Page 65 of Tangled with the Tight End

“This is really interesting,” Winona says. “Sports medicine. I’ve never thought much about it.”

“We couldn’t keep playing without this team behind the scenes.”

“It’s incredible what they can do for you. Extracting plasma on-site? That’s so cool.”

I chuckle. I hadn’t anticipated this reaction from her at all.

My phone pings with a text while we’re waiting.

Delaney: Sorry I can't pop in. We're knee-deep in drills. I'll catch you later.

I text him back.

Declan: No worries. Thanks for checking in.

Winona’s looking at me as I pocket my cell.

“That was Delaney,” I tell her. “You met him at the house?”

“Yes. I remember him. Marcus, right?”

“Yeah. Marcus. He’s our quarterback.”

“That’s an important position?” she asks.

I laugh. “Yes. Some would say it’s the most important.”

“Why would they say that? Isn’t football a team sport? It seems like all the positions are important.”

I study her. And she stares back at me with an expression that says, What? Tell me I’m wrong. And I can’t. She’s actually more right than she realizes.

Lynn returns and injects the plasma at the fracture site in my ankle. Then she applies the stockinette, padding, and the casting material. She molds the padding while Winona looks on, talking Winona through every step of what she’s doing. At some point Winona stopped being the woman who drove me here and she slipped into the role of nurse in everyone’s eyes.

“Winona?” Lynn asks. “Would you mind holding the foot at a neutral angle? Don’t let it rotate while I shape the cast.”

“Sure,” she says, her eyes flicking to mine for the briefest moment as if she’s asking for my consent.

I nod once and she steps closer, holding my foot like it’s a live grenade. Her focus is laser-sharp. I practically stop breathing. Lynn molds the cast, smoothing out wrinkles, making sure there are no pressure points.

“Feels warm,” I say.

“That’s normal,” Lynn says. “And I’m glad you don’t know that. We don’t need you out there breaking bones often enough that this becomes routine.”

“Definitely not the plan,” I tell her.

“Not that you can control that,” Lynn adds.

“It all happened so fast,” I say.

She just nods. A memory of us riding off the field plays like I’m reviewing game film.

“Thanks for being there,” I tell her.

“Doing my job,” she says. But she smiles up at me.

About five minutes or so later, Lynn folds the stockinette back over the raw edges of the cast and secures it.

“That should do it,” Lynn says. “You're past the acute phase, time to come back to the building.” Then she turns to Winona. “Thanks for your help.”