Brutal Obsession: Chapter 26

Willow gets me to Dr. Michaels’ office five minutes before my appointment time. Mia Germain rises from her seat in the waiting room and strides toward me. She looks the same, if not a tiny bit older. Time marches on for all of us, after all.

I hold my breath when she gets closer, convinced she’s going to make a comment on my physique.

Instead, she just spreads her arms and wraps me in a giant hug.

Her dark hair is streaked through with random strands of silver, giving it a tinsel appearance. It’s twisted into a bun on top of her head. Her oversized sweater makes her seem smaller.

“I’m so glad you made it,” she says, withdrawing.

I grin. “Me, too. This is my best friend, Willow Reed.”

“My parents are hippies,” she says, trying to explain away her name as she shakes Mia’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Mia chuckles. “I wasn’t going to comment. I’ve known some extraordinarily talented young girls and boys who have the most eccentric names.”

Willow cracks a smile. “I’d have fit right in, then. Darn.”

“I can give Violet a ride home,” Mia says to Willow. “These appointments can take some time.”

My best friend nods. “Sounds good. See you back at the hotel.”

I follow Mia down a hall and into an appointment room. Dr. Michaels comes in a few minutes later, introducing himself with the sort of charm I expect from Greyson. The-world-is-my-oyster type.

Oddly enough, it puts me at ease.

If someone has to be the smartest in the room, I’d prefer it be the doctor with my career in his hands.

He leads Mia and I back into his office. On the wall behind him are two x-rays. He flicks the light box they’re clipped to, then takes a seat. He motions for both of us to sit, too, at the front of his desk.

“You got these x-rays done last week, correct?”

I nod. I had slipped away to have them done midweek. It feels like a lifetime ago. They sent them to Dr. Michaels.

“The good news is, the fractures healed well. The bones realigned perfectly, and the surgeon used minimal hardware.” He gestures to a spot halfway up my leg. “When we talk about shattered bones, it usually means a comminuted fracture—that means it’s broken into several pieces and needs to be reset. I’m not seeing evidence of that here—or you’ve healed spectacularly well.”

“Good news,” I echo. First time I’ve heard those words…

Mia squeezes my hand. “So, what’s next?”

“We’re going to test mobility, see where the pain might be, and strength tests. It’s going to be a long appointment, Violet, and it will get uncomfortable at times.” His expression turns sympathetic. “We see many dancers come through our clinic after injuries. Before we begin, are you sure you want this?”

Am I sure? I’ve never felt so sure in my life. “I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for months.”

He smiles. “All right. Let’s begin.”

The rest of the appointment is a blur. He has me change into athletic shorts and hop up onto a table. He runs his hands down either side of my leg, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He spends a lot of time prodding it, feeling the bone through my muscles.

Then we move to a different room, where Mia guides me through warm-up exercises. She gradually increases the level of each skill. When I step out of the last one, the pain buckles my knee.

I hit the floor.

Dr. Michaels helps me up, bracing under my elbow. “What did you feel?”

I want to shrug it off—but I can’t keep collapsing after exercises if I want to go on stage. No one would cast me.

“I get a shooting pain occasionally,” I mumble.

“Occasionally?” Mia raises her eyebrows.

“Usually daily,” I amend.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“I thought it would go away. It will—”

“It’s most likely nerve damage,” Dr. Michaels says. “Muscular issues would have a more immediate pain and its own set of limitations.”

He helps me back down the hall to his office. After a few steps, I’m able to mask the lessening pain. It’s still sharp but getting better. Mia trails us, and I feel her gaze on my back. We sit again. I bounce my right leg. I’m not usually an anxious person. Dance was my outlet for stress for such a long time, I used it to get more confident. But now I’m slowly disintegrating into a wreck.

“Have you experienced this pain for a while?”

I bite my lip, unable to answer. The doctors thought nerve pain would be the culprit of me not returning to dance. I was just hoping he’d have a different theory.

“I want to get an MRI to look for things we may have missed. Stress fractures could also be causing the pain, and they’re best picked up with more intense imaging.” He shuffles papers, and it’s clear that our appointment is coming to an end. Which is good, because we’ve been here forever.

I could have stress fractures. Girls in the company would get them on occasion, especially before an audition. The added classes worked us all ragged, because we wanted to be the best. There was do or fail, with no middle ground.

