Page 147 of Break Point
“We’ll go in arthroscopically,” Dr. Rivera continues, as if Henry had already agreed to the surgery. “We’ll clean up the damage, re-anchor the labrum, and reinforce the cuff.”
I look at Henry, and his face is unreadable. If he’s freaking out, I can’t tell. If he’s on board with Dr. Rivera’s solutions and considering surgery, I wouldn’t know either.
“If all goes well, you’ll regain full range of motion,” Dr. Rivera adds. “No more pain. No more meds.”
“He could play tennis again?” I ask. “Professionally?”
He nods.
“You’re young and strong,” he says to Henry. “You do what I tell you, and your shoulder will be good as new. You could come back better than before. I’ve seen it happen. But recovery’s gonna take time. Surgery’s not magic. It’s a second chance. But there are no shortcuts. You gotta put in the work.”
Henry doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But something flickers behind his eyes as if the idea of hope brushed past him, as dangerous as it might feel at this moment. Uninvited. Unwelcome. Before he slams the door shut in its face.
“There’s usually a nine to twelve-month waitlist for surgery.”
Dr. Rivera steeples his fingers in front of him.
“I don’t think now is a good time for the surgery, anyway,” Henry replies, his eyes going dark again, that tiny glimmer of hope vanishing intothin air. I can’t decide if he’s sad or relieved to hear about the long waitlist. “I’ll be traveling all summer on Belén’s tour. Besides, I don’t think I can afford it right now.”
“Money won’t be an issue,” I toss in, feeling both Henry’s and Dad’s gazes drilling into me.
I ignore them.
We haven’t discussed surgery and rehabilitation costs with Dr. Rivera, but I’m sure his renowned medical fees don’t come cheap. And Dad should know. So what did he expect when bringing Henry here? For him to find a magical way to cover the cost of surgery and rehabilitation on his own?
Dad paid him handsomely for coaching me, but that money was supposedly meant for college. And I’m guessing Henry’s sent some of it to his mom, so I don’t know how much he’s got saved, nor do I want him to end up with nothing after the surgery.
I have the money to pay for it.
I want to do it, even if Dad pouts his lips in disapproval.
“I was going to say,” Dr. Rivera says, raising an eyebrow like he might be reading into the weird dynamic between us, “that I just got a last-minute cancellation, and if you’re up for it, we could do the surgery tomorrow at 7:00 a.m. We’ll just have to do some lab work today, and if you’re cleared, you’re good to go for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Henry blinks. Shocked. Clearly in denial. It’s like his brain can’t compute how we went from a doctor’s appointment to possible surgery in under twenty-four hours.
“Tomorrow,” Dr. Rivera echoes. “It’s your choice. But your shoulder’s fixable.Ican fix it. You’re not done … unless you want to be.”
Henry’s throat bobs, and his eyes dart to the floor.
He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no, either.
“Could you excuse us for a minute,” Dad says, getting up from his seat and grabbing my shoulders. “Belén?”
“Of course,” Dr. Rivera says. “In the meantime, I’ll give Henry a detailed explanation of the surgery and what to expect in terms of the rehabilitation process so he can feel more prepared to make a decision.”
“Sounds good,” Dad says.
I get up and follow him outside the doctor’s office. We walk a few doors down the hall for privacy.
“That surgery and the entire rehab process is going to cost a lot of money,” Dad says, worry etched on his features, forgetting my bank account is bursting with prize money and sponsorship deals.
Money I’ve worked hard to earn.
Money I should have a say in spending, especially now that I’m eighteen.
“I know how cautious you are when it comes to spending and saving, but this would not impact my finances. And you know it. I could present it to Henry as a loan to make him more comfortable accepting my help. A loan he can pay back once he rebuilds his tennis career. Not that I’m expecting him to pay me back.”
He frowns and considers me in silence, rubbing a hand to his cheek.
