Page 47 of The Groupie

He looks around at Suzie and Sheila, and when his eyes meet Zak’s, he scowls.

“I have as much right to be here as he does. Who the hell are you?” He shoves his hands on his hips and glares at Zak.

Zak glares back, and when it’s about to get really awkward, Sheila hands me a bunch of flowers. “This is from the group.” She gives me a hug, and it makes me almost cry with relief at her intervention. I hate drama.

“Who is this?” Chuck turns to me, gesturing toward Sheila.

“She’s with me,” Zak says.

Chuck frowns with confusion. Suzie nearly laughs.

“Really?” Sheila says. “News to me.” She pats Zack’s chest. “We’re among friends here, big guy.” She turns to me. “Aren’t we?”

I nod. “Zak is with me, and I’m with Sheila and her group—”

“Groupies for the Boston Brawlers, to be exact,” Sheila says. “President of their naughtiest fan club.”

Zak snorts a laugh, and a sizzle of jealousy-inspired desire kicks through my system like a lightning strike. I wonder if my hair is standing on end.

“None of this makes sense,” Chuck says. “All I know is you’re going to have to work the ankle to get back on the slopes in less than two weeks, or I can’t save your spot on the Olympic team.”

All the air is sucked out of the room by the collective sharp inhales of everyone in the room except the asshole who dropped the bomb.

“She’ll be back,” Zak says, shocking me into a coughing fit.

No one calls him on his preposterous prediction, not even me.

I was about to make the same crazy claim myself. I only hope he has something besides my sheer brash willfulness to back up his belief.

A man in a white lab coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck comes through the office door, and we all turn to stare at him.

“Rylee Flynn, you’re up. Doctor Yancey will take a look at your ankle, and then we’ll do an ultrasound. Follow me.”

I’m amazed that I follow the guy’s instructions instead of running the other way like every instinct in me screams to do.

He checks out the ankle and doesn’t say much, and I don’t prompt him. All he says is that the ultrasound will confirm the course of treatment and brings out the ultrasound machine from the corner, rubs gel on my ankle, and proceeds. It’s my first ultrasound, and I watch intently as I lie on the bed. He moves the cold do-hickey around on my ankle and watches the black-and-white screen like he’s seeing something.

Whatever it is eludes me, and my heart speeds up. It’s the damn outcome that has me so scared I’m thinking about praying—something I haven’t done since my parents died in that crash.

Closing my eyes, in my mind, I reach across the abyss between alive and dead and ask my parents to send me whatever positive energy, Karma, grace, prayers, or whatever they can—I’m trying to cover all possible bases—because I need a break here, some good luck to bail me out, even though it was my own stupid, foolish bravado that got me into trouble.

I promise I’ll be more careful in the future. I won’t take stupid unnecessary risks, no matter how enticing they seem. As long as I can get out of this and keep my spot on the Olympic team. As long as I can compete. I know I can win a medal because I need to. I need the promotional money for Mamma.

After he’s finished, he tells me to dress and meet him in his office. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I hope everyone out in the waiting room, except maybe Suzie, will have left to do whatever better things they have to do. The assistant knocks on my door as I finish tying my boots, and he leads me to an office.

Dr. Yancy sits behind a desk staring at a computer and looks up when I limp inside.

“Have a seat. You need to keep off your feet as much as possible. When you walk, use crutches for the next five days.” He opens his drawer, pulls out a compression brace, and hands it to me. “Wear this for the next ten to fourteen days.” He smiles. “I would also wear it when you go back to your regular activity.”

I take off my boot and put the compression brace on my ankle. My heart races, and I clear my throat as if that will dredge up some courage. But I remember where I came from and what I’ve been through and speak up, “How long am I going to be out of commission?”

He turns away from his computer, shuts it off, then folds his hands on the desk and gives me another smile. “The ultrasound results confirm my exam that you have a severe, grade-two sprain, meaning that the ligament is more than fifty percent torn but not completely torn. If you stress it before it’s healed, it will not only be unstable and therefore unsafe, but the injury could worsen, and you could have a chronically unstable ankle.”

“How long?”

“If you take good care of it with ice baths, wear the compression brace, and stay off it completely, I’d say you could be ready in fourteen to eighteen days.”

A breath whooshes from my lungs, and my heart calms. I might be able to work with that by the skin of my teeth, if Chuck will cover for me.

“Thanks, doc.”

“And when you do go back to the half pipe, use this gel to manage the pain.” He hands me a tube of Voltaren gel.