Page 63 of Tangled with the Tight End

Winona giggles. It’s a giggle. Like a tittery, delighted, swoony giggle.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “We’ve got an appointment.”

“Better get to it,” Keller says. “It’s good to see you, man.” His tone grows more sincere. “Do all the things. We need you out on the line.”

“You’re doing okay,” I say, referring to our winning streak.

“Okay is not enough. You’re missed.”

I smile. “Thanks. I’ll do my part.”

“Hold him to that, Winona,” Keller says.

“I will,” she promises.

Winona peers into the treatment room when the door swings open again. It’s busy in there—guys getting taped, massaged, and iced. I don’t slow down to talk to everyone. The sooner I get this cast on, the closer I am to being back here for real.

A trainer walks out, smiling at both of us as he passes by.

“Wow,” Winona practically whispers.

“Welcome to my house,” I tell her.

Oddly, this space feels far more like home than the house I grew up in.

“Which one is your bed?” she teases back.

“We share. But I usually sit on that one way toward the back of the room. The one that’s empty right now.”

She nods. The door swings shut.

I propel down a hall until I reach the private exam room where the team’s orthopedic specialist will see me.

“This is the place,” I tell Winona.

She opens the door and I maneuver past her. The room is smaller, with a single exam bed as compared to the ten beds in the main treatment room. Bright overhead lighting gives the space a clinical feel. The oversized TT emblem consumes the side wall. A sink and cabinets are on the other side of the room.

I swing over to the exam table and lean my crutches up against the edge. Using my upper body, I lift myself onto the table and pivot. Winona stands by and when she sees I’m situated, she takes a seat in one of the plastic chairs. I watch her take it all in.

A few minutes after we’ve arrived, the team orthopedic specialist comes in. “Declan!”

“Hey, Andrew,” I say.

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good.”

“Great. That’s what we want to hear. And who is this?” Andrew eyes Winona as if she’s something other than my nurse.

“This is Winona,” I tell him. “She’s my home health aide.”

The words feel wrong. Winona’s become a friend, I think. But maybe that’s just projection—one of those patient attaches himself to the caregiver types of situations.

“Winona, this is Dr. Bernstein,” I say.

“Nice to meet you,” Andrew says to Winona. “And, please, call me Andrew. All the guys do.”

“Nice to meet you too. Do you want me to wait outside?” Winona asks Andrew, and starts to get out of her chair.