Page 68 of The Assist
The crowd is on their feet, screaming Wes’s name and jumping like the basket has already been made. But the other team isn’t giving up that easy. Wes drives to the basket, power and confidence. He explodes up toward the rim, the ball safely tucked in one of those big hands of his. The defense is tight against him, a step behind, but so close that the crowd holds their breath as the ball leaves Wes’s hands.
I follow the ball as it goes up and into the net. A whistle is called, and the ref signals a foul on the play, granting the basket and giving Wes an opportunity to make it a three-point play. I’m lost to the explosion of cheers around me. There’s a commotion on the floor. Wes and a player in a red jersey are lying in a heap on the floor from the contact. His groan is the first signal something is wrong. Wes’s face is angled down, his body curled into a ball, but he reaches for his foot and my stomach drops.
Everything happens in slow motion. The coach and some other guys wearing Valley University polos circle Wes, making it hard for me to see what’s going on. I grab on to Vanessa’s arm at some point, holding on to her tightly because I don’t trust my legs to hold me.
There’s movement, and he stands with the help of three other guys. The crowd cheers around me, but I’m silent. He’s favoring his foot, holding it in a way that hurts my heart and sends a million what-if scenarios shuffling through my head. There’s some back and forth between Wes and the coach, but he hobbles to the free-throw line, making it clear he’s going to take his shot.
Z steps up behind Wes, and his lips move, but I can’t make out what he says. Wes nods once, his mouth set into a grim line. All but two players from the opposing team move back. I hate them for even considering that he might not make the shot, even knowing they’re just doing what makes sense.
Still, sensibility has nowhere to sit in the crowd of emotions pushing around inside me.
Wes has the ball. A calm sense of routine eases the hard lines of his face. Breathe out, spin the ball with both hands, dribble once . . . but the kiss of his right wrist is lost. He completes the sequence like it never changed. There’s no indication in the rhythm or his features that says he’s missed a step. It’s as if it were never part of it at all and I just imagined it. The ball leaves his hand and bounces around the rim before slipping through the net.
Coach Daniels calls a timeout, and Joel and Z flank Wes, leading him off the court.
26
Wes
“I’mafraid the news isn’t great, son.”
No shit.
I don’t look up at the doctor as he slaps my x-ray onto a lighted screen. From my peripheral, I can see he’s pointing, but I don’t need to see it to know it’s broken. I knew it the second it happened.
“You’ve re-broken the fifth metatarsal.”
“How long will I be out? Same recovery time?”
He hesitates, and I grind my teeth impatiently. “This is much more serious. The bones have displaced this time.”
“How long?” I growl, not caring that I sound like an asshole.
“You’ll need surgery. Three months, maybe four until you’re—”
“Three months? The season will be over in three months. My college career will beoverin three months.”
His eyes are solemn. “I’m sorry, Wes. I know it’s crap news.”
“What if I don’t have the surgery? I could wear a boot for a few weeks, finish the season and then have the surgery.” It sounds crazy even to my own ears.
“You need the surgery. The bones aren’t sitting properly. Even if you wanted to grin and bear it, this is just going to get worse every time you put pressure on the foot. You aren’t going to be able to play competitively with this type of injury until you’ve had the surgery and healed properly. I’m sorry.”
The doctor leaves and a nurse comes in to get my signature on a stack of papers. I sign them without reading the fine print. What the hell could it possibly say that would make this any worse?
Coach steps in as they prep me for surgery. I’ve taken off my jersey for the last time, and it sits awkwardly between us in a clear plastic bag. He shuffles from one foot to the other. It’s obvious he has no idea what to say, but I’m glad he doesn’t try to pacify me with words of hope and encouragement. We’re two quiet men, each stewing with his own version of this nightmare.
“The team is out in the waiting room.”
“I don’t want to see anyone right now.”
“I figured as much, but I wanted you to know they’re here just the same. There’s a pretty brunette out there pacing the floor too. That the girlfriend?”
Blair.
I nod.
“She has the stubborn look of a woman who isn’t leaving until she sees you.”
