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Vincent's head snapped up and his eyes narrowed at Sandra. "What?" He spat, and then looked at me in disgust before looking back at her. "She's just a student in training and you trust her to take care of the teams best player?"
I would roll my eyes when he complimented himself, but I was too busy being offended. Sure, I was just training, but I've been taking care of the boys on this team since freshman year. Never have I once messed up, inaccurately diagnosed someone, or incorrectly helped during the rehabilitation process. Vincent and I may not exactly like each other, but I expected him to at least respect my ability as a physical therapist.
I narrowed my eyes at him and was about to bark out a rude remark when Sandra spoke instead. "You insisted she was of more help than me before, so now she's going to do it again."
"She's just a fucking student, she doesn't know anything-" Vincent starts to fight, but I've had enough.
"She is right here," I snap at him, and he finally turns to acknowledge me. "And I am perfectly capable of helping with physical therapy. From what I've gathered, it looks like you tore your MCL," I say with a single glance at his knee. "That's about a three week recovery with copious stretches to let your knee adjust while its healing." Then I smile bitterly and spit, "But I don't want to help you anyway, since I'm just a student, and I don't know anything and all."
When I throw his words back at him, Vincent looks genuinely remorseful. But, as soon as the moment comes, it passes, and he's back to scowling at Sandra.
"Too bad for the both of you," Sandra says with clear malice. "Lily, I'm officially assigning you to Vincent to help him with his physical therapy sessions. I want a progress report written after every session and given to me at the end of each week so I can monitor his recovery. Do you understand?"
If Sandra wasn't so damn threatening all the time, maybe I would've fought back and told here there is no way in hell I will willingly help Vincent Bradshaw. By the look Vincent was giving her, I'm sure he wanted to say something along the same lines. But her sharp glare told me there was no room for arguing, so I just exhaled and nodded my head.
"Yes," I mutter. "I understand."
She nods and takes a step back, gesturing to Vincent, who still sat on the examination bed. "Well, proceed. See if your MCL assumption was correct."
I nod again slowly and look at Vincent, who is clenching his jaw and glaring at me. I narrow my eyes at him and glare back, but have to suck it up and walk over to him. Gently, I put one hand on top of his knee cap, and the other underneath, on his lower leg. I apply a little pressure and glance up at Vincent to gauge his reaction, sure that he would sugarcoat the pain like all the other players.
"How does that feel?" I ask quietly, my eyes searching his face for any sign of discomfort.
"Fine," He grits out through his teeth.
"Any discomfort?" I ask, pushing a little harder on his knee.
He clenches his eyes shut and groans, "A little."
I stopped pushing and instead placed one hand on the inside of his knee and one on the outside of his lower leg. Gently, I move his knee side to side, twisting it carefully. I feel his leg tense up immediately, and Vincent's hands balled into fists so tight that his knuckles were as white as a sheet.
"Fuck," Vincent grunted through gritted teeth.
I let go and turn around to Sandra to see her watching me. "I was right. It's his MCL. He's going to have to get an MRI to see how badly it was torn before I can write up a recovery plan."
For once, she seemed mildly impressed by my knowledge, and she nodded once. "I'll let Coach Baxter know."
With that, she exited the room, leaving me alone with Vincent. I turned around and saw him watching me carefully, his jaw still clenched, and pain evident in his expression. His entire body was still tense, that much I could tell without even touching him.
But still, he looked relieved. "It's just my MCL?"
"Yeah," I stand up and retrieve medical wrap to tape his knee, then return to sit in front of him. "I saw the hit and it didn't look too pretty. Can you roll up your pants?"
"Trying to take advantage of me in my weak state, huh?" Vincent breathed out a laugh.
I give him a flat stare. "Do it or I'll fuck up your knee."
His smirk fell clean off his face and was replaced by a scowl. "You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?" I smile smugly as a thought pops in my head. "For the next few weeks, I'll be making sure your prized knee heals perfectly; if I were you, I'd start being nice to me."
Vincent's eyes are narrowed and calculating, like he's trying to figure out if I'm bluffing or not. After a moment, he mutters something under his breath, and then starts rolling up his pants until they're a few inches above his knee. It looked swollen and the joint was surely exerted from bending, but it wasn't horrible. If it had been a little more serious and he had torn his ACL instead, it would've been an entirely worse story.
"So, your medial collateral ligament tore from excessive bending and twisting in your knee," I tell him as I start taping his knee up. "You got lucky. This looks like it'll only take a few weeks to heal. You can probably make it back for the end of the season if you stay on schedule with your recovery plan."
