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“Nick O’Connor?” a man’s voice asks.
“Yep, that’s me.”
“Nick, hey, it’s Dr. Sharman over at Memorial,” he says, and I immediately recognize the name of the surgeon who fixed my knee.
“Hey, doc, how’s things?”
He blows out a breath. “Well, I’ve had a look at your scans. I know we aren’t due to meet until next week, but the radiologist flagged it for me, and I wanted to call you straight away.”
“Okay,” I say, that same sinking feeling I got when this guy told me about my knee three months ago, hitting me again.
“You’re skiing again,” he says, although not with accusation, if anything he sounds more concerned.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I don’t want to, but the team doctor cleared me, so I don’t have a choice.” I know it sounds pathetic, because of course I have a choice. I can just not do it, it’s as simple as that. Well, it should be.
“Yeah, look, I’ve um…I’ve kept quiet about this for too long, but I can’t ignore it anymore.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Your knee isn’t great, Nick,” he says, getting straight to the point. “In fact, there’s more damage there and if you continue to jump now, you’re risking permanent damage.”
“What?” I shout, my heart pounding in my chest.
“You have some more microfractures in your tibia and I think there’s some minor tearing in the meniscus. Ideally, I’d like to operate again. Actually, I should operate again.”
“Operate?” I repeat. “As in…”
“As in, you need to stop skiing immediately. I need to get in there and clean this knee up and then we need to report your team doctor, because I think he’s doing something illegal. Actually, I’m certain of it.”
“I think my coach is in on it too,” I blurt out.
“Yeah,” Dr. Sharman admits. “As much as it pains me to say this, I think you’re right and unfortunately, I think you’re also not the only one who’s gone through this. This isn’t the first time I’ve had someone from the facility in here with more damage than they should have.”
Suddenly, my brain is going a mile a minute as everything starts to click into place. Not only has the coach and the team doctor lied about my previous MRI scan and the results, but they’ve also caused more damage to my knee. Damage that is going to require more surgery to fix. And from what this doctor just told me, it seems like maybe I’m not the only one.
“Doc, tell me something,” I say, as I start moving about my room. “Would you be willing to speak with my lawyer?” I start with this, knowing asking him to speak with a reporter might be less appealing.
Dr. Sharman lets out a low chuckle. “You’re a smart guy for getting a lawyer, Nick,” he says. “I think you’ve got a legitimate claim here.”
“Yeah, and you’re not answering my question,” I say, wondering if maybe he doesn’t want to get dragged into all of this. I don’t know how it works in medical circles, but I can’t imagine turning on one of your colleagues is a good thing.
He laughs again. “Yeah, give him my contact details,” he finally says. “This really does need to end. I should’ve done something a long time ago.”
“It’s just good you’re doing something now,” I tell him, as I throw all of my shit into my bag.
“I guess,” he says, although he doesn’t sound convinced. “And listen, I really think you need to consider the surgery, okay. It’ll give you a shot at still being able to ski, eventually, but I?—”
“I’ll get the surgery, doc, but tell me, can I get it done in Tahoe?”
He laughs again. “Yeah, you can get it done in Tahoe,” he says. “I actually have a buddy from med school out there. I’ll send you and him a copy of the report and you can touch base when you get back. I’m sure your lawyer will be interested in it too. Tell him to call me if he has any questions about it.”
I zip my bag closed, casting one last glance around my room. It’s completely empty now, all of my stuff either packed in my duffel or back home in Badger Creek. “Thanks, doc, I really appreciate it,” I say, as I throw my bag over my shoulder. “Appreciate everything actually.”
“All good,” he says, as I open the door to my room. “I’ll be in touch.”
After we hang up, I walk out of the room I’ve spent the past three or so years living in and down to the storage facility. Everyone is gone, either in the cafeteria having dinner or out in town and I’m grateful I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.
I know it’s a shitty thing to do, disappearing on my teammates and friends, but I’m not hanging around here for a single second longer. Not after that phone call, not after finding out my coach has been lying to me. So instead, I head into the storage shed and pack up my skis and gear, dragging the oversize bag behind me as I make my way down to the front of the training facility.
