Chương 13
Daniel threw it back.
The fire pit remained cold.
Two weeks later, the call came from Ethan’s coach.
Daniel was upstairs packing when he heard Richard shout from the living room.
He ran downstairs.
Ethan stood by the couch with his phone in his hand.
His face was white.
“What happened?”
Ethan looked at him.
“Spring scrimmage.”
Daniel’s stomach tightened.
“You got hurt?”
“My knee.”
Richard was already grabbing his keys.
Elaine came from the kitchen.
“Which one?”
“Right.”
The same one.
At the orthopedic clinic, the waiting room television played a home renovation show with captions on.
Ethan sat with his leg extended.
Richard paced.
Elaine filled out forms.
Daniel watched Ethan pick repeatedly at the edge of his phone case.
The MRI came the next morning.
The orthopedic surgeon did not use the phrase career-ending.
He used specific words.
ACL rupture.
Meniscus tear.
Surgery.
Rehabilitation.
Nine to twelve months before unrestricted competitive sport, depending on recovery.
The distinction did not matter to Ethan in the moment.
He stared at the anatomy model on the doctor’s desk.
Richard asked questions too quickly.
“Full recovery?”
“Likely?”
“Can he play next year?”
“What about camps?”
The surgeon held up a hand.
“One step at a time.”
Ethan looked at Daniel.
Daniel saw fear there.
Not pain.
Not disappointment.
Fear.
The same fear Daniel had carried when smoke rose from the fire pit and adults stood between him and something he had built.
On the drive home, Richard began talking about redshirting, delayed enrollment, contacting coaches, medical reports, options.
Ethan said nothing.
After five minutes, Daniel leaned forward from the back seat.
“Dad.”
Richard kept talking.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
Richard looked at him in the mirror.
“We need a plan.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
Daniel looked at Ethan.
His brother was staring out the passenger window.
“We need to let him be hurt first.”
Richard opened his mouth, then closed it.
The car went quiet except for the turn signal clicking as they waited at a red light.
Ethan kept looking out the window.
When the light changed, Richard drove.
That night, nobody discussed football.
Elaine made grilled cheese because Ethan said he was not hungry and then ate two sandwiches anyway.
Daniel carried ice upstairs and found his brother sitting on the edge of the bed with the brace locked straight.
“You need help?”
“No.”
Daniel set the ice pack down.
Ethan stared at it.
After a while, he said, “You can go.”
“I know.”
“I mean Annapolis.”
Daniel frowned.
“I’m still going.”
“I know.”
Ethan rubbed both hands over his face.
“I don’t want you staying around because of this.”
“That was never the plan.”
“Good.”
Daniel sat on the desk chair.
Ethan looked at the ceiling.
“I keep thinking about that scout.”
“What scout?”
“The guy at the fence.”
“The crossword guy?”
Ethan laughed once.
Then his face tightened.
“I had four catches that night.”
“I remember.”
“Dad remembers too.”
“That’s his favorite hobby.”
“He remembers everything when it comes to football.”
Daniel said nothing.
Ethan lowered his hands.
“What if that was it?”
Daniel knew what he meant.
The last game.
The last clean cut upfield.
The last time a stranger with a clipboard might have written his name.
He hated that every answer available sounded like something printed on a motivational poster.
So he said, “Then that was it.”
Ethan looked at him.
Daniel leaned forward.
“And that would suck.”
The word hung there.
Ethan swallowed.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
For the first time since the diagnosis, Ethan cried.
There was nothing cinematic about it.
He bent forward because keeping his leg straight made everything awkward, covered his face with both hands, and tried unsuccessfully to be quiet.
Daniel stayed.
He did not touch him until Ethan reached blindly toward the desk and knocked over a water bottle.
Then Daniel picked it up, moved it away, and put one hand on his brother’s shoulder.
The surgery was scheduled for early June.
Insurance covered most of it, but not enough for the Mercer budget to remain theoretical.
Deductibles appeared.
Physical therapy copays accumulated.
Elaine began putting unopened bills in one stack and opened ones in another, as if sorting them might make the numbers smaller.
Richard took extra weekend shifts when they became available.
He also made phone calls to coaches.
Ethan hated that.
“Stop telling people I’ll be back by spring.”
“I’m trying to keep doors open.”
“You don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“The surgeon said—”
“He said nine to twelve months.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means stop selling me.”
The argument ended with Ethan slamming his bedroom door.
Richard stood in the hallway afterward, staring at the wood.
Daniel came up the stairs.
“Don’t.”
Richard looked at him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Richard exhaled.
“I’m trying to help.”
“I know.”
“That seems to be everyone’s favorite accusation.”
Daniel leaned against the railing.
“He thinks you care more about football coming back than him getting better.”
Richard’s face tightened.
“That’s not true.”
“Then make sure he knows.”
Richard looked toward Ethan’s door.
He did not knock.
Not then.
The next morning, Daniel found a legal pad on the kitchen table.
Richard had written three columns.
Medical.
School.
Football.
The football column was crossed out.
Underneath, Richard had written ASK ETHAN FIRST.
Daniel looked at it for several seconds.
He did not mention it.
Surgery went well.
Recovery did not.
Not at first.
Ethan hated the pain medication because it made him nauseated.
He hated crutches.
He hated asking for help getting into the shower.
He hated physical therapy most of all.
His first therapist, a compact woman named Marisol Greene, had the irritating habit of refusing to be impressed by effort that did not produce the movement she wanted.
“Again,” she said.
“I did it.”
“You did something.”
“That’s rude.”
“Again.”
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Daniel drove him twice before leaving for Annapolis.
On the second trip, Ethan managed a degree of knee flexion that made Marisol nod.
