The Right Move: Chapter 25

Rolling my suitcase through our private terminal at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport, I offer a wave to the office staff, ready to get this overnight trip to Columbus under way.

“Hi, Margie.” I lean over the front desk. “I need to get to the plane.” I show her my badge as if she doesn’t know who I am.

“The pilots are out there already.” She clicks the button to unlock the door that leads to the tarmac. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you! Have a great week.”

Taking my suitcase and flight bag, I head outside.

“Oh, Indy!” I hear behind me. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was going to call you.”

Yvonne, the one-woman show that is our HR department, races out of her office to meet me.

“I have some good news,” she says quietly, pulling me away from anyone else who could hear. “Our insurance package was adjusted at the beginning of the year and now they cover—”

“Fertility treatments? Are you serious? How much of it is covered?”

“One-hundred percent.”

“Are you kidding me?”

With a smile tugging on her lips, she shakes her head to tell me no, she’s not kidding in the slightest. “Amazing news, right?”

I bend down and swoop her into a hug. I barely know this woman, only through passing hellos in the hallway, but she’s delivering the best news I’ve received in a long time.

“Oh my God,” I exhale in relief, pulling back to look her in the eye and make sure she’s not lying to me.

“I’m so glad I got to tell you in person.” She pops her shoulders. “That was fun. Have a great trip.”

I heave out a disbelieving laugh. “I will. Thank you!”

In a daze, I make it to the airplane to find our two pilots performing their pre-flight checks. I give them a silent wave, entirely stuck in my head about what just happened.

This can change my entire situation. I don’t have to pinch pennies. I could offer Ryan some rent money.

I could move out.

The somber realization stops me in my tracks.

I hate the idea of leaving that apartment. I knew there would come a time when I would have to move out and Ryan was adamant about me saving for my own place, ever since our first morning together. But the thought of waking up and not having breakfast with him, not finding a coffee cooling down for me in the fridge, and not tossing out the remnants of another bouquet he killed by trying his hardest to make it thrive feels like the worst-case scenario. Not being suffocated with his presence every second I’m at home seems…lonely.

And not in the way I’ve felt loneliness before by simply not having others around, but by being without the one person who makes me feel valued and worthy of the space I’m occupying. That my voice is worth hearing.

Should I tell him about the news? Will he want his apartment back if I do?

Sticking my purse in an overhead bin, I get to work organizing the plane for our trip. Sometime later, the other two girls join and the team staff begins to arrive. I find my way to the front of the plane, my station to work, welcoming the passengers on board.

“Welcome!” I say with a small wave as each person boards the airplane.

The players arrive last, filtering on one by one.

Excitedly, I see Rio’s dark curls bounce with him as he climbs the stairs, carrying his signature boombox at his side. “Hey, Ind,” he says much more solemnly than his typically goofy tone. “Have you talked to him?”

“Talked to who?”

“Ryan.”

Huh? How the hell does Rio know I need to talk to him? He has no idea what happened on the couch the other night.

“How’s he doing?”

“Good, I guess?”

Zanders comes barreling up the stairs behind him as Rio hangs in the front galley with me.

“Ind, I’ve been calling you,” he breathes heavily, as if he sprinted from his car to the airplane.

“My phone is in my purse.” I grab it out, finding countless calls and texts from both Stevie and Zanders. “What’s wrong?”

In that moment, Rio realizes how lost I am about our conversation. He looks to Zanders to fill me in.

“It’s Ryan. He got hurt in his game.”

Time stills as I repeat his words over and over again until they sink in.

“How hurt?”

“He’s at the hospital now. Stevie’s with him. He’s getting an MRI on his knee. They’re worried he tore his ACL.”

No. No, that’s impossible. Ryan is steady. Constant. Unbreakable.

I don’t know enough about sports injuries to understand the severity of what Zanders is trying to tell me, but with his hazel eyes pleading unspoken words, it’s clear that this moment is critical enough that I shouldn’t be on this airplane.

“I should go, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. You should go.”

With shaky hands, I gather my things, looking around the front galley, and completely lost.

“I um…” What am supposed to be doing right now? I’ve never left a flight before. I stick my head into the cockpit, speaking to the pilots. “I uh…I have to go. I need the standby flight attendant to cover me for this trip.”

The captain turns back over his shoulder to look at me. “Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not. I mean, it will be. Yes.” How the hell am I supposed to explain Ryan’s and my complicated situation? My roommate is hurt? My fake boyfriend is injured? The guy who I’m very much falling for is in the hospital right now and I need to see him?

