FROM LACROSSE TO HIS ARMS

Chapter 3: First Session

"Thirty Days, Thierry. That's all you have."

My mother said it like she was giving him a deadline, not talking about her injured daughter.

She stood at the foot of my bed, her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes moved from Thierry to me, and the disappointment in them made my stomach twist.

"That's all you have," she repeated.

Thierry didn't answer immediately. His expression remained calm, but I noticed the slight movement of his jaw.

My mother glanced at me one last time. Then she turned around and walked out. The door slammed shut behind her with a loud bang.

I flinched.

At least she closed the door this time. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. I stared at the closed door while my fingers slowly tightened around the blanket.

Thierry stared at me.

I could feel his eyes on me, and somehow that made me uncomfortable.

"What?" I blurted out.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked towards me.

"I'm here to nurse you back to the Lacrosse Field in a month. I don't know if that's going to be successful, but I believe in miracles." He said.

I let out a dry laugh.

"Well, I don't."

His eyes stayed on me for a moment before he leaned back slightly.

"What's your name?" He asked and closed the gap between us. He was standing beside my bed much closer now.

I frowned.

"Didn't she introduce me to you already, or isn't it your job to know about your patient?" I raised my brows, already feeling irritated.

Thierry gave a small sigh.

"I only want to establish a meaningful relationship." He replied.

I stared at him.

"I don't like you." I blurted out, my voice louder than before.

One corner of his mouth lifted.

"No one says you have to. But as long as you're my patient, you have to drop the spoilt girl act. I'm only doing my job, nothing more."

My jaw tightened.

Spoilt girl.

That was exactly what everyone thought of me. The famous athlete's daughter who had everything handed to her.

Nobody knew how hard I had worked for every single thing, how many nights I had cried after my mother told me I wasn't good enough and nobody knew how many times I had trained until my legs could barely carry me.

Thierry's voice pulled me back.

"I know how it feels watching your career going deep into the mud."

My eyes snapped toward him.

"No, you don't."

Something flickered across his face.

"Trust me, I've been there. You're a young girl." He said.

"I am not a girl." I frowned.

He looked at me for another second before giving a small nod.

"You're a young woman, and there's still plenty of time left for you."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he had no idea what he was talking about, but before I could, he stepped closer.

He reached toward my injured leg, but instead of touching the brace immediately, he carefully placed his fingers along the side of my thigh, just above the injured knee.

The pain came instantly.

"Ah!"

My body jerked, and my fingers dug into the mattress. Thierry immediately pulled his hand away.

"Just as I thought. You do feel pain in your thighs, right?"

I nodded, breathing through the pain.

"I'll give you something for that." He replied.

He picked up the chart from the table and scanned through it. His eyes moved over the notes from the doctors before he looked back at me.

"Do you know what your injury is called?"

"A broken leg?"

He shook his head.

"It's called a severe displaced tibial plateau fracture."

I stared at him blankly. I had no idea what he was talking about.

"That sounds complicated."

"It is."

He pulled the chair closer and sat down.

"The tibial plateau is the upper part of your shinbone. It sits underneath your thighbone and forms part of your knee joint. In your case, the bone was badly fractured and pushed out of its normal position."

My eyes dropped to my leg and the brace suddenly felt heavier.

"So... I broke my knee?"

"Not exactly. You fractured the bone that forms the lower part of your knee joint. But that's not all."

My stomach tightened.

"What else?"

Thierry paused.

"You also suffered serious damage to the ligaments and cartilage around the knee."

I swallowed hard. That was a whole lot.

"What does that mean?"

"It means your knee isn't just broken. It's unstable and badly injured. You won't be putting weight on that leg for a while, and getting you back to normal will take a lot of work."

I stared at him again. The words wouldn't leave my head. Unstable. Badly injured. A lot of work.

"What about Lacrosse?" I asked softly.

His expression changed.

"That's the part I can't promise. Getting you back on that field isn't going to take thirty days."

My chest dropped. I didn't know what to say.

I wanted to break down. I wanted to scream.

I wanted someone to tell me he was wrong, but my mother had already taught me that crying wouldn't change anything.

So why waste the tears?

I stared at the ceiling and blinked rapidly until the burning in my eyes eased. For a moment, the room was silent. Then I noticed Thierry standing.

He moved closer again and crouched beside the bed. He was close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin.

My body stiffened.

"I'm going to adjust the knee brace." He said.

I looked down at him.

"Do you have to get that close?"

He glanced up at me. He didn't say a word.

Instead, his fingers moved carefully over the straps of the brace. He loosened one before tightening another, checking that it wasn't pressing too hard against my injured knee.

His touch was careful and professional. Yet I suddenly became too aware of how close he was.

I looked away.

I focused on the window instead, pretending the city outside was suddenly fascinating.

I could still feel his fingers moving against the brace. Then his phone rang. The sound cut through the room.

Thierry immediately stopped. He reached into his pocket and looked at the screen.

Something changed. The relaxed expression disappeared from his face. His jaw tightened and his eyes hardened. For the first time since I had met him, he didn't look amused, he looked furious.

