Chapter 91: The Doctor’s Visitt
The surgeon did not waste time with comfort, which was how I knew I was not going to like what came next.
He had barely sat down across from me before he started opening my scan images on the screen behind him. I sat upright in the exam chair with my knee braced, one hand gripping the armrest hard enough to make my fingers ache.
Cassian sat beside me without speaking.
He had come because I would not let him stay home. Or maybe because he knew me well enough to understand that if he did not come, I would spend the entire appointment pretending I was calmer than I was.
The surgeon pointed at the screen with a pen. “The knee has not stabilized the way we wanted.”
I kept my face still. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the joint is compensating, but it is not holding ideally.” He clicked to the next image. “You have been pushing through more than you should have.”
Cassian’s head turned towards the screen immediately. I felt his attention sharpen beside me, the air between us tightening in the way it always did when one of us wanted the same answer and did not want to hear it.
The surgeon kept going. “There is inflammation, lingering instability, and a pattern that tells me this is not going to resolve with rest alone.”
I said nothing.
He looked at me directly then. “Another surgery is likely needed.”
The room went very still.
I heard Cassian inhale beside me, quiet but sharp enough that I knew he had felt it too.
The surgeon did not soften the blow. “I want to be honest. If you do it now, there is a strong chance you miss the start of the season.”
That landed hard.
The surgeon folded his hands. “We can do it now, or we can manage it and revisit after the season if the pain becomes unmanageable. I am not recommending either lightly.”
I looked at the screen for a long second.
Cassian’s knee brushed mine under the chair.
I had no idea whether that helped or made this worse.
The surgeon waited.
I asked the question anyway because I needed the answer clean. “If I wait, am I risking more damage?”
He nodded once. “Yes.”
“Long term?”
“Yes.”
That was the part I already knew I would not like.
Cassian’s hand shifted on his thigh, then stilled.
I looked back at the surgeon. “How much more?”
He gave me the same look doctors used when they were trying to be careful without lying. “Enough that I would not call it minor.”
The room felt smaller after that.
I leaned back in the chair and stared at the screen, the diagnosis settling into me piece by piece. Surgery now meant missing the start of the season. Waiting meant playing through pain and risking worse. Both choices had a cost, neither one was the clean answer I wanted.
The surgeon kept his voice even. “I do not want to pressure you. I want you to understand the tradeoff.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “I understand it.”
“I know.”
The surgeon lowered the pen. “The choice is yours.”
That hit harder than the diagnosis.
Because it was mine.
He left the room after a few more careful instructions about pain management, treatment windows, imaging follow-ups, and what to watch for if it got worse. I listened, nodded, asked the questions that mattered, and did my best to keep my expression steady enough that no one would know how much the whole thing was already getting under my skin.
When the door shut behind him, the room fell quiet.
Cassian did not speak right away.
Neither did I.
I stared at the floor, then at my knee, then at the edge of the chair arm like it might tell me what to do with a career that had already asked too much of my body.
Finally Cassian said, “You are not saying anything.”
I looked at him.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked.
Cassian’s voice dropped. “What are you thinking?”
I hesitated.
He sat forward immediately. “Torin.”
I looked at him directly. “I am thinking about playing through it.”
The silence after that was brutal.
“It is your body,” he said carefully.
I shrugged one shoulder. “It is also the season.”
He stared at me for a long second. “You would postpone surgery?”
“Yes,” I said at last. “If I can manage it.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened so hard I saw it. “You would play on that?”
“Not ideally.”
He let out a short breath that sounded almost like a laugh and almost not. “That is the most Torin answer possible.”
I looked at him. “You asked.”
“I did.”
Cassian crossed one ankle over the other and turned fully toward me. “What happens if it gets worse?”
I kept my voice low. “Then I deal with it.”
He gave me an incredulous look. “That is your plan?”
“It is a plan.”
“It is not a good one.”
I said nothing.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, and looked at me with that kind of intensity that got dangerous fast. The one where his concern and frustration and love all got mixed together so completely that it was impossible to separate them.
“I am serious,” he said.
“I know.”
“No, I mean it.” He held my gaze. “You do not get to just decide to destroy yourself because the season matters.”
That landed too hard because it was exactly the accusation I had been trying not to hear.
I looked back at him. “I am not trying to destroy myself.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I was quiet for a second.
“I am trying to finish what we started,” I said.
“You think that makes it noble,” he said.
I met his eyes. “I think it makes it real.”
The heat in the room shifted again.
He stood up then and came to stand in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head to keep looking at him. That did things to me even now, the way he moved, the way he filled a room. The way he looked at me like he was already prepared to be the only person who knew.
His hand came to the side of my chair, fingers spread against the armrest. “I don’t like this, Tor. But I’m here for you no matter what.”
Then he leaned in and kissed my forehead.
When he pulled back, he was still looking at me like the answer had just become something we were going to carry together whether anybody else knew or not.
And for the first time since the surgeon said surgery, I let myself believe that maybe that was enough to keep me standing.