Composing myself, I try again. “It’s kind of a family emergency.” I don’t know how true the words are, but they feel right coming off my tongue.

“I’ll call dispatch and have them swap the crew.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. This is why we have a standby flight attendant on call. Go take care of yourself.”

Turning back to the rest of the full airplane, I call one of the other girls up to the front and put her in charge, debriefing her with all the information she might need for the trip.

Zanders carries my bag down the steps of the aircraft for me. “It might be hard to get inside the hospital. I’m sure there’s a media frenzy outside. Call Stevie when you get there. She’ll get you in.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s okay. She’s worried about him, of course, but with the way Ryan got hit, he probably should’ve landed on his head and not his feet. So, all things considered, she’s all right.”

He hands off my suitcase, gives me a hug, and returns to the plane, but before he’s too far away, he turns back.

“Indy, I don’t want to freak you out, but if it’s torn, he’s done for the season, and more than anyone I know, Ryan believes this game is all he has. Take care of him, okay?”

I nod in agreement. It’s what I’m best at.

Zanders was right. The hospital is a zoo of reporters camping out front, hoping to be the first to hear the prognosis for superstar Ryan Shay. As if the Devils organization won’t be the first to release a statement. I can guarantee the team doctor is inside right now.

As I wait for Stevie to text me back and tell me where to go, I sit in my car parked out front. Pulling out my phone, I search his name.

Endless articles litter my screen with speculation of his injury, including countless video replays of the event. Bracing myself, I pull one up and press play.

It isn’t until the third attempt to watch that I’m able to make it all the way through without turning away. It’s hard not to avert my eyes when I see the player in gray charge right below him just as his fingers leave the rim.

Zanders is right. Ryan should’ve landed on his head, but somehow, thanks to his athletic ability, he was almost able to find his feet again. I want to feel relief for that, but it’s almost impossible when I see him writhing on the ground in pain.

He’s strength personified, and I hate seeing him in a moment of weakness.

As the team doctor reaches him on the screen, a text from Stevie comes through with directions to a private entrance. As stealthily as I can, I find the secret door and wait for her to meet me on the other side.

She cracks it open, allowing just enough space to slip through.

“How’s he doing?” is the first thing I ask.

She pops her shoulders. “It’s Ryan. He’s trying to be stoic about it, but he’s a shitty diagnosis away from losing it.” She halts in the hallway to hug me. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Yes, I did,” I say into her embrace.

She wears a knowing smile as she pulls away and we continue to his room.

“Are you feeling better?”

Right now, I’m feeling fairly sick. “I’m not sure how to answer that yet.”

The hallway is littered with countless staff members of the team. They’re still in their Devils polos, looking up things on their laptops, some on their phones in the mists of heated conversations, and a couple pacing the hallway.

Ron spots me while on the phone with a scowl. He offers me only a tight-line expression and a half-hearted wave.

It’s in this moment I realize the entire organization is riding on these MRI results. Riding on Ryan himself. A weaker man would fold under the pressure, but I can guarantee when I open the door to his room, I’ll find him calm, cool, and collected.

Stevie opens the door to prove I’m right. Ryan sits in a private hospital room with his knee propped and covered in ice, eyes closed, leaning back on the pillow behind him, headphones in, blocking any outside noise.

I can see the layer of old sweat drying to his forehead that he hasn’t been able to shower off yet, and his freckled cheeks are still a bit tinted from exertion. Besides that, you’d have no idea he’s just experienced something potentially season-ending.

“Ryan.” Stevie shakes his arm, gaining his attention as he takes out his headphones.

He opens his eyes to look at her, blank and rigid, not showing any sign of emotion until she moves out of the way so he can see me.

That emotionless expression instantly shifts when Ryan furrows his brows as deeply as possible, then bites his lower lip in an attempt to hide the tiny tremble that passed through it.

“I’ll um…” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the hall.”

As soon as Stevie closes the door behind her, Ryan drinks me in with his eyes, lingering on my work uniform.

“What are you doing here?”

“Zanders told me what happened.”

“But why are you here?”

His blue-green eyes are begging, pleading for me to give him the right answer. Because besides his sister, not a single soul in that hallway is here for him. They’re here to check on their asset, not him as a person.

As soon as I open my mouth to answer, the door opens and a man wearing a white coat sneaks inside, followed by Stevie and who’d I assume to be the team doctor. They pinch their way through the door, quickly leaving the chaos in the hall behind them.

