Rhett
“I hate hospitals,” I tell Mo the next morning.
“Shhh.” She shoots me a warning look as we enter the sterile waiting area. “This isn’t a hospital; it’s a doctor’s office, and there are people around.”
I look everywhere, doing a three-sixty, and don’t see a damn person. “Where? Where are the people?”
“You’re grouchy today,” she says, motioning for me to sign in at the front desk.
I scribble my name on a piece of paper at the same time the receptionist slides the glass window open.
“I’m going to need your insurance card and a photo ID,” she says, using a black marker to cross out the name I just signed.
Well, that was pointless.
I pull the cards she’s requested from my wallet and hand them to her.
“You can have seat. I’ll get these back to you when we call you in.”
I nod as the window closes again. “I’m grouchy because I hate doctors,” I say, following Mo.
She walks to the back of the waiting room and grabs a magazine from the shelf. When she goes to sit down, she winces.
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” she whispers, fighting back a smile. “I’m sore.”
It takes a second for her words to sink in, but when they do, I grin. Last night was by far the best night Mo and I have had since getting back together. I say that every time, but it’s always true.
“I guess tonight I’ll have to take your ass instead.”
Mo’s eyes grow wide as she looks around to make sure no one heard. Lucky for her we’re the only ones in the room, other than the walled-off receptionist.
Before Mo has a chance to scold me, a door off to the left opens, and a woman in black scrubs steps out. With a folder in her hand, she looks at Mo and me. “Rhett Allen?”
We follow her through a set of wooden doors, down a hall, and then into another room. She takes my blood pressure, asks a few questions about how I’ve been feeling—to which I reply great—and then disappears from the room.
“I hate these offices,” I announce once she’s gone. “They’re so cold. Look at the walls; you’d think they could infuse some color or something.”
“You’ve seen plenty of them; you should know.”
“Really, Mo?”
She frowns, but once again, she gets interrupted. I’m grateful because I’m not sure I want to hear what she has to say. Plus, she couldn’t say anything that hasn’t already been jammed into my head a million times over.
This is a dangerous career.
What if you get seriously injured?
The next blow to your head could kill you.
“It’s great to see you again, Mr. Allen,” Dr. Wong says, offering me his hand.
“So, what’s the verdict?” I ask as we shake.
He drops my chart on the counter and sits down in a roller chair. With his hands clasped in front of himself, he smiles. “Your physical therapist sent me all of your records, and he seems to think you’ve made quite a bit of progress.”
“Does that mean I don’t need surgery?”
Monroe reaches for my hand.
Dr. Wong nods and stands up. “You’re correct. You won’t need surgery,” he says, manipulating my arm into several different positions.
I sigh in relief, and Mo smiles. My shoulder has felt great for the last couple weeks, but the thought of surgery has lingered in the back of my head.
“Does that mean I can go back to work?”
“Yes, I’m clearing you from your shoulder injury to return to work.”
He says the words, but his eyes are guarded, and I know there’s a but coming.
“But I want you to know the risks,” he continues. “I’ve looked over your history, and this isn’t your first shoulder injury. On top of that, your rotator cuff is still fragile, so while I will release you, I highly encourage you to start thinking about retirement.” He returns to his seat.
“Retirement? Are you kidding me?”
Mo squeezes my hand, but I shake her off.
“I’m nowhere close to retirement. I’ve got years ahead of me in this career.”
Dr. Wong holds up his hands. “I’m not telling you you have to quit. I’m simply suggesting that you start thinking about your future. Another injury like this one, and you’ll be out for surgery with months of rehab, and your shoulder still might not get back to a hundred percent. Look,” he says, scooting to the edge of his seat. “You’re young, and you have your entire life ahead of you. There are lots of things you can’t do with a bum shoulder.”
“If his shoulder is still fragile, why are you clearing him to return?”
You’ve got to be kidding me. I shoot a nasty look at Mo, but she keeps her eyes locked on Dr. Wong.
