THE TEARING pain centered at his knee hurt worse than anything he’d ever felt. By the time the EMTs had cut off the leg of his uniform pants, Connor’s knee had already swelled up to the size of a cantaloupe. Every start and stop of the ambulance made it throb worse. Coach sorted through his shoulder bag and the files that contained the team’s emergency medical information while he consulted with an EMT who kept poking around his leg, rotating his ankle, and a bunch of other stuff he didn’t quite understand.
The minute he and the last runner had collided, he’d felt something pop in his knee and then unimaginable pain. Connor didn’t consider himself a wimp, and luckily he’d never had too many serious injuries during his life, but nothing could have prepared him for the agony he felt. A knee injury for a catcher was a bad, bad thing.
I’m not going to think about that yet, he told himself, breathing deep in an effort to get above the pain.
“I had no idea,” he gasped to the EMT, “that I was such a wimp.” He squeezed the rails of the gurney when the EMT hit a particularly bad spot. He managed, barely, to keep from squealing. This was the kind of pain that made his throat close even as he tried to inhale, resulting in a sound like a stuck pig. He remembered this reaction from the time Becca had kneed him in the groin when they were in middle school. Not one of his fondest moments, that’s for sure.
Coach leaned over and pushed back Connor’s sweat-dampened hair. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Fitzpatrick. Only you could manage to ensure the game-winning play while messing up your knee like that.”
“You always say,” Connor said, telling himself that the pain was easing—please God, let it be easing—“that we should take one for the team. Just doing my part.”
Coach looked at the EMT. “Can’t you give him anything for the pain?”
“Sorry,” the EMT said, and he actually looked it. “We’re not allowed to administer pain medicine except in rare circumstances. The doctors will take care of it when we get there. Luckily, it’s a quick ride, so hang in there, okay?”
Connor squeezed his eyes shut, grateful that Green Valley was a small town. Even as the thought crossed his mind, the vehicle slowed and the EMT grabbed his clipboard and prepared to exit the ambulance.
He’d gotten settled into an exam area surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol when his mom and dad arrived in a flurry of movement and a demand for answers. Abby, in a very un-Abby-like manner, stood solemnly at his mom’s side, gripping a handful of shirt in the chubby fingers of one hand. His mom glided forward, Abby trailing in her wake. “Hey, baby,” she said, “you’re going to be fine. The doctors will take good care of you.”
He loved Mom. He really did. She sometimes forgot he was seventeen and not three, but her soothing words reassured him anyway.
“What happened?” Dad loomed like an irate bear in the tiny curtained space.
For some reason, having Dad there made him realize he was still halfway suited up for the game. The chest pad was still in place, as was the right leg guard. He had no idea where his face mask or hat had ended up. Connor pushed up to unhook the leg guard and hissed through his teeth as the movement caused pain to lightning through his injured leg.
“Ryan,” Mom said, turning to his dad, “can you get that stuff off him? I wouldn’t know where to start.” She must have been trying to distract Dad. Connor had been in and out of the gear since he was in Little League, and she’d helped him as much as anyone when he was younger.
Dad looked over and noticed the gear. Was he mad? His hands trembled as he undid the clasps on the chest pad, easing it off before removing the leg guard. “What happened?” This time when he asked it, Connor’s dad’s voice was calmer.
“I took a hard hit while covering the plate.”
His dad nodded.
Coach Petrewski spoke up. “And he managed to hang on to the ball and make the out, ensuring the Vikings won.”
“That’s my boy,” his dad said and squeezed Connor’s shoulder.
“I did something to my knee when we hit, though.” Connor looked at his knee, which seemed to have quadrupled in size.
Abby walked to the examination table and patted Connor’s hand. “I can kiss it better,” she offered.
The pure sweetness of the offer warmed his insides like hot chocolate on a snowy day.
“Thanks Abs, but we better save that for a really bad boo-boo. I don’t want to waste your kisses.” He brushed his hand over her blonde curls.