Stevie rounds Ryan’s bed on the opposite side of me as the doctor puts his MRI images on the screen which lights up from behind. We all stare at the pictures as if we have any idea what we’re looking for. Even as I squint, I can’t make out anything from the black and white images.

“Clearly, this is your knee…”

The doctor begins his spiel, but I accidentally tune him out when I feel Ryan’s hand reach for mine that’s dangling next to his bed. Looking back, I watch him thread our fingers together all while keeping his attention focused on his doctor.

I give him a slight squeeze of encouragement before concentrating once again.

“As you can see here”—he points to a specific part of the image—“the anterior cruciate ligament has been stretched, but there are no visible tears.”

Ryan exhales a deep sigh of relief, laying his head back on the bed and closing his eyes.

“It’s a grade one, but you’re very lucky. If your legs weren’t so strong, we’d be looking at a complete tear, surgery, season-ending injury. You need to be careful on it.”

Ryan quickly nods in agreement before the team doctor takes over.

“We’re looking at three to four weeks off the court if you’re taking proper care. We’ll be doing physical therapy every day. I’ll set you up on a treatment plan, so you don’t have to think about anything other than getting back on the court.”

I look down at Ryan with bright eyes. This is good news, but he doesn’t seem to be taking it that way. His severe and stoic expression is back.

“A month?”

“A month,” his doctor confirms.

A heavy silence lingers in the room.

Ryan unlaces his hand with mine. “Can I go home now?”

The room shares nervous glances before Stevie cuts in. “Your agent is working on making sure there’s a safe way to get into your building. Media is everywhere, including the apartment.”

He shakes his head in annoyance. “Of course, it fucking is.”

“Ron is going into a press conference to make a statement. Once the word is out, the chaos will die down,” the team doctor says, handing Stevie a note explaining tonight’s at-home treatment. “Let’s stay here for a few hours and once the coast is clear, you can head home.”

I’ve never seen more people crowded outside of a building as I did when I got home from the hospital. Even poor Dave was being bombarded with questions about Ryan’s injury when he was only manning the door, trying to do his job.

I watched Ron’s press conference on the television while I changed out of my work uniform and unpacked. There seems to be an equal sigh of relief from fans as well as speculation of what this will mean for the team’s playoff prospects with their star out for an entire month.

I don’t really understand how it all works. All I know is the expression Ryan wore when he asked us all to leave the room so he could be alone, was not one of reprieve. It was one of disappointment and frustration.

I’ve tried to look up ACL sprains online to know what to expect as far as recovery, but there’s not much on the matter when it comes to a professional athlete, especially one as in shape as Ryan. Through my minimal research I’ve learned he’s really fucking lucky it wasn’t worse.

A few hours after I got back, the crowd outside our building was cleared and Stevie got the okay to bring her brother home.

What I didn’t expect was for him to barrel in the front door on crutches.

“Hi.” My stare lingers on his wrapped knee.

“Hey,” he exhales, unable to look at me, hobbling to his room. “I’m going to bed.”

Stevie and I share a knowing look. In true Ryan fashion he wants to be alone when the last thing he needs is to mentally beat himself up in silence.

“Actually,” I interrupt him. “I set up the couch for you.” I gesture towards it. A pillow is fluffed on the ottoman to prop his leg, and his latest read is sitting on the armrest.

He eyes me. “I just want to be alone.”

“And I don’t.” I motion towards the couch once again. “Shall we?”

Reluctantly while rolling his eyes, Ryan hobbles over to the couch and plops down on the spot I made for him, lifting his foot onto the pillow with caution.

“Wonderful.” I clap my hands together.

Stevie silently giggles from the doorway before setting the note from the team doctor on the kitchen island. “I’ll leave this with you, Ind. I’m going to go check on Rosie, but I’ll be back later once Ryan’s meds are filled.” She closes the door behind her while throwing out, “Love you, Ry!” over her shoulder.

Checking over my assignment for the night, I grab an ice pack from the freezer and hesitantly unwrap Ryan’s knee to find it looking more like a balloon than a body part.

“I know,” Ryan groans. “It’s fucking horrible.”

Securing the ice pack over his injury, I take a seat on the couch next to him. “It could be a lot worse. You got good news today. I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“Good news?” He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “You call this good news? I’m out for a month, Ind.”

