Page 19 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
I laughed despite myself. “For me? Pretty much.”
He worked in silence for a few minutes while I watched. There was something strangely attractive about a man so disciplined in his actions.
“There’s enough for two,” he said suddenly, not looking at me. “If you’re hungry.”
The unexpected offer surprised me. “Are you sure? I don’t want to disrupt your nutrition plan.”
“It’s just food, Lab Bunny.” He glanced at me, that almost-smile playing at his lips again. “Besides, you look like you haven’t eaten all day.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re staring at vegetables like they’re made of gold.”
I smiled appreciatively as he served two plates.
“So,” I ventured between bites of perfectly prepared chicken, “what exactly happened to your knee?”
His expression closed immediately. “Hockey injury.”
“That’s...not very specific.”
“ACL tear. Grade three.” He took a deliberate bite. “Not career-ending unless I rush recovery.”
“But you want to rush it,” I guessed, recognizing the frustration in his tone.
He looked up, surprised. “The team needs me.”
“And you need a fully functional knee for the rest of your life,” I countered. “Trust me, I’ve read enough medical journals to know rushing ACL recovery is asking for permanent damage.”
He set down his fork, his jaw tightening. “Game 6 of the conference finals. Third period, tie game. I went to block a shot, collided with Thompson from Dallas, and my knee twisted the wrong way.” His voice grew distant. “I heard the pop before I felt it. Knew immediately it was bad.”
“That sounds awful,” I said quietly.
“Surgery was three months ago. Team doctor says eight months minimum before I can play again.” The frustration in his voice was palpable. “That’s nearly a full season.”
“But at least you’ll be able to play again,” I offered. “That’s something, right?”
“You’re the expert on ACL recovery now?”
“Hardly. I’m just saying some things can’t be forced, no matter how disciplined you are.”
Later that night, alone in my temporary room, I pulled out my phone. The day’s awkwardness and tension melted away as I texted my mystery friend.
Ever have one of those days where you feel like you’re speaking a different language than everyone around you?
The response came quickly:
Mr. Wrong Number
Every damn day. What happened, Desert Survivor?
I smiled, curling onto my side.
Let’s just say I managed to alienate approximately sixty per cent of the people I met today. New personal best.
Mr. Wrong Number
That bad?