I expect him to be relieved he wouldn't be missing too many games, or at least happy that his injury was somewhat minor.
Instead, he runs a hand through his sweaty hair and shouts, "Fuck!"
I flinch, not having expected the outburst, and the medical tape falls from my hands and hangs loosely from Vincent's knee. I quickly grab the tape and finish wrapping his knee up.
"The team needs me," Vincent says, clearly heated. "I can't be gone for weeks. God fucking dammit, this is the worst thing that could ever happen to me."
His words hit a nerve with me, and I ground my teeth together from snapping at him. While he was sporting a minor injury that would be healed before the season ended, other people had major injuries that would ale them forever, or illnesses that did the same. He was well off compared to them.
"What did I do to deserve this terrible bullshit?" Vincent mutters.
"For fucks sake, Vincent, shut up!" I snap, cutting the excess tape and standing up to glare at him. "You got injured, big fucking deal. You'll be healed in time for the last few games. Suck it up. There are innocent people who are dying from illnesses and diseases. Their lives are fucked up. You're just an arrogant college football player who got an injury that you will definitely recover from. So stop complaining about the terrible bullshit happening when you don't even know the half about suffering."
With that, I threw the medical tape in the bag and stormed out of the physical trainers office. Then, remembering that I am the one in charge of Vincent, I turn around and go back in. When I enter, he looks just as at a loss for words as when I left him.
"Now go home and schedule a doctors appointment for an MRI and when you have a doctors report, find me." I finish.
And then, I leave again, fuming that a person could be so... what is the word for arrogant, insensitive, and self centered all in one? Oh, yes. Vincent.
• • •
"He just doesn't give a shit about anyone else except him," I rant, pacing in my small dorm room. "It drives me crazy! He seriously thinks that his injury is the worst thing that's ever happened to anyone in the world. Just because he's the MVP doesn't mean he's that important."
"MVP literally means most valuable player," Jane points out much to my chagrin.
I whip around and glare at her. "Who's side are you on?"
"Yours," She replies automatically, and I nod in satisfaction. "But you've got to give the guy a break. He is the quarterback, and he has a responsibility to the team. Plus, Brady O'Donnell is horrible."
Begrudgingly, I admit, "I know, you're right. But he doesn't have to be so god damn arrogant all the time. He's not the most important person on the planet."
"He's the most important person at PSU," Jane points out.
I narrow my eyes at her. "Seriously, if you want to take his side, just say so. I can sleep in the library. I hear they don't check the study cubicles before they lock up."
Jane begins laughing. "Stop being so dramatic. I'm being realistic."
"I'm not a fan of realism," I tell her stubbornly.
"Well thats your fault," She replies just as stubbornly. "But I think you should cut him some slack. It sounds like football is the only thing he cares about. You don't know enough about him to write off what this means to him."
As soon as she says it, I knew she was right, and I felt the guilt I was pushing away to make room for anger bubble up. Nobody should minimize other people's hardships, and I knew better. But still, I felt the bits of anger resonating within me, angry at Vincent for being Vincent.
Plus, Jane is seldom wrong. Say what you want to say about her personal life and obsession with boys, but Jane Donovan was smart. She gave calculated advice based on the situation and remained completely unbiased, even if I did want her to be irrational and agree with me.
Before I can admit she was right, my phone rings, cutting off my words. I grab my phone from my desk and once I see my mom's name on the screen, my annoyance is replaced with concern.
I stand up and leave the room immediately, pressing the phone against my ear and answering quickly, "Hey, mom, what's up?"
"Hi honey," She answers tiredly. "I got your check in the mail today. It's going straight toward the hospital bill from last month. Thank you."
"No problem," I wave it off, desperate to talk about what has been weighing on my mind ever since we spoke last. "How is Danny?"
"He's doing better, actually," Relief washes through me immediately. "The chemotherapy has really been helping him. His tumor is shrinking. The doctors think that if they keep up these regular sessions, then the tumor will shrink enough to preform surgery and remove it completely."
My entire body relaxes, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, my eyes beginning to water in happiness. "Really? That's amazing news!"
I hear my mom let out a breathy laugh. "I know, I almost couldn't believe it myself. I was so wary of all the bad news lately, that when the doctors came in to tell me, I just started crying."
As she says this, I laugh a little myself, feeling a tear slip out of my eye. "Yeah, I know how you feel."