I watched him closely.

Whoever was calling had clearly gotten under his skin.

He didn't answer the call, I realized, his fingers tightened around the phone, then he ended the call.

He shoved the phone into his chest pocket and released a slow breath.

I raised my brows.

Would a call really make him react that way?

He was about to sit beside the bed and adjust the brace when his phone vibrated again.

He stopped.

The vibration continued against his chest.

Thierry's hand slowly moved toward his pocket, but he didn't take the phone out immediately. His eyes dropped to the screen, and the calm expression on his face disappeared again.

His jaw tightened.

This time, I noticed something else.

His fingers were gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles had turned pale.

Whoever was calling wasn't someone he wanted to speak to.

The phone vibrated again.

Thierry glanced toward the door as if making sure we were alone before finally declining the call.

I watched him carefully.

A second later, a message appeared on his screen.

He read it.

His face went completely still.

For a moment, he looked less like the calm physiotherapist standing in front of me and more like someone who had just been warned about something he couldn't ignore.

Then he locked the screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"I think you should answer it. I won't stop you," I said.

His eyes met mine. For a second, he didn't say anything, then he smiled. But this time, the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"It's not serious. I don't take calls during my work hours." He said.

I studied him.

Something about that answer didn't feel right.

But it wasn't my business. At least, that's what I told myself.

My eyes moved toward the television remote sitting on the table. I picked it up and turned on the TV.

My mother had taken my phone from me and banned me from using the internet for a while. She knew exactly how obsessed I would become with reading what people were saying about my injury.

The television came on. The screen flickered and then I froze.

A picture of me appeared. I was on the field.

The same field where my career had ended.

The news showed a replay of the collision.

The footage was slowed down, showing the moment my body hit the ground.

I watched myself fall again and again.

The screen changed to another clip. Paramedics rushing toward me. My teammates surrounding me. My mother fighting through the crowd, then the camera zoomed in on the ambulance carrying me away.

My stomach twisted.

A news anchor appeared on the screen.

"Twenty-year-old college lacrosse star Chase Jackson suffered a severe knee injury during last night's highly anticipated game between the Red Titans and their rivals."

A picture of me in my Red Titans uniform appeared beside her.

"The injury occurred during the final minutes of the game, when Jackson collided heavily with an opposing player while attempting to regain possession of the ball."

The anchor continued.

"Jackson was rushed to hospital following the incident, with early reports describing the injury as severe. The young athlete was expected to attract significant attention from professional scouts this season."

My throat tightened. Those words hurt more than I expected. The screen showed photographs of me playing lacrosse throughout the years.

My first championship, my college debut, my mother standing beside me and The Red Titans celebrating after a victory, then the anchor spoke again.

"Many fans are now asking the same question: will Chase Jackson ever return to competitive lacrosse?"

I swallowed hard again trying to hide my tears.

I didn't want to hear anymore, but I couldn't turn it off. Suddenly, my mother's face appeared on the screen.

I froze.

She was sitting in front of a group of reporters.

The same woman who had just grabbed my jaw. The same woman who had told me I had ruined everything. Now she was smiling.

A reporter held a microphone toward her.

"I'm sorry about your daughter's injury. I really wish her a safe recovery, but with the intensity and severity of her injury, do you feel she will still be able to return to the lacrosse field for the final season this year?"

My fingers tightened around the blanket.

My mother smiled confidently.

"Of course she will. She is recovering well, and she has the best doctors and physiotherapist in the whole world. She is..."

I stared at the screen.

Of course. Not once had she said she was worried about me. Not once had she said she was grateful I was alive.

All she cared about was the sport, the legacy.

The cameras. The scouts.

"We are both the same. We will never give up. The legacy must..."

Suddenly, the screen went black.

I blinked. The sound disappeared and I looked around.

Thierry was standing beside the television.

He was holding the power cord in one hand.

His expression was calm.

"This is not good for your recovery." He said quietly.

He lowered the cord and looked directly at me.

"You have to associate yourself with positive things right now. Find a new hobby."

I stared at the blank television screen.

"Like what?" My voice cracked.

"All I know is Lacrosse. I've started holding the stick since when I was four. There is nothing else I know of."

Thierry leaned against the cabinet. His expression softened.

"It doesn't have to replace your love for Lacrosse. Just take it as something to get your mind off all the drama and trauma right now. Your recovery is the most important."

I looked down at my hands. Recovery.

That word felt strange. I had spent my whole life training to win. Now I had to learn how to heal.

Thierry checked the time on his watch.

"Our session is over today. Next time we'll start some movements."

I looked up quickly. "You're leaving already?"

He smiled. "Yes."

I nodded slowly. He picked up his chart and turned toward the door. I watched him walk away.

Something inside me suddenly tightened.

"Thierry." I called.

He stopped and turned around.

"Can I ask you for a favor?"

His eyebrows lifted.

"What kind of favor?"

I stared at him for a moment, then swallowed.

"I need you to take me somewhere."