The doctor pulled aside the curtain and sailed in, white lab coat billowing behind him. “Connor. Let’s see what we’ve got. I hear you did something to your knee.” He nodded at Connor’s dad. “Hello, Ryan.”
“Hey, Doc.” Dr. Jonas was a frequent customer at the shop. He drove an ancient Mustang that he refused to upgrade. Whenever a part wore out or something strange cropped up, he’d bring the red beast into Fitz’s. Connor had worked on that car off and on for as long as he’d been helping out at the shop.
A nurse peeked her head in. “Mr. or Mrs. Fitzpatrick? I’m going to need someone to fill out some forms.”
“Jackie, why don’t you take Abby and take care of the paperwork? I’ll stay here with Connor and Dr. Jonas.” His dad rubbed his hands together in a manner Connor had long ago learned meant he was worried. His gaze strayed to Abby, and then he shot a significant look toward Connor’s mom. She looked at her youngest child and seemed to catch on. With a nod, she headed for the reception area, Abby in tow.
“I’ve got to go,” Coach Petrewski said. “Make sure you let me know what’s what.” He followed Connor’s mom out.
“Thanks, Coach.” Connor swallowed hard. The pain from his knee made him nauseous.
Once the small area cleared and it was only the three of them—Connor, his dad, and the doctor—Dr. Jonas bent over Connor’s knee. He probed the swollen area gently. “What were you doing when this happened?”
With Dad listening intently, Connor explained, with many pauses to catch a wheezy breath, about the collision with the other player and the popping noise. When the doctor manipulated the knee, bending it this way and that, cold sweat broke out on Connor’s face and stars danced before his eyes. Despite the pain medicine he’d finally been given, he had to bite his tongue until it bled to contain his shout.
After what seemed like hours of torture, Dr. Jonas stepped back, his face grim. “We’re going to get you into X-ray and take a look at the knee. Hopefully that will give us an idea of what’s going on.”
X-ray was another adventure in agony as Connor was forced to angle his leg to get the right shots. An hour later he was back at an exam table surrounded by his mom, his dad, and both of his sisters. Allyson had given Becca a ride to the hospital. Becca told him that Allyson hadn’t wanted to get in the way, so she left after making Becca promise to call when they knew something.
No one talked. They stood there, eyes clouded with worry and bodies restless. Abby nestled in her father’s arms, sound asleep with her head on his shoulder.
“It’s going to be fine,” Connor’s mom said with false cheer. “A little ice, a little ibuprofen, and you’ll be good as new.”
Connor certainly hoped so. Especially when the doctor came in with the X-ray films. “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
Connor fisted his hands in the starchy sheet on the cart. Somehow that statement wasn’t very comforting.
“Nothing is broken. I don’t see any cracks or fissures. That’s the good news. That’s also the bad news. Because the X-ray doesn’t show anything specific, you’re going to want to see an orthopedic specialist. I’ve called over, and they’ll be able to see you in the morning.”
“So you don’t know how badly he injured his knee?” Connor’s dad started rubbing his hands again.
“There are a few possibilities. It could be something as minor as a strained knee that will get better with a couple of days of rest. The pain Connor’s feeling is a little more extreme than I would expect to see. With the popping he felt and the way the knee moved when I examined it, I think it’s more likely a torn or sprained ACL.”
Connor’s dad bowed his head, brows lowered.
“So tomorrow we take him to an orthopedist. What should we do in the meantime?” Connor’s mom asked.
“I’ve written a prescription for some pain pills. I recommend ice and elevation for the night, and we’ll get him set up with a brace and some crutches.”
The adults continued to talk and plan but Connor couldn’t focus. The words torn ACL kept running through his mind. He’d heard what happened to athletes who had done that. Often it was a career-ending diagnosis. Well, here’s hoping for strained knee. He really didn’t want to think about what a torn ACL would do to his future.