Coach pulls me aside after giving an exciting, rousing speech and clapping us on the back. He motions to the athletic trainer. The guy, I think his name is Larry, shines a flashlight in my eyes. I groan as he moves the light from side to side.
He shakes his head and Coach groans. “Get to the doctor, Grant. We ain’t gonna let you play if you have shit for brains.”
“If I’m still that good on the ice, you better let me play!” I bark out.
“We have plenty of people to get out there. Doctor’s note or you’re riding the bench.” He snorts as he looks me over.
Coach doesn’t give us shit for no reason and I know that. So, I go to the doctor and deal with the old white-haired man as he appears. He shakes his head at me, holding my report. “How are you, Mr. Grant?”
“I’m here, Doc, so not that fucking good.” I sigh, then shake my head despite the wave of nausea I feel. “Sorry, Doc. I got a foul mouth.”
“This is your third concussion—bad concussion, anyway.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I can sign off on you continuing the season if I think about your health first and foremost.”
“So, I won’t hit the ice with my head. Might break it next time anyway,” I joke, trying to downplay any idea of missing out on even one game. I rub my shoulder though, feeling an unpleasant tendril of pain go from my fucking elbow up to my shoulder and back.
The doctor nods at me and shows me an X-ray. “Your arm isn’t broken, but you bruised it badly. You’ve also strained the muscle and caused a huge amount of swelling. You’re going to have to rest your arm.”
“Doc, I know you’re just doing your job, but you’re killing me.”
“I can’t recommend that you play, Mr. Grant. I apologize. If you don’t rest your body, if you don’t make an effort to recover, then you may have long-term damage. Better to miss a game or two than seasons.”
“So, there’s no way around this? I have to take the bench until this shit eases up?”
“I should deny you the entire season.” The doctor sighs.
“Do you accept bribes?” I said, only half-kidding.
“Your health can’t be bought. Beauty, muscle, sure, but not health, Mr. Grant. I will say that you may not play in the next game. We will reevaluate afterward.” He sighs again, writing something out.
“And to make sure that you don’t change the results, I’ll be faxing my recommendations and my findings to the athletic coach and your coach.”
“I’m hurt that you don’t trust me, Doc.”
“Your reputation is heavily noted in your paperwork, Mr. Grant.” He chuckles slightly. “You are determined to the point of self-harm. I should really write you up for a mental health eval to explore the depths of that, but we both know that’ll just be a waste of my time.”
“I appreciate your restraint,” I say through my teeth. “Are we done?”
“See the nurse on your way out.”
He waves me away and I head to the front. I check the nurse out—she’s the kind of nurse who could make any man feel better. Her red and black hair, mocha skin, and gorgeous body will definitely find me in my dreams later.
She giggles as I tell her about a party later tonight, then leans forward. “Mr. Grant, you’re too much of a flirt for me.”
“No such thing, sugar.” I lean on the counter. “Just one party, what could it hurt?”
“I have a feeling you would break my heart.” She bites her lip as she smiles. “Get out of here and follow the doctor’s orders.”
“I prefer to be the one giving the orders.” I look her over one more time. “But since you’re cute, you get to this time.”
I head back to the hotel and hold my face in my hands. I can’t wear the sling without looking like a pussy, and I’m not a pussy. But this headache is fucking killing me. I lie back, determined to get some fucking sleep, but it doesn’t come.
Thoughts of a career ending too early and being called “Stephen Grant’s little brother” for the rest of my life swirl in my head. I can’t decide which is worse—fading into obscurity or riding my brother's coattails. I’d rather be dead.
I’ve made a life for myself. I said fuck it to everyone telling me that sports was only to get someone into college cheap. I said screw it to every demand of me getting a dream job. I said fuck off to Stephen’s insistence with law school or a graduate degree.
My life is my own, and everything I’ve gotten, I’ve worked for. I’ve never had to pretend to be anyone else. Never had to “play the game” like Stephen does. I’m myself, all the time. I’m in control. I’m not anyone’s puppet.
Which means I have to see the season through. If it means being on the bench for a game or two, it’ll be worth it in the long run. I’ll keep training. I won’t get into any fights. For a bit anyway.