A strong hand slapped his back. Grant turned his head to see Silas standing there with a frown on his face. “Get your head in the game.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
Silas’ eyes flicked to the box seats next to the home bench—the seats where Em sat. “I think I do. And listen, I get it. I’ve gotten distracted by a pretty girl in the stands, but there are a lot of reasons why you don’t want to go down that road.”
Grant didn’t ask Silas to elaborate. He knew the reasons he needed to keep his distance from Em. He’d been warned to keep away from Finn’s sister by Bastian, and to keep away from fans in general from Finn.
He was already mad at himself for missing the ball, and he didn’t want yet another lecture—not even from Silas, his mentor. It seemed like every guy on the team had an opinion about what Grant should and shouldn’t be doing. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was the rookie or if he had a sign on his back saying, “Please boss me around.”
Regardless, he was pissed. “Noted,” he said more gruffly than he intended before finding his spot on the field. The game was about to restart, and the ref had the ball in his hands at midfield.
When the whistle sounded, everyone started running around the field again. Grant was determined not to get distracted by Em or let his frustration with his teammates get in the way. He would play the best game he could, help the team win, and then he could think about everything else.
He followed the other players as they all moved upfield toward the other team’s goal. Vinny passed Grant the ball, and since he was paying attention this time, he got it. Grant started dribbling the ball down the field.
An opposing player came up beside him and started pushing against him. Grant tried to shield the ball but with the pressure from the other guy, he ended up in an awkward position. His foot landed wrong and his ankle rolled under him.
Sharp pain shot through his ankle followed by a tingling sensation. He fell to the ground and immediately turned on his side. Most of the sounds around him faded away as he curled in on himself. He vaguely heard someone yelling that they had a player down.
I’m that player. I’m injured.
Grant could barely think straight through the pain, but he still tried to recall if there was a popping sound when his ankle rolled. If there was, it would mean the ligament had torn completely. An injury like that would put him out for the rest of the season. Even a partial tear would put him out longer than he wanted.
A fresh wave of pain pulled a small groan from him. He’d never had an injury like this before. He was so angry. Would his teammates be upset that he couldn’t finish the game? Possibly the season?
Someone kneeled beside him, but Grant couldn’t open his eyes. It hurt too much.
“Tell me what hurts.” It was Mason, the team’s athletic trainer.
“Ankle,” he rasped.
“Can you turn on your back?”
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. He twisted so that his back was against the turf and covered his eyes with his forearm.
“I’m going to touch your ankle, and it’s going to hurt.” Mason paused. “Ready?”
No, not really.
He nodded. When Mason moved his ankle, Grant bit his bottom lip to stop the cry that threatened to come out. The tangy taste of blood hit his lips as he tore through the tender skin, but any pain he might have felt in his mouth was eclipsed by what was going on with his foot.
“Stop,” Grant managed to say.
Mason pulled his hands from his foot. “Okay. Do you need a stretcher, or can you walk off the field yourself?”
“No stretcher, but I can’t do it by myself either.”
“Of course.”
He called Cardosa over to help as Grant shifted into a seated position. With a lot of help, Cardosa and Mason were able to get him up to his feet. Correction: foot. Grant bent his knee so his injured foot wouldn’t touch the ground as he hopped on the other using the two men as crutches.
The arena erupted in cheers and clapping. He knew that they were happy to see him get up and off the field without having to be carried, but this didn’t feel much better than that. He still needed help—and lots of it.
Once he was seated on the home bench, the game resumed. Not that Grant could focus on anything that was happening out there. Mason kept peppering him with questions and poking his ankle. Grant lifted his foot up on a chair and put ice on it.
“It’s already bruising and swelling, but I don’t think the ligament tore completely.”
Thank goodness. Grant let out a sigh of relief.
“But I’m afraid it might be a grade two sprain.”
He pressed his lips together forgetting how he’d cut the inside of his lip. He took a quick inhale at the sharp pain. “How long will I be out?”
Mason shrugged. “Depends. Maybe three to six weeks before you can play again.”
“No.” Grant’s heart sunk and he shook his head. “I can’t sit out for that long. It’s too much of the season.”
“The other option is to try to resume your normal activities now and make the tear worse. Maybe cause permanent damage. Want me to ask Coach what he thinks about that?”
Grant was surprised by his tone but, no matter how sarcastic the delivery, the message was clear. Grant needed to take his recovery seriously unless he wanted to stop playing soccer professionally sooner rather than later.
He rubbed his hands over his face and nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
Mason’s hand gripped the top of his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But you can be thankful it wasn’t worse. A full tear would be several months.”
Again, Mason was right, but that
