Page 20 of Fight For Me

In the end, none of it did a damn thing—not the training and PT, not the specialized brace, not the weeks of forced rest. The carpel tunnel in my hand isn’t getting better without surgery.

Before he can press me to talk about the appointment, my dad appears at the top of the stairs to the basement. “Kid,” he says, looking relieved. “How did it go? What’d the doctor say?”

“The same thing the doctors in Seattle said. I need surgery.”

“And when can they schedule that? How much down time will you need?” He runs his hands through his hair, clearly worried. “I should have just come with you.”

I meet Daltrey’s eyes over Dad’s shoulder and we share an eye roll. “Chill, old man,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulders. “Take deep breaths.”

He grunts, shaking my hands off. “Seriously, though. What did they say?”

The fact that he didn’t have a comeback for me calling him old tells me that he really is concerned. “They can schedule me for surgery in two weeks. It will be outpatient. Physical therapy will depend on how quickly the swelling goes down.”

He looks only slightly relieved. “You’re not going to push it,” he says. “I know you want to get back to playing ASAP but rushing the recovery won’t—”

“Dad. I’m not going to rush anything. I’m taking this seriously.” More seriously than I could possibly express to him. Playing piano is my life. “Don’t worry.”

“I know you, kid. You’re stubborn as hell.”

I roll my eyes. “Can’t imagine where I get that from.”

He scowls. “Yeah, well, you always push yourself too hard. Have since you were a kid. I’m just saying—take it easy. Let people help you.”

I hold three fingers in what I’m pretty sure is a scout’s honor salute. “I promise to be a good little boy.”

Dad laughs, smacking my hand down. “You’re far from a boy scout, kid.”

“Again—wonder where I got that from? I was a perfect little angel until you showed up in town with that flashy Porsche and started corrupting me.”

“You sound like your mother.”

I laugh at that. “Pretty sure you corrupted her, too.”

His eyes spark. “Actually, she was the corrupting influence. She might seem tame, kid, but put a few drinks in her and crank up the music and—”

“Nope!” I shout, slamming my hands over my ears. “Don’t want to hear this. Not another word.”

He and Daltrey both laugh. Dad attempts to pull my hands free, and I duck back, bobbing and weaving to stay away. We’re about three seconds from a full-on wrestling match in Daltrey’s kitchen—wouldn’t be the first time—when Reed sticks his head through the doorway to the basement.

He doesn’t even blink at my dad’s attempts to get me into a headlock. “Kid. I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”

Dad finally releases me, smirking. “Reed is in a bad mood.”

“So it’s a normal Monday afternoon, huh?”

Reed scowls. “Very funny. Now get your asses down here.”

Dad gives me a resigned look and the three of us follow the oldest Ransome brother down into the basement. Uncle Daltrey’s place isn’t quite as swanky as my parent’s—my dad is a major show off—but it’s still damn impressive. The basement consists of an in-law’s suite, a game room, and a comfortable living space, where I find Lennon, Levi, and my brother Will lounging around on the couches.

“Hey man.” Will stands as I approach, catching me in a back-slap bro hug. “Doctor go all right?”

“Everything’s going as scheduled.”

He doesn’t press me, even though I can tell he wants to. Sometimes my little brother is as bad as Dad.

“So, what’s all this?” I ask, gesturing around at the guys. “You need someone else to complain to about the great Ransome kid rebellion? Your wives sick of hearing you bitch?”

“We’re discussing options,” Reed growls.