"I'm saying," he says gently, "that this could be a career-ending injury."

The world narrows. Light fades. The room is a tunnel. I hear my own heartbeat. Feel it in my eyeballs. I didn't know a heart could drop like this, but it's somewhere between my balls, seeking comfort in the soft squish.

"But it doesn't have to be," he hastily adds. "With the right attitude and lots of work, there's a chance."

"A chance? " I boom. "Why didna ye lead wi' that? Always start wi' the positive!"

"Hamish," Amy says softly. "Not everyone thinks the way you do. And not every situation has a positive side."

" Pfft ," is all I can say to that.

Dr. Jelshi beams. "A slim chance, but a chance."

"Oh, brilliant," I say, collapsing back against the pillow. " Slim chance. That's what every man wants ta hear after proposin' on live telly and detonatin' his knee."

"Technically," Amy says with a wince, "it was the other way around."

"Are ye goin' ta be this way for the rest of our life together, Amy? Pickin' on details?"

Amy pats my arm awkwardly. "At least you made it memorable."

"Yer no’ helpin’.”

Dr. Jelshi pulls out a brochure titled So You Blew Out Your Knee: Now What? On the cover is a cartoon of a cheerful crutch giving a thumbs up.

"Welcome to your comeback story," he says, winking.

If I had two working knees, I'd be using one to kick someone right about now.

"I'm no stranger to hard work," I begin, but Amy jumps in.

"If he works hard and does everything you say, do you think he can resume playing?"

Jelshi opens and closes his mouth so many times, I'd swear he's a nutcracker.

Then he says the words I can't handle:

"I can't guarantee that this isn't a career-ending injury, as I said earlier.

The preliminary MRI and x-rays don't tell the whole story.

We'll do another round of imaging in three to five days, after the swelling has calmed down a bit, and reassess.

There's room for hope here. I just don't want to give you false hope. "

The words slam into me harder than any defender ever has: career-ending. Not career-pausing. Not career-detouring. Ending.

False hope. I'm a man filled with nothing but hope, and not a drop of it is false.

This is too much.

Dr. Jelshi steps closer and places his hand carefully on my hurt knee.

Pain rockets up my leg like someone’s lit me on fire and given me a swift boot for good measure.

" Ghhhaaaaaaaa !" I groan, head snapping back against the pillow. Amy flinches in sympathy.

This isn't just a bad tackle. It's not a sprain I can tape up and soldier through. No amount of grit will let me push my performance to the max and recover later.

This is real. Real and permanent and bloody devastating .

What if this is it? wanders through my mind like a Grim Reaper at an Easter egg hunt, scaring the shite out of me. I can't think this way. I don't think this way. There's always hope. A light at the end of the tunnel. A pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

There is always a way. Always.

Right?

Before I have time to wallow properly, a tech wanders in, dragging a portable machine of some kind and a giant chip on his shoulder. His scrubs are purple and he has tattoos of a forest up and down his forearms.

"You know," he says in a plummy English accent, "I've watched every one of your matches this season. If you’d adjusted your pivot foot better in the match against Everton, you might've avoided all this."

"Cheers, Professor Hindsight," I grunt at him, still processing the doctor's words, the hangdog look on Amy's face, the way I didn't just blow out my knee, I blew my proposal.

And possibly, my career.

"And your ball control against Man City was…" he whistles low. "Woeful."

"Aye, well, remind me ta send ye a Christmas card, since we're sae familiar," I grumble. "And when the hospital sends me one o' those satisfaction surveys, I'll score yer performance, mate."

Amy bites her lip, trying not to laugh.

He rolls his eyes, undeterred. "Your defensive work rate?—"

"D'ye come wi' a mute button?" I snap.

"Just saying," he says smugly. "Could've been prevented."

A nurse sweeps in then, blonde, buxom, and batting eyelashes at a speed that suggests she could power a wind turbine. I know the type.

So does Amy, who leans over and whispers in my ear, "I wonder how many people she had to promise to buy lunch to get re-assigned to your case."

Great minds think alike.