Cam

 

I stared—more like glared—at the white coat-toting doctor who was currently threatening to destroy my life.

“That’s impossible,” I said in disbelief. “The surgery I had four years ago repaired my patella tendon.”

Dr. Kowalski’s face fell in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donovan, but this can sometimes happen, especially with such a critical part of the body. As active as you are, and with your prior injuries, a re-tear like this was always a possibility.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, scooting forward to the edge of the exam table. “The patella tendon can rupture, like mine did. But even after major open-knee surgery and a year’s worth of intensive physical therapy, it can still tear all over again?”

He nodded forlornly. “I’m afraid so.”

No, no, no.

Just fucking no.

I scrubbed my hands down my face, blowing out a heavy breath. “How bad is it?”

He stepped over to the X-rays clipped to the fluorescent screen, pointing with the tip of his pen. “It’s not a rupture, like you had before. This is a minor tear and wouldn’t require surgery. At least, not at this point.”

My stomach sank as if it were filled with lead. “And by that you mean…?”

His expression turned grave. “It could become more serious. Despite how you strengthened your knee after your surgery, it’s still weak and very susceptible to injury. All it would take is one nasty fall, or even landing on it wrong, for it to completely rupture again.”

No way in hell was this happening again. I could not go through what I went through four years ago. Not this year. Not now.

“But I don’t need surgery?”

He shook his head. “No, but I can’t stress enough how fragile the tendon is right now. The best thing for it is rest and immobilization.”

A harsh laugh burst from me. The good doctor must have been out of his damn mind.

“Can’t do that, Doc. Basketball practice has already begun, and the season starts next month. The one thing I’m not going to be able to do is stay off of it.”

He sighed and adjusted his glasses. “I understand your obligations, Mr. Donovan. But you really need to monitor this.”

“I will.” As much as I can. “I’ll wear a brace and ice it between practices and games.”

This was all I needed this year. On top of everything else, I now had to worry about a recurring knee injury that had the potential to bring my entire college career to a grinding, abrupt halt. Too soon. Before I could effectively stamp my name alongside so many others in the annals of college basketball legacies.

Over my dead body that would happen.

“I would suggest doing regular physical therapy exercises, too,” Dr. Kowalski said. “I can put you in touch with someone who would work around your schedule.”

I rubbed the tension from my neck. “Nah, I already got a guy.” In a manner of speaking.

Gus, the old team trainer, wasn’t someone I wanted to confide in about this issue, and the fewer people who knew about it, the better. Because the other thing I didn’t need? The press getting wind of this and going ape-shit with it. Hounding me for interviews, speculating on what this meant for the season, and projecting all kinds of negative crap toward me and my North Calhoun University teammates.

My guys had to keep their heads in the right places. And knowing their star leader had a season-threatening injury was not going to boost team morale. With one simple news headline, the entire country could either be rooting for you, or rooting against you. They could love you or hate you. They could have total and complete faith in you, or be a bunch of doubting Thomases.

We needed everyone to be behind us, in our corner, if we wanted to go all the way to the national championship this year.

I needed that.

Which meant that no one outside of this exam room could find out about my injury.

“Under the circumstances, Doc,” I said, “I hope I can count on your discretion regarding this…situation.”

He patted my shoulder in reassurance. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. This will stay between us.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Just…” I glanced up when he trailed off. “Just take care of it, okay?”

I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Damn straight I would.

Because I had missed my entire freshman season due to the first round of this ruptured patella tendon nightmare, I was now a red shirt senior. It was not the time for another trip to the surgeon, followed by weeks spent on crutches while I watched my team play their asses off without me.

I had been one of the top high school basketball players recruited for collegiate greatness five years ago. My injury that had prevented me from playing my entire freshman year had made national headlines. And frankly, I hadn’t been able to stay out of the headlines ever since.

The media hadn’t just covered my skills on the court over the years, either. No. That would have been too easy. They had invaded my personal life, delved into my familial history, and tracked my numerous non-relationships with women. These days, athletes were on the same level as the biggest celebrity names in Hollywood. And as such, nothing was off-limits to the press. Apparently, everyone thought I was so great that they’d even come up with a name for me by the end of my sophomore year.

The King of the Court.

Basically, it was on par with Mr. October, The Great One, and Dr. J. But for college basketball.

My teammates thought it was badass. My mom thought it was adorable.

I thought it was ridiculous.

I wasn’t the king of anything and didn’t pretend to be. Sure, I had busted my ass over the years to get where I was today, but I wasn’t anything special. Did I want to be the best? Hell, yes. But I couldn’t win a championship by myself. I had always been taught to be a team player and damn it, that’s what I was trying to do. I’d played along with the name over the years, making a joke of it more than anything. Sort of playing up the image for the cameras. But if the press wanted to talk about how great I was, they should be giving credit to the rest of my team, too.

But no matter what I said or what I did, whenever college basketball was mentioned anywhere, my name was the first thing that came to people’s minds. They had made me the face of the entire sport, and I hated it. I just wanted to be left alone to play the game I loved without some reporter shoving their mic into my face, asking me about the party I’d been photographed at the night before with some no-name co-ed on my arm.

Needless to say, the media had been building up the hype of “Cam Donovan’s senior year” before my junior year had even ended. The preseason rankings had already come out and, no surprise, NCU was in the number one spot. We were projected to win the whole damn thing.

The tournament. The Big Show.

We were the predicted champions.

No pressure or anything.

There was a lot riding on this year. Everyone wanted this championship. Our university wanted it, our town wanted it, our conference wanted it. Our fellow NCU students, our coaches, my teammates. And obviously, I wanted it. But as much as I loved my team and our coaching staff, the person I cared about the most was my mother.

She wanted it for me. And I wanted to give her that.

She had sacrificed so much to put me in all the basketball camps she could afford when I was growing up. Traveling leagues, tournaments. You name it, she made sure I was in it. Our relationship was one of the most featured stories about me and my rise to basketball stardom. The single mother raising her only son. The close bond we had. The fact that she hadn’t missed a single one of my games since I’d started playing school sports in seventh grade. Winning the NACA—the National Association for Collegiate Athletics—men’s basketball tournament was the culmination of both our collective dreams.

So, yeah. I was going to grit my teeth and fight through this damn knee pain, keeping my mouth shut about the whole thing until the season was over. I would hobble around and play on one foot if I had to.

Because we deserved this.

My mom deserved this.

I was the media’s golden boy. The entire country was watching me, waiting for me to screw up somehow, whether it was on the court or off. The media were always jonesing for that one negative breaking news story.

But I had news for them.

Nothing and no one was going to bring me down. Not defaming interviews or shameful articles about my character. Not unflattering pictures of me in the papers. And damn sure not reports about a supposed injury that would give anyone reason to doubt my capabilities.

Because I was the motherfucking King of the Court.

And this was my kingdom.