Fucking.
Dammit.
My hand curls into a fist inside the handcuff. “Look. I don’t deal drugs. I’ve never even taken drugs. Whatever you found, it wasn’t mine.”
“His bloodwork was clear,” Dr. Taggerty murmurs. “For what it’s worth.”
The officers barely acknowledge her. They’re looking at me with that familiar expression. The one that says,You’re a Reyes. You’re trouble.
I try to keep calm, but the anger brimming inside me is difficult to swallow. “I have no idea how the drugs got into my truck. I swear it. I—” I break off with a wheeze of pain. My cracked ribs ache so badly, my eyes gloss.
Dr. Taggerty rushes to my side, putting her fingers to my jugular vein to check the pulse pounding there. “That’s enough. No more questions today, officers. As I told you before, you’ll have to come back if you want to question him.” She pauses. “And, if he’s really under arrest, I don’t think I need to remind you he’s entitled to a lawyer.”
Belkin scowls. “Fine. We’ll come back tomorrow. But we’re reading him his rights before we go.”
I close my eyes, trying to shut out the words.
You have the right to remain silent.
Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
You have the right to an attorney.
If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…
I don’t open my lids again until the officers are gone. When I do, I find Dr. Taggerty watching me. Her eyes are full of sympathy.
“You’ve had a rough go of it.”
“I can’t lie, it’s not exactly how I pictured my graduation day going.” I scowl down at the clunky plaster cast on my right arm. “How bad is it?”
“You have severe bruising over your entire body, three cracked ribs, plus some pretty persistent internal bleeding we need to keep an eye on for the next few days. If it doesn’t resolve on its own, you’ll need surgery.” She pauses to shine a light into my pupils, checking for reactivity. “This gash on your temple is pretty nasty. You’ve got sixteen stitches.”
“Like Frankenstein? Perfect.”
“You’ll have a scar, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Your hairline will hide most of it.” She lightly probes the wound, checking the bandage with deft fingers.
“And my wrist?”
She sighs. “A compound fracture. When you came in, the bone was protruding through your skin in a not-so-pretty way. We rushed you into surgery and set it for you. It will require some extensive physical therapy if you expect to regain your mobility.”
“I’m a pitcher,” I say inaudibly.
“What was that?”
My eyes lift to hers. “I’m a pitcher. A baseball pitcher.”
Her face pales. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“I have a scholarship. If I can’t play… I can’t go to college.” I wish my voice wasn’t shaking. “Please. Just tell me. Will I be able to pitch again?”
“I will send in the orthopedic surgeon to discuss your prognosis in depth tomorrow. But I won’t lie — injuries like this don’t always heal perfectly. There’s are pins in your body, where before there was only bone. Even with physical therapy, you may never regain the exact level of control or throwing power you had before.”
I turn my head away. I don’t want her to see the tears filling my eyes.
“Archer.” Her hand lands on mine, squeezing warmly below the cold metal cuff. “You are young and healthy. There’s no reason to assume the worst. And even if your baseball career is over… your life isn’t. After the accident you had, you’re lucky to be breathing.”
My head swivels toward her in slow degrees.