“Well, you could’ve been out for the season,” I shoot right back. “Or worse, you could’ve landed on your head, and I don’t even want to think about what those consequences would’ve looked like.”

He shakes his head, looking away from me. “You don’t get it.”

I turn his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Then explain it to me.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling through his nose. “I was one wrong move from an ACL tear. That’s a whole year of recovery, and you know what happens to most guys who try to come back from that? They snap their Achilles tendon the next season because their leg strength is shit. Now we’re looking at a two-year recovery. By then, I’m almost thirty. There’s no way in hell I’d ever be able to make it back to the level I’m at now. My career would be over.”

“Okay? But none of that happened.”

“But it could’ve. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “My career could’ve been over, and basketball is all I have. That’s it. It’s my entire life.”

I attempt to hide the hurtful sting his words cause.

“I’m out for a month. That might sound like nothing to you, but a month in my world may as well be the rest of the season. I’m the reason we’re on a playoff track. I miss a whole month’s worth of games? We’re fucked. We may as well call it now.”

“Well, that sounds awfully conceited for a man I’ve only known as humble.”

“It’s not being conceited, Indy. It’s knowing the facts. This entire team, this entire organization is relying on me, and I just failed everyone.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “Every fucking news outlet has my face plastered on it, has that fucking play on repeat.”

I stand from the couch, ready to spend the rest of my night alone in my room.

“Where are you going?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t really want to listen to this. Yes, that sucks, Ryan, but the way I look at it, you’re lucky. Sorry if I don’t understand all the basketball talk, but as my…” I wave my hand, motioning towards him. “Whatever you are, I’m just happy your brain is intact.”

“My brain doesn’t do shit for me in this game. My body does.”

Other than that statement being entirely absurd, he’s wrong. I don’t know much about the sport but from what I’ve seen, he’s always the smartest guy on the court. He anticipates every play, every move. He sees it all before it happens. His brain is the most special part of him as a player, and along the way, his body happened to catch up with that talent.

I slip past the couch, but he grabs my wrist to stop me.

“I’m sorry. I…I don’t know how to go a month without this game.”

He pulls me down towards his lap, and I take a seat across it. His hands drape over me, holding me tight as if he can’t stand the thought of me trying to leave the room again.

“Why’d you come to the hospital?” he asks softly.

“Because you were hurt.”

“Was it because Ron was there, and it would look suspicious if you weren’t?”

I jolt back slightly. “Is that what you think?”

He shrugs, looking away from me.

“I was there to see you. Believe it or not, I don’t give a shit about your boss, and I couldn’t care less who you are to anyone else. To me, you’re…well, I don’t know what you are, but you’re…important. You as a person, not the player, are important to me.”

I run my palm down the side of his face soothingly, but once again he can’t make eye contact as he fully turns towards the kitchen.

Shifting a bit, I catch his eye. They’re covered in a glossy film, making the color even more vibrant.

I’ve never seen Ryan cry besides a few tears over Stevie’s happiness. I’ve seen him reluctantly show other emotions—hurt, jealousy, concern, joy, playfulness. But I’ve never seen sadness.

He swallows down the tears. “I think you should catch a flight and meet up with the hockey team on the road. Stevie can take care of me.”

“No.”

“Indy, please,” he begs, refusing to make eye contact. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

I gently grasp his chin, making him meet my eyes. Tears well at the base of his lashes, but they don’t drop.

“Like what?” I press. “Human?”

“I’m not allowed to be human.”

Those tears fall, but I quickly wipe them away with my thumbs before he freaks himself out too much when he feels them on his cheeks.

“I’m not allowed to mess up. I’m not allowed to step out of line. I’m not allowed to get injured and take a month off. I’m not allowed to turn it all back on. The amount of pressure on me,”—he sucks in a sharp, shaky breath—“feels suffocating. I feel suffocated.”

His chest shakes as he tries to breathe without full-on crying. I’ve never imagined I would see him in this state, and I feel both honored and terrified to fuck it up and make him crawl right back into his emotionless shell.

“Turn what back on, Ry?”

“All of it. Wanting things I know I can’t have. Feeling things I know won’t be reciprocated. Wanting a future that has nothing to do with basketball.” Tears continue to fall from the corners of his eyes. “That’s all I have in this life, and it has to be enough for me.”

What is he talking about?

“Ryan,” I coo, running my thumbs over his freckled cheeks. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

Looking at me with intentional eye contact, he takes a deep breath before angling his head and kissing my palm.

“Can I explain it to you?”