“And I might be able to skate, to play hockey again?”
She winced. “Mightis the operative word. I’ve done a lot of these surgeries and some of my younger patients with the simplest surgeries go back to nearly full activity. Skating isn’t ideal, and you may need a custom boot—”
“Not a problem.” Sometimes being rich was lifesaving. Heart saving, anyway.
“But returning to NHL competition level is ahugereach. Especially with your added soft tissue injuries. I hesitate to say no to a dedicated patient, but going beyond recreational skating isn’t something you should expect.”
“Well, fuck.” His throat clamped down on any other words.
“Roger.” She gazed at him with compassion in her eyes. “We discussed this, went through it before you signed consent. I told you there’s almost no chance of a pro-athlete level of performance. Skating fast, yes, having fun, stick handling, even a no-contact league. I have skiers who went back to their sport, but I tell them I will dump them if they do moguls and jumps. Impacts can loosen the implant, and hockey is all about impacts. Not as much as a ski jump, but being crashed into the boards? There’s no guarantee if you wreck the implant that we can ever do the surgery again.”
He knew that. Had known it when he made the choice. But he’d hoped maybe they’d get in there and find things weren’t as bad as the CT looked. “Right.”
She pushed up from her chair. “I’ll be back in the morning before you’re discharged. Keep the leg up, and don’t be shy asking for whatever pain medication you need. Pain reduces healing.”
“Thanks.”
“You take care. I think you’ll find this recovery will be faster and less painful than the last. A lot of the soft tissue healing has already happened.”
After she left, he lay there, looking up at the ceiling and blinking his stupid eyes. He’d try his best to make it back on the ice. All he could do. Maybe it would be worth permanent harm to get another year or two in the League. After all, players went back after concussions, with each one increasing their risk. Hockey players were dedicated and tough and optimistic.And nuts.
There was a tap at the door, then it opened and Rusty peered in. “Hey, you’re awake. Can I come in?”
Yes.Cross’s throat closed up completely, but he waved to the bedside chair.
Rusty folded his big frame into the seat and reached for Cross’s hand. “Hey, babe.”
Something in Cross broke. The first sob clawed its way out of his throat, the second shook his whole body. He reached toward Rusty, unable to hang onto his pride any longer.
“Hey.” Rusty leaned over him, then abandoned the chair to bend and work his arms around Cross’s shoulders. “What’s wrong? Did the surgery not work? Are you hurting?”
Cross shook his head against Rusty’s neck, his hands limp on the covers. Rusty held him in a strong, tight embrace.
I need him. God. This man.This was what Cross had wanted for so long and never found. Someone he could be weak with, vulnerable with, and not afraid to let go of his control. Someone he was sure would hang on when he couldn’t. He cried, unable to stop, and Rusty kept him safe, cradled, rocking him slightly against the pillows.
Rusty’s T-shirt was soaked before Cross pulled himself together and choked his sobs down to breathy shudders, then silence. He rubbed his snotty nose on the shirt, because he could, making Rusty laugh. “Are you boogering me?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” He choked and Rusty eased his arms free to pick up the insulated cup from the bedside stand.
“Water?”
“Thanks.”
Rusty held the straw to his lips and Cross sipped, wrung out, glad to not even have to raise a hand.
When he’d had enough, Rusty set the water aside and leaned in close. “Hey, want to talk about it?”
He didn’t, but what kind of a relationship did they have if they never talked about important stuff? “I’m… scared, and I feel weak. Helpless. I’ve always been able to overcome shit if I worked hard enough, and now… I don’t know if I’ll ever come back.”
Rusty laid a hand against Cross’s cheek. “How can I help?”
Cross turned enough to kiss his palm. “You do. Just by being here.”
“But is there anything else?”
He shook his head. “You can’t do the healing for me, can’t fix my career, but knowing you’re sticking with me? That I matter to someone—” His throat tightened momentarily.”—even when I can’t set foot on the ice? That’s important.”
“Of course you matter. So much.” Rusty thumbed Cross’s lips and their eyes met. Cross felt like Rusty truly saw him, all of him, the good and the bad, and for once, he didn’t need to hide or pretend or be perfect. He held his breath till his chest tightened, and gazed into Rusty’s eyes. After a moment, Rusty bent and kissed him again, soft and sweet and slow. Then he sat back in the chair and said in a lighter tone, “Will they let me bring you a decent dinner, or do you have to eat the hospital glop?”
