Page 146 of Break Point
“Can’t you just give me something for the pain?” he mutters.
Dr. Lee nods, pulling out a small syringe. “I’ll inject a local anesthetic. It won’t fix the damage, but it’ll dull the discomfort long enough to get you upright and into a car.”
Henry exhales shakily. “That’s all I need.”
“God, Henry,” I whisper, crouching closer. “Why didn’t you stop?”
He doesn’t open his eyes. “Because I wanted to win.”
“Necio.”
“I won’t … fight you on that one. Not today.”
“You’re going to the hospital.” I drop his hand gently and stand up. “End of discussion.”
“Bells …”
“Sorry. You don’t get to argue. I’m calling Tony to get the car ready.”
I step away to pull out my phone and call him. My fingers are shaking, but I manage it. The moment I hang up, I start another call.
“D-dad?” My voice cracks. “Henry got injured playing tennis just now. It’s bad. We’re taking him to the hospital.”
1 “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’ll take you to the club for some ice cream. You’ll be fine in a bit.”
2 I don’t want to!
3 Come on, get in or your dad will fire me.
4 You wish you could retire already.
5 Don’t tell my dad, Tony. Please.
6 Get in, then.
CHAPTER 32
IT’S POURING
APRIL 24, 2011
WE’RE IN DR.Esteban Rivera’s office, a Dominican orthopedist famous for specializing in shoulder injuries and treating elite athletes. We were lucky Dad pulled a few strings and got us an appointment on such short notice.
Henry was discharged from the ER last night after getting X-rays and an MRI. The attending physician suspected an old SLAP tear injury. So here we are, ready to discuss the results in more depth.
Henry’s been dealing with the pain since yesterday, and I’m just glad he agreed to see Dr. Rivera instead of doping up and carrying on like nothing’s wrong.
Once Dad and the doctor are done reminiscing about his player days and other baseball gossip, we get down to business. He asks Henry a few questions about the accident and how he’s been managing the injury since then. He also encourages Henry to explain in detail what happened when the sudden pain invaded him during the match.
For once, Henry doesn’t pretend he’s fine.
Dr. Rivera clips the X-rays onto the lightbox, the images glowing to life. He takes a look at them and hums. Next, he plugs the USB into his laptop, his sharp gaze flicking across the MRI files in silence.
“Okay,” he finally speaks, rotating the laptop so we can see the screen. “The ER doctor’s assessment was spot-on. You do have a SLAP tear.” He circles the damaged tissue on the screen with his finger. “And there’s also a partial tear in your rotator cuff … right here.” He points at a blur on the screen that means nothing to me, but Dad and Henry nod like it’s gospel.
“Both are serious,” he says, pulling down his screen to close his laptop. “You’ve got a significant labral tear that’s been neglected for a while. We’ll need to reattach it to stabilize your shoulder. Your rotator cuff is partially torn. It’s not a full rupture, but it’s bad enough. We need to fix it now before it worsens.”
I’m wringing my fingers on my lap to keep myself from reaching for Henry’s hand. I know this isn’t easy for him. I know this brings back ugly memories and feelings he probably wishes could stay in the past. But it’s time to move on. He can’t live like this anymore. It’s not fair.
