“You stupid motherfucker.”
Decker’s anger hurts almost as much as my leg. They gave me painkillers before we even left the arena, so the blinding pain has dulled to a persistent throb. I struggle to focus on Decker’s words as the drugs sap my lucidity.
“I told you, West,” Decker says, drawing a deep breath through flaring nostrils. “I warned you about this shit with Bradley.”
I don’t speak. I fucked up, and I have to take this.
“And when we had the game won and I advised you to sit out the last minute, you what?” Decker demands rhetorically. “Needed to piss a circle around Caleb to prove you got the bigger dick?”
My mom clears her throat from the corner.
Decker grimaces. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“No problem,” Mom says. “But maybe you can save the recriminations for when my son is not in unbearable pain and waiting for the surgeon to arrive.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Decker dips his head in deference to her. “You’re right. I’m just a little frustrated.”
“I understand. We all are, but August getting better is the priority, and the only thing I care about,” my mother says quietly. “Now, I’ll leave you two alone. My husband is on his way. I’ll go meet him.”
The door closes behind her, and Decker looks back to me.
“She’s right, and I’m sorry.” Disappointment and fury wrestle in the look he lays on me. “I feel bad for you, but I’m also so damn angry with you.”
“Not as angry as I am with myself.” I bang the bed with my fist, shaking my head at my own recklessness.
The door opens, and the orthopedic surgeon walks in, Dr. Clive.
“How you feeling, August?” he asks, glancing at the folder in his hands.
“High as a kite. They gave me some painkillers.” I release a heavy sigh and wince at the needles of pain in my leg. “But it still kinda hurts like hell.”
“What are we looking at, Doc?” Decker leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Dr. Clive’s brows lift over the silver rims of his glasses. If the bone jutting from my leg didn’t tell me this can’t be good, the twist of his lips and the reluctance in his eyes do.
“You’ve got a compound fracture, August.” He steps over to the wall, places a film on the mounted X-ray monitor, and points to the image. “You see the break here and here in the tibia and fibula? Good news is that the break is clear. No damage to the nerves, tendons, or ligaments.”
“Why do I feel like there’s bad news, too?” I need to pay attention, but between the drugs and the pain that persists despite them, it’s hard to focus.
“We need to start prepping for surgery right away,” Dr. Clive says. “The bone broke through the skin and has been exposed to air. There’s risk of infection. We need to do immediate intramedullary rodding of the tibia. We’ll place a titanium rod down the center of the tibia and then further stabilize it with small screws in between the rod and the bone above and below the fracture site.”
“A rod?” I tip my head back into the pillow. “Will I have that forever?”
“Yeah, afraid so.” The grim line of Dr. Clive’s mouth eases the smallest bit. “Think of it as another bone, but one that’ll never break.”
“What’s the recovery like on this, Doc?” Decker asks. His frown has grown heavier with every word Dr. Clive speaks.
‘Being optimistic, it could take anywhere from six to twelve months to return to fully competitive basketball after something like this.” He pulls the images down and shoves them back in the file. “You’ll be in an Aircast for about two months, August. And, of course, aggressive rehab from there. Most athletes can return to pre-injury levels. It just takes a lot of time and hard work.”
“I’ll be ready for rehab, no matter what it takes,” I assure the doctor, but mostly Decker. I know he’s concerned for me, but basketball is a business, and I’m a commodity—one in which the team has invested a lot of money.
“Let’s get the surgery behind us, and then we can talk about rehab,” Dr. Clive says, walking to the door. “I’m going to prep. We’ll be back for you in twenty minutes or so.”
The prognosis is better than I thought it would be, but I still feel like an idiot. If I could take that last minute back, if I could reconsider rubbing the win in Caleb’s face, I would.
“Look, Deck, I’m sorry.” I force down my shame and regret. “I know it was stupid. I just . . .”
What can I say? Caleb has the girl I want? I jeopardized a thirty-million-dollar contract for a woman who lives with another man, has had his baby, and already turned me down? A woman I’ve only seen four times? If I ever see Iris again, I’ll walk the other way.
Who am I kidding? In that charged moment Iris and I shared tonight, I couldn’t even look away. What makes me think I could walk away from her?
And that makes me a fool so many times over I lose count.
“Just worry about getting through the surgery.” Decker forces a half-hearted grin through his obvious concern. “I’ll rip you a new one when you can take it a little better.”
The door opens, and my mom and Matt come in, accompanied by my stepbrother. He’s tall and blond, practically Matt’s spitting image.
“Hey, you can’t be here, Foster,” Deck tells him sternly. “We don’t need agents sniffing around. Not even sure how you got in. Team and family only.”
We’ve been so careful to keep our connection discrete, I forget even Decker doesn’t know.
“It’s okay, Deck,” I tell him. “He is family. Jared’s my stepbrother.”
