Page 25 of Sexting the Coach
“Youhaveto take it off, Weston,” I sigh and roll my eyes, “I don’t make the MRI rules.”
He grits his teeth, but removes the hat, running his hand through his hair once before handing the hat to me. I try not to look, but I can’t help it—with his reaction, I was half thinking he might be balding under it. But he’s got a head full of hair.
“Lay back,” I say, and I’m able to go through the motions with him on the table, setting up a cushions to make sure he’s comfortable, and telling him to stay completely still so I can get a good image.
I hand him the little emergency switch, “Squeeze this if something is wrong and you need to me to come get you out.”
“Can I squeeze it now?”
I eye him again, “Are you sure you’re not claustrophobic?”
“I’m sure.”
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in the imaging room, running the sequences, and watching as Weston’s legs and hips light up for me on the screen. I run through all the typical stuff—measuring angles, checking on ligaments, until I get, finally, to his left hip.
“So?” Weston asks when I return to the MRI machine and pull him out, removing the cushions and watching as he sits up, reaching first for his hat and pulling it over his hair again.
During clinicals, and in my summer job, I watched a lot of physical therapists have to give bad news to patients. I try to remember what we learned about bed side manner, and I try not to think too hard about the fact that the man sitting in front of me was out on the ice, skating even though he was in severe pain.
“It’s cartilage deterioration in your hip joint,” I say, trying to keep my face neutral, my voice as even as possible. I’mjust delivering the information, not trying to temper it to his expectations. Be empathetic, but not condescending. It can be hard to strike the right balance, and even more so when his gaze is heavy on me, those blue eyes shining darker than normal.
Weston’s face is just as carefully schooled as mine. “How bad is it?”
“It’s…not good,” I admit, letting out a breath and busying myself with unplugging cords, putting the machine elements away. “But it’s treatable. You need to ease up on skating when you don’t have to—no more after-practice sessions. Use a heat pad when you’re at home. I can work with you to improve strength around your hip, create more support for the joint. There are a lot of therapies we can look into, as well—hyaluronic acid, platelet-rich plasma injections.”
“Great.” Weston rolls his neck, clears his throat, jumps up from the MRI table so fast he nearly collides with me, pushing through the door and into the main PT room.
I follow behind him as he moves to the little basket outside the door to collect his things. I can feel his frustration radiating out and off of him like physical vibrations.
At least it’s not devastation. At least Weston was, somewhat, prepared for what was coming.
Unlike Drew.
I swallow hard as I put things away, wipe down the machine, trying desperately not to think about that day. About the sound of his scream. About the note of despair in my dad’s voice when he came home from the hospital and announced that it was the worst possible thing.
“Torn ACL,” Dad said, in the way someone else might say,terminal cancer.“Surgery next week.”
Drew’s hockey career was over before it ever got the chance to start. And it was entirely my fault. If I had been more careful, more considerate, he would be in the NHL today.
“What are you thinking about?”
I startle, nearly dropping the cord in my hand, looking up to find Weston staring at me, his brow furrowed, head tilted. He’s got his jacket on again, his watch strapped around his wrist, and instead of looking stricken from the information about his hip, he looks curious, his gaze settled on me.
“Nothing,” I try, and when it comes out garbled, I clear my throat and try again, “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he quips, stepping closer to me, “It looks like you’re thinking about the day the queen died.”
“Oh, are you a fan of the royal family?”
“Elsie,” he presses, frowning when he gets closer to me. I force my eyes to stay on his, instead of taking in that damn backwards hat. “You know everything doesn’t have to be sunshine and rainbows all the time, right?”
“I know,” I hang a cord on the outside of the machine, realize there’s nothing more to do for clean up and turn back to him, tucking my hands into the pockets of my scrubs because I have nothing else to do with them. “It’s worth it to stay positive, though, because the treatments for your hip have been pretty successful in other patients. The plasma therapy specifically?—”
He steps closer to me again, and when I step back, I bump into the wall, my heart leaping into my throat as he stares at me. It feels like I have nowhere to hide.
“I’m not talking about me.” His voice is low enough that I can practically feel the vibration of it. “I’m talking aboutyou.About whatever was going through your head just now.”
“I told you, it’snothing?—”