Did running through the woods from Greyson make my pain worse?

Did my exercising do this?

Mia pats my knee. “This isn’t the outcome we wanted, but it’s okay, Violet.”

It’s so far from okay, it isn’t even funny.

“For now, my assistant will call for a prescription to help with the pain—”

“It doesn’t hurt,” I blurt out. “I might’ve moved it wrong, so today isn’t accurate—”

“Violet.” Dr. Michaels takes off his glasses. “I’m so sorry. But as of right now, dancing isn’t an option.”

That hope inside me? It grew and grew and grew, and now it pops . The pain is sharp, like being stabbed with a hot poker. Every beat of my heart seems painfully hard.

I stand. My leg doesn’t hurt like he says it should. Not really.

“I can dance,” I tell Mia. I grab her hands. “Please.”

“Violet,” she says softly.

Dr. Michaels clears his throat. “I’m going to recommend aquatic therapy. It’s been known to have great success with patients with nerve pain. Then we should see you to reassess.”

I swallow. Water therapy, basically. Swimming and whatever nonsense they’d have me do in a pool.

“Oh, and Violet,” he adds. “Please stop by the receptionist’s office on your way out. She’ll schedule your next appointment and get your insurance on file.”

Uh-oh. “Insurance?”

He gives me a measured look. “If you have it. Otherwise, we’ll bill you. Or your mother?”

Why the fuck didn’t I think about money? My mom is well-off, sure, but she’s not… pay-for-a-random-doctor-visit rich. And she’s definitely going to get the bill. I’m on her insurance for now. Until I can do my own thing.

Suddenly, I hate that I don’t have that figured out.

And there’s no way in hell I’m letting Mom find out about this. Any of it.

Which means… this isn’t happening. It can’t.

I nod and leave Mia and Dr. Michaels behind. I stop at the receptionist desk and tell her that I don’t have insurance, that she can bill me directly for the visit. She tuts, sympathetic, when she passes me the invoice.

“I’ll just need to take a day… I’ll pay it soon.” I swallow, my shame eating me alive. “I’ll call to schedule the MRI back in Crown Point.”

That’s a lie.

My finances haven’t been an issue because I have a fund my dad set up. He put money into it to pay for everything I could need to get me through college. Mom put some of the money from his life insurance into it, too. But with my junior year coming to an end, I can’t pay thousands of dollars—what I’m imagining this will cost without insurance—without a job to back it up.

I’ve always been sensible about money, and this feels largely out of my scope of knowledge.

I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe. The walls of his office press in close. My fingers go numb. I want more than anything to run away—so I do. I manage a quick apology and bolt out of the office.

I might be ruining my relationship with Mia. Not that it fucking matters anyway.

I burst through the doors and onto the sidewalk, my chest heaving. I brace my forearms on my thighs, head bowed, and focus on sucking in deep breaths. My lungs are in a vice. I rasp with every inhale, like my throat has actually seized up on me.

Minutes later, my chest loosens. I take deeper inhales, counting to five on each exhale. But that doesn’t negate the need to get out of here. I take two steps when the doors open behind me.

“Violet,” Mia calls. She slings her purse over her shoulder and catches up to me. “I told you I would give you a ride.”

I wrestle my emotions under control. Fuck , it’s really hard not to burst into tears. I mean, I felt like a crazy person two seconds ago, but sobbing my eyes out would make it worse. I think. Money and nerve pain and more tests. It’s all going down the drain.

Even this bill will set me back. Stupid for it to not even dawn on me that I’d pay for this myself.

I imagine my mother walking away from me, leaving bits and pieces in her wake. I’m the thing she keeps trying to leave behind, and something keeps picking me up and returning me to her. Only to be set down again.

It’s okay—I can take her hint. She doesn’t return my phone calls, she only calls or texts me when she absolutely has to. Like with Mia. And the newspaper article.

“Besides,” Mia adds, “walking would suck.”

I choke on my laugh. She’s got a point. She gestures to her car, and I slip into the passenger seat. She pulls away from the curb, and we’re well on our way before she glances over at me.

“You know I broke my ankle?”

I start. “What? When?”

“My prima ballerina years. I was nineteen and voracious. At a particularly brutal rehearsal—in which I was chasing my dreams and cast as principal—I took a bad leap. I landed wrong, and the thing snapped under my weight.” She goes quiet.

