Page 113 of The Fall Classic

Handing her my fears won’t help anything; it will multiply them, instead.

I like her too much to dump this on her. Or should it be that I like her enough to include her in my downs as well as my ups?

I start massaging my forehead, and my right arm twinges at the movement, making me grumble shake my arm out.

The game’s still going, and I should be out there with Lucas and the guys, not texting my almost girlfriend.

I’ll figure out what to tell Georgie tonight—probably around 3 AM, when I definitely won’t be sleeping.

***

I lie in the MRI machine before the city’s even fully awake and run through Dr. Chang’s breathing exercise: in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four.

This is nothing like the sensory deprivation tank.

I’m aware of every part of my body, can feel where my shoulder blades meet the hard plastic of the table as it slides into the tunnel, can hear the whirring and clunking of the magnets so loud it feels like my heart’s going to fall out of my chest with every clang. The breathing helps take the edge off, but each clunk of the machine bumps me out of my calm.

If this injury is serious, what will that look like? A year off? Surgery? Coming back different, if I come back at all?

Somewhere in the middle of this absurd spiral is a smaller, even dumber thought: How do I tell Georgie? I don’t want to tell her over the phone. I want to see her face. Which doesn’t make any sense, because either way she’s going to hear the same words, but it matters to me anyway. I hate the idea of dropping bad news on her doorstep and then leaving.

Like her dad did.

So maybe not that dumb after all.

The orthopedist is back quickly with the results, thankfully.

“Great news,” he says, showing me the scans as if I have any idea what they mean. “The image is consistent with a low-grade strain in the extensor digitorum, and it matches what you described during the exam. Ligament’s clean. No tear, no fraying, nothing on the images that worries anybody.”

The team doctor claps his hands. “What are we looking at for rehab?”

“I think you’re safe to put him on the fifteen-day injured list,” the orthopedist says. “First week is complete rest from throwing. After that, assuming he’s pain-free, start a progressive return-to-throw program,” and the two start talking about me like I’m not here, which is fine, because all I can think is …

Fifteen days.

“Where will I rehab?” I interrupt, looking from doctor to doctor to Joe.

“Anywhere.” Joe shrugs. “Mullet Ridge probably makes most sense. The staff already knows you.”

“Great. When do I leave?”

Joe gives me an assessing look. “Are you excited to leave or excited to come back?”

“I just want to get it started. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I’m back on the mound,” I say, my knee bouncing under the table hard enough that Joe glances down at it. “That is, assuming the roster spot⁠—”

“Isn’t going anywhere. Stay out of your head, Fischer. You’re on this team through the playoffs. This doesn’t change anything.”

“Thanks, Joe,” I say.

“You meet with Marcus this afternoon to look at video so you can find out what happened and never do it again, all right? That’ll be all the thanks I need.”

***

Watching tape with Marcus, I’m anxious the whole time. Georgie must know something’s going on, because there are already rumors flying on Bleacher Report and ESPN, and she sent me a text this morning asking if I’m okay.

I told her I was mostly fine and that I’m still waiting for more info.

It’s wild that this could make sports news at all. It’s more a testament to how badly people want to see the Firebirds win (or choke) than it is about me.