Steamroller

“You scared the fuck out of me.”

He squeezed my hand before his voice, a gravelly rasp, reached me. “You came.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

“Oh, but you came.” He shivered. “I knew you would.”

“You did not. I didn’t even know.”

The noise he made, contented and deep, made me smile. “I hoped.”

I wanted to kiss him; the need almost desperate.

“Your smell,” he rasped out quietly, under his breath. “I missed it.”

I smiled in spite of myself.

“Kiss me.”

I coughed softly, even though a doctor had come in and so everyone had turned to him. “Your family is here.”

“Don’t care, can’t feel anything unless you’re touching me.”

That comment again, from before. “When you’re better, you’ll tell me what that means.”

“Tell you now.” He took a breath. “Other people touch me, it’s like nothing. When you do it, it’s like an electric current on my skin, and it goes right to my heart and other places.”

“Nice.”

“You asked.” He smiled wickedly; the sarcasm had not been lost on him.

“Just lie there and try and look hurt while I listen to the doctor.”

“Okay. Just for a minute, and then you kiss me.”

“Agreed. Now shut up.”

Dr. Kline, a serious-looking man with vulpine features and a brusque manner, was the head of orthopedic surgery there in Phoenix. He explained how thrilled—it was the only time I saw any emotion from him—he had been to assist Dr. Behari in performing Carson’s surgery.

The facts, as outlined, were horrific.

His wrist was fractured, the radius and ulna, as well as his humerus. The breaks were all transverse fractures, and I knew that meant basically across the middle. He had a complete tear of the bicep tendon, as well as a full-thickness tear of his rotator cuff. Basically, his arm was a rubber band. They had performed surgery to reattach the tendon to the head of the humerus for the rotator cuff, as well as the bicep tendon. There were also titanium screws in his arm in six places.

“It was a mess,” Dr. Kline stated flatly.

When asked what the prognosis was, Kline said the word “Long.” Between the broken bones, the torn muscles, the rehabilitation, and the physical therapy… it was going to be an extended, as well as excruciatingly painful, road to recovery.

“You should not expect him to play football ever again,” Kline informed the family. “A useful arm, a functioning limb at his point should be the only real goal and is the outcome we’re looking for.”

“My boy’s not a quitter,” Mr. Cress insisted. “He’ll heal fast and be right back out on the field to—”

“Mr. Cress,” Kline interrupted him sharply. “I appreciate your belief in your son. It’s quite admirable. However, the reality is—”

“He’ll play and—”

“Oh no.” Mrs. Cress shook her head, cutting off her husband. “No. No, never again. If he gets hit again, he might reinjure his arm and—”

“Honey, he needs to get—”

“No,” she said, and her tone left no room for argument. “It’s over. I spoke to the university and the football coach this morning. He’ll transfer to Davis College in Augusta to finish the spring semester, and he’ll graduate next year. I paid off the scholarship, so he’s all squared away with Everson. The tuition at Davis has already been paid, and his grades and credits are being transferred as we speak. He’s off the football team at Everson; that part is done. They know he won’t play again, and they need a new quarterback going forward. Being there, constantly reminded of what he was to the school, would not help at all with his rehab, so that’s why I moved him. Plus, he’ll be closer to us,” she finished softer, calmer, as though the explanation had soothed her.

“I disagree,” Mr. Cress argued, “Carson needs to be there to focus on his future and—”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Dr. Kline cut into their conversation, “I’ll leave you now. Dr. Behari will be in shortly and I’ll return tomorrow morning to give you an update.”

“But we have so many more—”

“Carson’s main surgeon will have all the answers for you,” Kline stated implacably, wanting out of the room, the finality there in his voice before he turned and left. Clearly, he was not going to have any more unproductive back-and-forth discussions with Carson’s father. If I had to guess, I would suspect that Dr. Kline had no time for people who second-guessed him or, more importantly, medical facts.

Mr. Cress stared at the door that Kline had disappeared through. “I can’t believe he just left when we have so much to discuss about Carson’s future and what he needs to prepare for and focus on and—”

“The only thing Carson needs to focus on is school and getting that arm working so he can write his name again,” Mrs. Cress informed her husband, her tone resolute. “That’s all there is in his future.”