Page 31 of The Goalie in Room 1

“I don’t need good odds, Doc. I never have. I’ve busted down every barrier, every obstacle. If I couldn’t go through it, I went over it, under it, or around it. I don’t need the door opened for me. Hell. I don’t even need a fucking door. I’ll make my fucking own.”

I laughed, and somehow his infectious, stubborn belief that he would make it weaseled its way between my ribs.

“Now,” he said, standing, “let’s get this shit scheduled.”

I stood, intending to show him to the door of my office, but rising to my feet put us a hair’s breadth apart. I had a few inches on him, but we shared a similar upper body build. His lower body, not as thick as mine, made the pair of jeans he wore look like they had been personally designed to ruin my fucking life.

“Let’s…uh,” I swallowed. “Let’s go talk with the front office.”

With a wave of his hand, he motioned me to go ahead of him, but not before his eyes dragged themselves down my body and back up. He even took the tiniest step toward me when his eyes found their way back to my face, locking themselves on my mouth. A groan built in my throat when his tongue slid across his lips, leaving them wet and shiny and oh so fucking welcoming.

“After you, Doc,” he said.

7

CASH

Thad…fuck…Dr. Vale led me down the hallway of his sleek, swanky office to the front desk. I fought the urge to pinch myself with every step. The knee brace I hadn’t put back on after Thad had me remove it during the exam swung from my fingers, brushing against the outside of my leg.

He stopped outside a door. The name plaque—Davina Devenport, Business Manager—gave me pause, but Tha—Dr. Vale waved me into a chair in front of a large, dark wooden desk, set before a wall of bookcases sitting atop cabinetry with doors and drawers. The bank of woodwork matched the desk perfectly. It oozed sophistication and money.

Once I sat, he did as well—in the chair next to me. He gave me a soft smile, then said, “Davina, Cash needs to be set up with the treatment team to prep him for surgery.”

Those words cemented themselves in my mind and took possession. They were the last thing I really processed. Between the realization that he was actually setting me up with his team and the way he splayed his legs wide, his knee pressing against my good leg, my brain short-circuited.

Their lips moved. The room hummed with their words, but none of them got through. Thad handed me the binder Davina pushed across the desk. I flipped it open, hearing but not hearing what was being said around me.

My eyes lit on the pre-op regimen. The list, a year ago, would’ve scared the shit out of me. Now, the highly regimented days and weeks detailed in the tabbed binder only energized me. It gave me a game plan. No different from training camp.

I turned pages and flipped tabs, growing more and more excited until…I flipped another page…motherfucker. I stopped. The words at the top of the page pulsed: Patient Financial Obligation Agreement.

And farther down the page: Patient Insurance Information.

Fuck.

Goodbye, good mood.

I stared at the words. The number in my bank account shoved its way into my head. Halo House had stopped the hemorrhaging. Thank fuck. But sweet Jesus, this would cost a fucking fortune.

And I hadn’t asked.

How the hell had I not asked?

I’d spent months counting every goddamn dollar. Rideshares. Rent. Utilities. Food. I’d counted every single thing that took a bite out of the money I’d saved while playing for the Breakers.

All of it had whittled away at the number, but nothing like losing my health insurance.

Then the best orthopedic surgeon in the fucking country told me there was a surgery that might give me a chance, and apparently, Cash Benjamin’s last remaining brain cell had packed its shit and gone on vacation.

I’d said, “Yes, let’s do the surgery.” Not once had I asked what the motherfucking thing cost.

Brilliant, Money. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

I flipped the page, hoping removing the words would shut down the looming panic attack. Only the next page smacked me in the face. Listed there was something even worse than the veiled hint of financial ruin thanks to financial responsibility obligations and insurance coverage I didn’t have. Numbers upon numbers stacked together and tallied up with words like estimated costs, possible reimbursement, and patient liability.

Panic, the likes of which I hadn’t felt since cold seeped through my sweat-soaked gear as I lay on the ice, realizing my future was no longer a guarantee, seized my heart. Not even the attack that grabbed hold of me during that last consult when I was told my health insurance had lapsed could compare.

“I don’t have health insurance.” The words exploded from me with no regard for who sat in the room with me. Or that Davina was speaking.