“Because it’s healed, Ms…”
“Gallagher.”
He smiles. “As much as I would like to, I can’t keep Mr. Allen on the disabled list just because I fear a potential re-injury. Bull riding is a dangerous sport, but he knows the hazards, and it has to be his choice. It’s my job to make sure he goes in with eyes wide open.”
Monroe nods, and thank God she doesn’t say another word.
“So that’s it?” I ask. “We’re done?”
“Almost. I spoke to Dr. Pine about the concussion—”
“I don’t need clearance from the concussion to ride,” I say, interrupting him.
“I know you don’t.”
“Wait.” Monroe turns to me. “What do you mean you don’t need to be cleared after a concussion?” She looks back at the doctor.
“I’m afraid he’s right, Ms. Gallagher. The PBR doesn’t require medical clearance after a concussion. He’s free to ride as soon as he feels up to it.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“I’m fine, Mo.” I grit the words out, ignoring the nauseating look she gives me.
“Yes, you’re fine now. Forget about the shoulder injury; I’m more worried about your head.”
Son of a bitch. What was I thinking bringing her with me today?
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about next, Mr. Allen,” Dr. Wong says. “Dr. Pine wants to see you while you’re in the building today.”
“I’m not sure if we’re going to have time, and I didn’t make an appointment.”
He nods. “My nurse went ahead and scheduled you one after I talked to Dr. Pine the other day. He just wants to see how you’re feeling. It won’t take long, and if you’re ready, you can go over there now.”
“We’re ready,” Mo answers for me.
“Great.” Dr. Wong reaches for my chart and pulls out a piece of paper. “Here’s your medical clearance.”
“Thanks, Doc.” I fold the paper and stuff it in my back pocket.
He reaches for the door and stops. “For what it’s worth, you’re an extremely talented bull rider. I just want you to walk away from the industry someday with enough of your health left to become an even better husband and father.” He glances at Mo, giving her a smile and nod, and steps out the door.
“Mo.”
She stands up, pulling her purse strap high on her shoulder. “I refuse to apologize for asking questions that pertain to your health.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to apologize.”
“Good. Because I won’t,” she says, walking out.
The silence is deafening as we walk to the opposite side of the medical complex to Dr. Pine’s office. Within twenty minutes I’m back in a stark white room, sitting on a bed with that noisy-as-fuck paper.
“Mr. Allen,” Dr. Pine says as he walks in. He’s a tall man with a gut that tells me he enjoys his dessert as much as I do. Other than a few gray hairs along his temples, he looks the same. “It’s been a while.”
“That’s a good thing, Doc.” I shake his hand. “Means I’ve been healthy.”
“Until recently,” he adds, turning toward Mo. “And you are?”
“Monroe Gallagher,” she answers, slipping her hand in his.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” When he releases Mo’s hand, he picks up my chart and flips through. “I assume Dr. Wong told you we spoke on the phone the other day.”
“He mentioned it.”
Dr. Pine looks up from the chart. “Don’t worry, Rhett, all good things. We’ve both enjoyed following your career.”
“I hear a but in there somewhere.”
He smiles at Monroe while pointing at me. “Is he always this cynical?”
She returns his smile but doesn’t answer.
“I just wanted to talk to you about your head.”
“My head is good, Doc.”
“No blurred vision, floaters, or black spots?”
“Nothing.”
“Dizziness or headaches?”
I shake my head, and he continues.
“Numbness or tingling in the extremities?”
“Nothing.”
“What about muscle weakness, difficulty chewing or swallowing, memory loss, or trouble concentrating?”
I know what he’s getting at, and he’s not going to get a positive answer from me. “I’m good. I’d tell you if something was wrong.”
“Would you?” Monroe asks, lifting a brow.
Dr. Pine laughs. “I like this one,” he says. “She’ll keep you on your toes. In all fairness, Ms. Gallagher, Rhett is generally a good patient. He comes to me when he’s concerned about something.”