We’ve all heard horror stories of that happening, but I didn’t realize it had happened to her.

“I was out for a year.” She peeks at me. “I wanted it so badly. I went through three surgeries before my ankle was able to hold up. Now, I’m not advising that. I’m just saying, it might be a no for now—but because of something that could get better. Not because of the accident that broke your leg.”

I nod once and fix my gaze on the side window. Vermont is very pretty. There’s more snow covering the ground here, and most of the pine trees are lush, dark green. I can see why, of all the places, a specialist orthopedic surgeon chose to come here.

“It’ll be okay,” Mia says again. “You looked nervous about the insurance. Are you?”

“Mom and I aren’t in the best place right now.” I sigh. “If she finds out, then it’ll be a nightmare. And since I’m on her insurance…”

“You’re doing this yourself.”

“Yes.”

She nods, then glances at the folded paper in my grip. “I got you this appointment, and I didn’t realize your situation with your mother. Let me take care of this one. I can’t do the rest—I have limited funding for the ballet—but this? For you? No question.”

She holds out her hand for the bill.

I stare at her. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. I want you to dance again, Violet. I think it would be a damn shame if the world never saw you on a stage again. Think about telling your mother about the water therapy. Get the nerve pain under control. I’m sure some of it would be covered by her insurance.”

An ache fills my chest. So tight, I don’t know what to say for a long moment. But slowly, I extend the paper toward her. She takes it, reads the total, and nods to herself. She stashes it in her cupholder.

“Promise me one more thing.” She grins. “When you’re back on your feet, call me.”

I nod and climb out of the car in front of the hotel. I lean down once I’m out and meet her gaze. “Thank you for everything.”

She frowns. “This feels like a goodbye.”

“It is for the next six weeks. Maybe more. Who knows if I’ll be good enough by then. Maybe I’ll need another six, or eight, or twelve to get back in dancing shape.”

Bitter. I’m so fucking bitter, I taste it on my tongue like ash.

“We’ll get you there,” she says.

I close her door and turn away. The damn lump is back in my throat, cutting off my words, and the backs of my eyes burn. I make it into the hotel, get my key card after giving the receptionist my name, and trudge upstairs.

The game started fifteen minutes ago, which means I should be alone. Thankfully. I swipe the card and trudge inside. The room is nicer than I thought it would be. Two queen beds, the drapes pulled back to reveal a beautiful view of the ski mountain.

I text Willow to let her know I’m back and contemplating crashing.

I groan and turn right back around.

Five minutes later, I’m in the stadium. Luckily, Willow waits for me right on the other side of the booths, and she hands the guy my ticket. I smile at her as he allows me through.

“How was it?” she asks. “Did he tell you anything good?”

My smile wobbles. I don’t know whether to feel hopeful or defeated. Right now, the two emotions are warring in my head—and defeat is winning.

“Oh, no.” She stops us. “Do you need a hug? Or a distraction? Or—”

“Distraction,” I manage. “Definitely a distraction.”

She nods. “Okay, well, let’s go watch the Hawks kick some Knights’ ass, right?” She lets out a loud whoop, drawing some stares.

The Knights are red and white, and the attendees all wear those colors. We work our way around the outside of the stadium, passing kiosks selling popcorn, beer, ice cream.

“Wow,” I mutter. “We got the good view in our room, huh?”

She shakes her head. “This town is crazy for hockey.”

I don’t bother to acknowledge that Crown Point is, too. We just hide our crazy a little better.

We find our seats, and I catch Paris rotating back to count heads. I wiggle my fingers in her direction, and she scowls.

“She takes her job seriously, huh?”

Willow snickers. “The girls have been pushing back on her as dance captain, so she’s gotta get her kicks somewhere.”

“How is that anyway?”

“Dance?” She seems taken aback. We’ve been going by the policy of let’s just not talk about it . In the beginning, I wanted to know everything. The new routines, the new people. Even though I wasn’t in Crown Point, I felt like I had to keep being a part of it. And then, further into my recovery, I realized that things weren’t going my way.

Obviously, I have no problem continuing my friendship with half the girls on the team. When you’re in it, you eat and breathe and sleep dance team. They’re my circle of friends. And somehow, they’ve managed to make me feel like the same girl who showed up to practice with them every day without ever talking about it.

