Chest heaving with labored breaths, I roll over to face him, to kiss his gorgeous mouth. I can’t help staring at him and wondering how I managed to get this perfect man in my bed.
Jude's head is on the pillow next to mine. He’s so handsome in the shadowy room. “What are you thinking about, Petal?”
I focus on drawing a line along his collarbone so I don’t have to make eye contact. “I can’t believe I allowed so many years to go by since I’ve been with a man like this…”
It’s clear to me now—when Kirk stopped touching me, I should have let him go then. My body is not in fact broken. And it’s perfectly capable of reaching an orgasm. Multiple orgasms, thank you very much.
I’ve caught myself wondering more than once…if it’s so easy for Jude to do this to me, how come Kirk never could?
Well, I’m starting to think that maybe the problem was never me. I am beautiful and I am healthy and I am strong. And after years of believing the contrary, it might take a while for me to fully absorb these truths but day by day they will sink in gradually.
I take a deep breath, and Jude’s cologne brings me back.
“I always knew you were too good for him,” my lover whispers, fingertips playing across my skin.
I freeze, caught off guard when Jude mentions my ex.
I hate the smallness in my tone when I admit, “I always thought you wanted us to break up.”
Jude gently strokes my cheek. “I did…” he confesses. “But only because he didn't deserve you.
34
Jude
The thin paper crinkles beneath me when I shift my weight on the exam table. I had been putting off getting that second opinion, afraid of what I might hear. What if this other doctor doesn’t agree with the first? I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of letdown.
Originally, I’d just planned to wait and drive back to Iowa to see my physician there at the end of the month. That would have given me another few weeks of ignorant bliss.
But Iris convinced me that I need to face this head-on. Otherwise, I’m just delaying the inevitable. By knowing one way or another, at least I can then begin preparing myself for the outcome.
Her logic makes sense. And when she offered to come along to the appointment with me, that sealed the deal.
So, here we are, sitting in the office of a renowned orthopedic surgeon in the city. We made the two-hour trip super early this morning, after a call from the doctor’s receptionist, telling me they had an unexpected opening.
The man has reviewed my records and taken his own scans for good measure. Right now, Dr. Woodbridge is nodding thoughtfully and examining the x-rays he has clipped to his light board.
He asks me to fully extend my injured leg and then bend it as far as I’m comfortably able to. He looks impressed. “Your anterior cruciate ligament is healing on pace. Seems like you’re following your physiotherapy programs to the tee,” he comments.
“To the tee, doc. I’ve even added a few extra exercises, all approved by my therapist, of course.” I flash Iris a wink where she’s sitting in one of the guest chairs by the door. She grips the arm rests of her chair, her smile restrained with wary anticipation.
The doctor gives me warning gaze. “Good. Because, even if you’re feeling great, it’s imperative that you give the new ligament time to heal, so you don’t rip the graft. The next four months or so will be key for restoring your knee function to your pre-injury state.” He takes a breath. “And once you hit that nine-month-mark, I think there’s a good chance you could play ball again.”
When I look at Iris, she’s biting on her lip to rein in her smile. But it’s there. I see it in her swollen cheeks and her glittering eyes. And her exhilaration only heightens my own excitement.
The doctor’s words replay in my head.
I’m going to play ball again I’m going to play ball again I’m going to play ball again.
Dr. Woodbridge flips on the bright overhead lights and begins scribbling on his prescription pad. “You should consider investing in one of these braces.” He hands me a prescription. “With the dislocation, there will always be a risk of a repeat, but this type of brace will help. And it’s light and flexible enough to play in.”
I swallow, my hand nearly trembling as I take the paper from him because what he’s saying is almost too good to be true. “So…you’re telling me I could play next season?”
The stern-looking man gives me a warning look. “Let me just be clear—there are no guarantees with this type of injury. However, with continued, dedicated rehabilitation and physiotherapy, you should be able to play football again.”
My heart is booming so hard inside my chest, the receptionist can probably hear it all the way from the waiting room. The doctor doesn’t seem to realize how much his prognosis means to me. With one single sentence the man set all my blurry hopes and dreams back into sharp focus. “I’m tempted to hug you right now,” I warn him.
He holds up a hand. “Spare me the unwanted physical contact, would you?” There’s laughter in his voice.
I shake his hand with a hearty pump instead. “Thanks, Doc. Seriously, thank you. You have no idea what this means. You have no idea.”
He claps me hard on the shoulder. “You just keep doing what you’re doing, son. And you can thank me by getting the Paragons to the playoffs next season.” With that, he’s headed to the door.
I swing my legs over the edge of the exam table and Iris is there, waiting for me with watery eyes and open arms. “I’m so happy for you, Jude.”
I pull her to me, bury my face in her hair. The well of emotions I’m feeling threatens to pour