She looks at me apologetically, and I smile. As frustrating as it is, I know she’s just looking out for me.
“Is that why you wanted to see me today, to make sure I’m still okay?”
“I got a report from the hospital after your recent stay. I was on vacation, which is why you saw Dr. Simpson. That concussion did a number on you, and I wanted a chance to follow up and make sure you weren’t suffering any secondary complications.”
“I’m good.”
“What do you mean it did a number on him?” Monroe asks.
Dr. Pine looks at me. “I’m assuming that since you brought her in here, I’m able to discuss your injuries with her?”
“Yeah, you can talk to her.” I drop my head into my hand, running my fingers along my forehead, preparing myself for what’s to come.
“Well, Ms. Gallagher, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this wasn’t Rhett’s first concussion.”
“I’m aware.”
“He was unconscious for three days, although we believe that was partially due to swelling in the brain after a blow to the head by the bull. The time before this, he was unconscious for four days. These aren’t the typical concussions someone playing a contact sport might receive. These are more serious, with the potential to cause severe damage.”
I peek through my fingers to see Mo grinding her teeth together. Coop probably was sugarcoating things for her. I’ll have to remember to thank him.
“He didn’t tell me that,” she says, not bothering to look at me.
Dr. Pine frowns. “I figured.”
“What does this mean? He had scans, right? They did all of that in the hospital. And everything had to come back okay or they wouldn’t have discharged him.”
“You’re right. They did scans, everything came back fine, the swelling subsided, and it was identified as a grade 3 concussion. But it’s still considered a traumatic brain injury.”
Mo’s eyes grow wide. “That sounds serious.”
“Any time there’s a traumatic brain injury, we take it very seriously. This type of injury can cause bruising or damage to the blood vessels and nerves, as well as amnesia and memory loss.”
Lips parted in disbelief, Mo turns to look at me. She holds my gaze for what feels like a solid minute before turning back to Dr. Pine.
“Ms. Gallagher, I know this must seem startling to you, but it isn’t new to Rhett. We’ve had several long talks about the dangers of bull riding, and he’s well aware of the implications it could have on his future.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” she says.
He pats my knee. “Me neither, which is why I brought him in today. One last-ditch effort to get him to reconsider returning to the arena.”
I hate that they’re talking about me as if I’m not sitting right here. It’s easy for them to pass judgment on my decisions, but I wonder how either of them would feel if I barred them from doing what they loved most. The rodeo is in my DNA. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing, and despite the ‘risks and implications’, as Dr. Pine likes to call it, I can’t walk away. Not yet, at least.
“Save your breath.” I hop off the table, positioning myself near the window. “I’m not giving it up.”
“I’ve always been a straight shooter with you, Rhett, and I’m not going to change that now. You’re risking your life by getting back on a bull. Another blow to the head could cause permanent brain damage or paralysis, and I don’t think you understand how serious that is.”
“I don’t think you understand what my profession means to me,” I growl. “You could get killed in a car accident every time you drive to work, but you still do it.”
“That’s different.”
“It isn’t!” I yell, even as I regret my outrage. Jamming my hands into my hair, I pace the room. “I get it, okay? I get that each ride could be my last. Every one of us steps into that arena knowing we might not walk out. It’s a chance we take. My chances are higher; I understand that too, and I’ll walk away when I’m ready. But I’m not there yet, so I’d appreciate it if you two would get off my back.”
Mo was with me when I got on a bull for the first time. She’s seen me get bucked off more times than I can count. She’s seen me get kicked and trampled, and she’s always encouraged me to get back on. I asked her to come with me today because she was always my biggest supporter, and I thought she’d continue to be that today.
I guess I was wrong.
Yanking the door open, I storm out of the office, refusing to listen to another warning from Dr. Pine or receive another questioning look from Mo.
Fuck that.