Maybe they conferred with Willow before I came back. My best friend is astute and a good judge of character—unless a guy is involved—so she probably would’ve been able to toss anyone negative out.

“There you are,” Amanda greets me. “You haven’t missed much. Just a lot of blustering.”

Six rows down, the hockey players whizz past our seats. I try to spot Greyson, but I don’t see him immediately. It takes a minute for me to orient myself with their royal-blue jerseys, striped with silver, versus the mostly white jerseys of the Knights, accented with red lettering. At home games, the Hawks wear their light-colored uniforms.

Miles is in the net. Steele and Jacob skate in front of him, coming out to defend against the Knights’ offensive line. One of their players has the puck, and he speeds toward our side. Jacob intercepts him, and the two collide. They both go down.

A whistle blows.

Immediately, the Knights player hops up. He seems steaming mad, his teeth gritted, and he shoves Jacob. Our defenseman slides backward, then narrows his eyes and rushes forward. Jacob grabs the Knight by the front of his jersey and yanks his helmet off—and uses it to smash the guy in the face.

I lean forward in my seat. Chaos breaks out.

I catch a glimpse of the blue jersey with Devereux on the back rushing into the fray.

The refs blast their whistles and dive into the middle of the fight. After a few painstaking seconds, the players are all separated. Jacob lost his helmet, too, and grins at the Knights with a bloody smile.

“Oh, shit,” Jess mumbles.

The referee waves his hand, sending everyone to their benches. He skates to the center of the rink to confer with the others, and finally announce that the Hawks will be penalized. A two-minute power play for the Knights.

There are screams and chants from the crowd—except our section. Even I’m outraged enough to know that we didn’t start that fight. We’re just being penalized for finishing it.

Greyson skates by the glass, his gaze searching the crowd. I don’t know if he finds me, if he’s even looking for me, before he’s back at the center line.

Knox and a Knight square off. Jacob is noticeably absent, stuck in the penalty box for the duration of the power play—or until the Knights score.

I suck my lower lip between my teeth. I suck at watching hockey, mainly because the rules are foggy. It’s exciting, sure, and I like actively watching it. But understanding it is the main struggle.

I’m stuck wondering if Greyson was involved. Did he land a hit? Did he get hit?

The ref drops the puck and skates out of the way as the Knight center takes control. His team quickly sweeps forward, taking advantage of the shortened defense. Steele covers the best he can, shooting it out of range before another Knight wing brings it back.

Within a minute, they score.

The crowd erupts.

The white-and-red players do a mini victory lap, clapping each other on the backs and smiling broadly behind their masks. Greyson skates to the bench and takes a seat. I watch him across the rink as he picks up a water bottle and sends a stream of liquid into his open mouth.

He swallows, his head tilted back, then refocuses on the game.

They need to win. Jess explained on the bus, before Greyson dragged me away like a Neanderthal, that they had to win this one and their last game of the season if they want to advance.

It’s stressful.

My phone vibrates, and I yank it out of my pocket.

Egomaniac.

Damn him for noticing—and for bringing up memories I’m trying to leave behind right now.

His little typing bubble pops up, then disappears. Again. I watch it, ignoring the rest of the game. Hell, ignoring the rest of the world. Then it comes through.

I can feel his intrigue from here. I bite my lip. I know immediately what I want to ask for, but I hesitate for a split second. My fingers hover over the screen. Should I? Shouldn’t I? I waver, then go for it.

It’s a dare I shouldn’t make. I shouldn’t ask for his violence. But I look up and find him staring at me. Helmet off, hair a mess. It stands straight up, like he ran his fingers through it a few times. His expression is… wonder.

Or horror.

It’s hard to tell from this angle.

He didn’t expect this. And why would he? Why would he expect a level of bloodthirstiness from me? But I’m beginning to discover that I like the dark side of him. That it’s oddly attractive—but I want to see him pitted against someone else. I want to see how far he’ll go.

He leans over and says something to his coach, who waves him off.

I glance at the scoreboard, at the seconds ticking down to end the first period. The Knights are winning, one to zero. The buzzer sounds. The game stops.

I sit back. Will he take the challenge?

And the bigger question: will I give him my secrets if he does?