Eva’s eyebrows shot up. “For me? That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s respect,” Rayah said, her tone even. “We couldn’t just play on like nothing had happened.”
Eva looked away, jaw tight. I slid onto the cushion beside her, close but not too close, giving her space to breathe.
Briana set the hospital paperwork on the kitchen counter. “We’ll let you get some rest. We just wanted to let you know we’re here to support you.”
Briana’s voice hung in the air, polite but final. A few players nodded, murmuring their goodbyes as they shifted toward the door. The shuffle of sneakers against hardwood filled the silence.
Still, some of them hesitated. Rayah lingered with her arms folded, Arika too, like they couldn’t quite bring themselves to walk away.
“Seriously,” Eva said, her voice sharper now. “I’ll be fine.”
I could feel her stubborn pride pressing against their sympathy, like two sides of a seesaw.
I forced a smile at the group. “Thanks for coming by—really. But you heard the boss. Eva needs to rest.”
One by one, our teammates eventually filtered out after promises to check in tomorrow.
Jazz was the last to linger. She squeezed Eva’s shoulder before catching my eye. “Call if you need anything,” she said.
I knew she meant both of us.
When the door clicked shut, the silence flooded in.
The evening had been so loud—the packed arena, the congested traffic, the busy hospital, the aftermath. Now, only Eva and I remained.
I reached over and adjusted an ice pack on her braced knee.
“Lex,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to do that.”
My throat tightened. “I know. I just …” I swallowed, searching for the right words. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“I’ll get through it,” she rasped.
The room went silent again, but it was a different kind of quiet—softer, easier. She leaned her head against my shoulder. I sat still, letting her weight settle against me, steady as I could be.
Eva exhaled slowly. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
We sat like that for a long time, until the city outside quieted into background noise and the only sound was the rhythm of her breathing.
Chapter
Twenty-One
An MRI on Monday morning confirmed what we all feared. Eva had torn her ACL. For anyone else, the injury could have been rehabbed without surgery, but for an elite athlete who played a sport that required cutting and quick lateral movements, surgery was the only option.
Eva hadn’t cried. She hadn’t gotten angry. She hadn’t shown any emotion, really. She only asked questions of the doctor to know what needed to be done next. She asked about graft options, about timelines, about range of motion. She acted as if this was an ordinary checklist she had to get through before she could move on with her day.
I wasn’t sure if I admired her or if it terrified me. Maybe both.
I kept waiting for it to hit her—the tremble in her hands, the choked-back sob, the anger that had nowhere useful to go. That was how I’d reacted when the doctor had told me about my wrist.
The surgery would be delayed a few weeks. Unlike my wrist surgery, which had occurred the same night as my injury, the most successful ACL procedures happened only after swelling had subsided and she was able to bend her knee completely. According to the doctor—and everything I’d read online—restoring normal range of motion before surgery significantly improved recovery. Operating on a swollen, stiff knee would only increase the risk of excessive scar tissue and stiffness in the aftermath.
I sat in the doctor’s office, trying not to fidget, trying not to betray that my heart was crawling into my throat. Eva was the one with the torn ACL, but somehow I felt like I was breaking.