"I just wanted to call and tell you that things are alright. I know I left you worried and I'm sorry about that, hon." I hear rustling around in the background, and then the familiar chiming of bells, and I know she just walked into work. "I have to go clock in for work."
"Okay," I sigh, wishing we had more time to talk. "I love you, mom. Tell Danny I love him, too."
"I will. I love you too, Lily Bells." Mom says endearingly, and I feel a smile stretch across my face before the familiar click of an ended call.
I lower my phone from my ear and lean backward so my back rest against the hallway wall, letting out a deep breath as I shut my eyes. It was an understatement to say I was relieved to hear the news about Danny getting better. I had been worrying about him tenfold ever since I left for college, and every day I fear that I'm going to regret the decision of moving here if something were to happen to Danny and I wasn't there.
Sometimes I hated myself for leaving. I left my mom at home to deal with the burden of one of her two children sick with the same illness that killed my father. I left my brother to deal with chemotherapy without his big sister. And yet, the day I was deciding between community college and PSU, both of them had been my biggest advocates to come here. But still, their support didn't always make me feel better about leaving.
"Lily?"
I open my eyes and see Vincent Bradshaw, the very asshole I was raving about before to Jane, standing before me. I took note of his crutches and wrap on his leg, as well as the papers in his hand. He looked thoroughly confused as to why I was willingly leaning against the grimy dorm hallway walls with my eyes shut, but I guess I would be too, if I saw me.
I stand up straight and raise my eyebrows at him. "What are you doing here?"
His eyes flicker between mine, and then scan my face. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, looking unsure, but then asks, "Were you crying?"
Caught off guard, I wipe under my eyes for mascara stains, but then answer defensively, "No."
Vincent raises his eyebrows and says blankly, "That's why your eyes are red and glossy, right? And why you just checked for that black stuff?"
"Black stuff?" I echo with a laugh. "You mean mascara?"
He waves me off. "Whatever. So, are you going to answer?"
I eye him warily, momentarily considering telling him the truth, since he did overhear me talking to my mom, and I wasn't entirely sure how much he had heard. But then I remembered that this was the arrogant asshole that I was just complaining about to Jane before my mom called, and I in no way considered us friends, and he therefore would never hear anything about my personal life.
I cross my arms over my chest defiantly and shake my head. "No, I'm not going to answer your question. Anyway, what are you doing here?"
Vincent narrows his eyes at me, but instead of a snappy reply, he holds out the papers that were in his hands. I reach forward and grab them, then examine the documents, quickly realizing that they were his medical papers. It looked like he had indeed gone out to get an MRI since I told him to yesterday, and I was right: it was his MCL.
"That was fast," I comment as I glance back up at him.
He shifts, his crutches dragging on the ground as he does so, and looks away. "I want to start as soon as possible so I can return as soon as possible."
I nod, feeling a little bad for being such a bitch to him. Vincent clearly cared a lot about football, and even if we weren't friends, that doesn't mean I should make his recovery process hell. I knew he just wanted to get back on the field as soon as he could, and back to doing what he loves the most, and what he does best.
"Okay," Vincent glances at me and I offer him a small smile. "I'll write up a recovery plan tonight and we can start physical therapy tomorrow. Is tomorrow at noon good for you?"
"I have class," He mutters. "But I can skip."
I roll my eyes. "No, you're not skipping. What about during practice? We can use the locker room while the guys are practicing on the field."
He hesitates, and then looks away from me, setting his jaw. "Can't we go somewhere else?"
"Why?" I blurt immediately.
Vincent's hard eyes snap back to me and the intensity of his gaze surprises me. "Why would I tell you anything about me when you refuse to even tell me you were just crying, which you were, a minute ago?"
He has a good point. Instead of diving headfirst into a conversation about myself, I just nod once, and ask, "How about mornings instead?"
Vincent's eyes are still hard and calculating when I ask, but he lets it go too, and asks, "How early are we talking?"
I shrug. "Nine?"
"You're funny if you think I'm getting out of bed before ten," He counters with a blank look on his face that told me he was very serious.
"I'm trying to cater to you, here," I snap. "But if you don't want to behave, then fine. Nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning in the locker room, got it?"
But I don't wait for an answer, and instead angrily storm back into my dorm, slamming the door behind me to put as much space between me and Vincent as possible. It was unreal how easily he got my blood boiling, even when I try to have sympathy for his situation. I shake my head and let out a loud sigh, then catch Jane staring at me with a smirk on her face.
I glare at her. "Shut up."
"I didn't say anything," Jane muses.
I was so not looking forward to the next few weeks.