Page 3 of Every Move You Make

“Illegal rugby tackle. They grabbed me at my knees, lifted me, and threw me down shoulder-first.”

The doctor peers at her laptop. “Well, your MRI came in.” She clicks a few keys, and the image is displayed on the TV screen in front of me. “As you can see here,” she says, moving the cursor. “You have a dislocated shoulder. Have you had shoulder injuries before?”

“Minor.”

“Major,” Dad interjects with an authoritative boom,catching me off guard.

“He’s had three previous shoulder injuries,” Angie adds. “Rotator cuff twice, and a SLAP tear.”

I bristle. “Stop paying attention to my medical history.”

“And what about your neck?” the doctor asks. “Because this looks like a brachial plexus injury.”

“I’m a prop,” I say, as if that will explain things. “The neck injuries I’ve had have always been pretty minor. I’ve never been checked out for them before.”

Dr. Shajahan gives me a calm but serious stare. “I’m telling you right now, you need to take this seriously. Neck injuries like this can compound, resulting in permanent nerve damage, quadriplegia, and in some cases, death. You cannot ignore this, and you should not play until you seek out medical advice from a sports medicine and orthopedic specialist.”

I gape at her. “What?”

“Even then, you still may not be able to play rugby. I would leave that call up to your specialist or physical trainer. They will be able to determine your range of motion better than I can through MRIs.”

Holy shit. I may never play rugby again? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I mean, no, this isn’t my career like it once was; this is just Division I club rugby. And sure, I have a great job working as the manager of a security company, but I’ve lived and breathed rugby since I was sixteen years old.

I can’t be one of those players who retires early. A lot of guys play well into their forties, and I haven’t even hit thirty yet. Suddenly, my whole body tightens and my heart rate picks up. An electric chill zaps under my skin, and I can’t breathe.

How am I going to…

Where will I even…

What will I…

“Isaiah?” the doctor probes. “Did you hear me? I said I’m going to step out and make you an order to see a sports medicine and orthopedic specialist. I’m also giving you a prescription for pain meds. You’re going to stay in a sling and a neck brace until you're told otherwise.”

“Okay,” I say on autopilot. I don’t even recognize my voice.

“I’ll be back shortly.”

When she leaves, the room is eerily silent. The Johanssen family doesn’t do quiet. All it does is fuel my intrusive thoughts.

Suddenly, the silence is cut through by the unmistakable rumble of one of the twins pooping, followed by a little gasp. Everyone, including myself, flinches when we see Zofia lay her head back down into my dad’s neck, sleepy and pleased with herself.

Jonah snorts. “Nice.”

“I’ll just take care of this,” Dad says sheepishly as he grabs the diaper bag.

“I’ll join you,” Ivy offers, standing from the couch and taking Dominico from Rafael. “They usually poop within five minutes of each other.”

What I want right now more than anything is some kind of comfort, but I’m not always the best at asking my family for that. I’m actually the worst. But before Ivy steps out, I blurt, “Can I hold him for a sec?”

She gives me a wary look. “I don’t think you’re supposed to hold anything.”

“Can you just,” I grunt, “set him on my lap then?”

She nods, and I hoist my knees up to create a little cradle where Ivy lays our nephew in my lap. Yes, this is exactly the distraction I need. His newly brown eyes are so big and beautiful. I squish his little biceps and marvel at the weight he’s put on in the last month alone.

“Look at you, bud,” I whisper to him in Spanish. “Making gains. Is Papá sneaking youprotein powder?”

Angie scoffs from the couch. “Hell no. That’s all me, baby.” She winks and grabs her breasts but immediately winces and curses under her breath.

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