to take it, I’m not going to stand in your way.”
It was everything Phoebe had wanted to hear. Tacit permission to disobey her doctor’s orders. But still, Phoebe hesitated before responding.
“Does Mel know?”
“I’ve decided not to tell her. Her performance in the last two games … it’s clear her head’s messed up. I’ve never seen her play so badly. The pressure of the championship, and then to throw Truman into the equation? I’m afraid she won’t be able to handle it.”
“I’m just worried that I might not be physically up to it.”
He glanced sideways at her. “That’s true. I mean, you aren’t at your best.” He licked his lips. “But … in my experience, a situation like this, when you have no choice but to play, helps you bridge that gap. And in this case, you’ve got all the reasons in the world to step up.”
He left it to her to decide.
Weird though, that Phoebe doesn’t remember expressly telling Coach, “Okay.” Or “I’m in.” Or even something cheesy like “Let’s fucking do this!” while holding up her hand for a high five that Phoebe knew he’d never give her, but that was the joke of it. She didn’t say anything then, or after practice, or the next morning.
It now occurs to Phoebe that there was no need for such a moment. The decision had, in fact, been made for her.
About halfway through the first quarter of the championship game, it became clear that Phoebe’s knee was still very much an issue. That’s the distinction between just walking around and playing to win. Two very, very different speeds.
Mel was surprised to see Phoebe struggling. She’d assumed Phoebe would be closer to 100 percent. Why else would Phoebe be playing?
That question weighed on them both. Still, Phoebe killed herself to create opportunities for Mel. And there were a few beautiful passes that broke through Mel’s overall gloom and lit her up again, her strong, beautiful, confident best friend. Phoebe imagined the Truman scout making notations, shooting some video.
“We’re so close to breaking through,” Mel kept saying after every missed opportunity. And Phoebe believed it for as long as she could. Eventually the pain won out over the adrenaline. She paused by the sideline.
“Coach, I don’t know if I can keep going.” If he heard her, she couldn’t tell. There was no reaction. “Coach?”
“I know what you’re capable of, Phoebe. And I know you’ll hate yourself forever if you step off the field. You’ll always wonder what if I hung in there a little longer. What if I just kept going?”
He meant keep going, of course. So Phoebe did.
Team first, always.
Everyone was counting on her. Everyone had been so glad she’d come back. She’d do anything for Mel. And Coach knew it.
She played until the final minute.
She may have walked herself up to the edge of that cliff, but it was definitely Coach who gently nudged her off.
Unfortunately, Phoebe disregarded the advice of her doctor and misled me that she’d been cleared to play, when in fact she had not.
Phoebe closes the laptop and carelessly pushes it over to the passenger seat.
The day after the championship game, Phoebe’s surgeon explained the extent of the damage visible on her MRI. Phoebe struggled to follow. Before her ACL sprain, she’d been blissfully unaware of her own anatomy, beyond that her body did exactly as she instructed it to.
“But how could it be torn? I played the whole game!”
“It happens more often than you think.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I want a second opinion.”
The surgeon tried a different, low-tech approach. “Here. You can diagnose yourself.” He had Phoebe extend her right leg. “Instead of feeling firm,” he explained, before pressing gently on the injured knee with his fingers, “it feels like mush.” Her knee reacted to his touch the exact disgusting way he’d described.
Had she torn it again tonight?
Phoebe unwraps her hastily bandaged knee. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to psych herself up. Her hands are quivering. Shaking.
She feels the terrible truth for herself.
Phoebe cries so hard it is difficult to breathe. Sobs. Smashes the steering wheel. The pain—both physical and emotional—that Phoebe’s trained herself to keep mute rises in volume, cranking to dangerous, deafening decibels.
Buddy barks in the back seat.
Phoebe had forgotten he was there.
A sinister thought appears from that dark place she seems stuck in. Let Buddy out on the side of the road. Someone would find him, return him, hopefully ask questions. Mel took the pictures, texted them to