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I hit send before I could overthink it.

His response came right away. I will. I’m sorry.

You should be.

I am. For all of it. I really messed up.

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t.

I set my phone down.

Marzipan climbed into my lap, purring.

“Traitor,” I said, but I petted her anyway.

I picked up my phone, opening the photo again. Zoomed in.

The instruction sheet had been unfolded and refolded so many times the paper was nearly translucent along the folds. Notes had been written along the margins, 3 sets. Hold 30 sec. No cheating.

The little frowny face I’d drawn had been circled.

I set the phone down again and closed my eyes.

“I’m in trouble,” I told Marzipan.

My cat purred louder, which could be agreement or judgment.

Probably both.

I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. At 11:43 PM, I pulled up the MRI results on my phone, the screen bright in my dark bedroom.

No tear.

I exhaled before I kept reading.

Grade two strain. Significant inflammation. Fluid accumulation.

The hip flexor was involved now too, which meant he’d been compensating, putting weight where he shouldn’t, trying to protect the adductor and making everything worse.

He’d need eight to ten days of aggressive treatment. The playoffs started in three. I did the math a couple of times, hoping it would change. It didn’t.

There was a good chance he’d miss the first three games.

This was really bad.

I opened our chat and typed, Got your results. We need to talk tomorrow. 8 AM. Don’t be late.

I’ll be there.

The next morning, I arrived at work carrying spite and a cup of coffee strong enough to strip paint.

I’d barely slept, but I’d dressed for battle. A blazer. A pink blouse that meant I was serious but approachable. My hair scraped into a bun tight enough to give me a headache. The parking lot was nearly empty when I got out of my car, just the early staff and the die-hards who showed up before the sun remembered it had a job to do.

My phone had buzzed during the drive. Brashe.

I hadn’t looked beyond noting who’d messaged.

Earlier, I’d sent the full MRI report to Patty, Coach Beecham, and the team doctor. I’d used phrases like, “significant inflammation” and “grade two strain” and “estimated recovery with aggressive treatment: eight to ten days.”