31. Common Knee Injuries for Dancers

THIRTY-ONE

#2 Periferal meniscul tear

The light was almost blue when I woke up the next morning. It was early—far earlier than I usually woke up, considering my typically late schedule. I would have thought I was still dreaming if I hadn't fallen asleep in Nathan's arms the night before. And this time, he knew it was me he was holding as we both drifted off.

I had never slept better in my life.

Down the hall, I could hear the rumblings of male voices, though whatever they were saying was unintelligible. Probably Nathan and Carrick, who must have returned last night from whatever den he'd found the one before.

I wasn't sure I cared where that was, so long as he stayed out of Nathan's and my business. The man had a special talent for making me feel as shitty as possible, but if he thought he was going to use my life to come between me and his brother, he could think again. After last night, I could handle it. I had to.

My stomach rumbled alongside the conversation happening in another room, so I decided to hell with Carrick's nonexistent sense of propriety as I threw on another of Nathan's shirts and borrowed a pair of his boxer shorts for good measure since my underwear didn't seem to be anywhere in sight. I had to roll the waistband about four times so they would stay put, but they worked. And let's be honest, Carrick had already seen me in a whole lot less.

"I think she'll be curious to hear your thoughts," Nathan was saying as I padded down the hallway after brushing the morning out of my mouth. "I looked up her case. They turned her over to Gifford, who did the original surgery."

"Gifford? He's a hack. Between you and me, he shouldn't even have progressed past his first year of residency."

I turned the corner to find Nathan sitting in the living room. However, it wasn't Carrick on the other side of the room from him. Instead, a man I'd never met before was sitting on one of the armchairs. He looked to be maybe five or ten years older than Nathan.

Nathan's eyes popped open when I entered, flickering over my clothes as his cheeks pinked slightly.

Both men stood immediately.

"Um, hello." I offered a weak wave and suddenly wished I'd done more than shoved my hair into a messy bun. "It's, um, early."

Nathan tipped his head kindly. "It's almost eight o'clock." He turned to the man. "Jayce, this is my girlfriend, Joni. Joni, this is a mentor of mine, Dr. Jayce McAndrew."

"Mentor's probably putting it a bit lightly," replied Dr. McAndrew with a friendly smile.

"Jayce was a fellow during my first general surgery rotation," Nathan explained to me.

"Would have kept you on ortho too if you hadn't been so damn stubborn about burn repair," McAndrew joked.

"You knew that I intended to become a burn specialist," Nathan said, seemingly unaware of the humor.

I smiled. He was so earnest, it was adorable.

Feeling more than a little shy to be standing in front of one of Nathan's colleagues in nothing but his oversized T-shirt and rolled-at-the-waist boxers, I nodded at the men. "Um, nice to meet you, Dr. McAndrew." I waved at my clothes. "Sorry about this."

"It's fine," said McAndrew said. "And, actually, it will make my job easier."

I frowned. "Huh?"

"Jayce is the head of orthopedic surgery at Mount Sinai West," Nathan explained. "He specializes in knee injuries and works extensively with the American Ballet Theatre."

My eyes popped open. "You've fixed dancers' knees?"

McAndrew smiled. "A fair amount of them, yes. I hear you've got one that's bugging you."

Nathan came to stand next to me. "I asked Jayce if he wouldn't mind giving a second opinion as a favor to me."

I looked between them, utterly shocked. "But it—I?—"

"I'm going to make her some coffee first," Nathan said before I could stumble. "Jayce, would you like another?"

"Sure, that would be great, man."

Nathan grabbed my hand and towed me into the kitchen before I could say another word.

"Wow," I started to say once the door was shut. "I can't believe you asked another doc—oh!"

Suddenly, I was grabbed by the waist and shoved against the fridge, and Nathan's mouth was on mine before I could say another word. His hands slipped into the boxers to grab my ass and pull my legs up and around his waist with a groan as his tongue met mine.

The kiss didn't last long, though by the time it ended, I was ready for much more. Nathan, however, just let my legs drop to the ground and pressed his forehead to mine.

"Good morning," he said quietly.

"Mmm. Good morning to you too."

"I think we're going to have to have a rule about you not wearing my shirts." Nathan stood up straight and adjusted his glasses.

"Oh no, why?" I whined. "Don't make me do that. They are so much comfier than mine."

"Not in front of company, then," Nathan said gruffly. "Because the next time I see you in one, I'll have to fuck you on the spot. And I might not care who watches."

I gasped. The thing about Nathan was that he meant pretty much every word he said.

"I thought I was the one with the exhibitionist streak," I murmured as his hand slipped around my neck again. I arched into his touch.

Nathan leaned down and bit my ear. "Maybe you're a bad influence on me."

"I don't know if I think it's bad."

His hand trailed down my side, taking its time to feel my curves. There was an ache in that touch. A need that was pulsing through me as well. "I…Did you sleep well?"

"Y-yes," I managed. "Did you?"

"Very well." Nathan almost seemed to be considering the fact as he readjusted his glasses. His eyes trailed over my mussed hair and the clothes I was wearing. "I like having you in my bed."

Images of us together in said bed, doing all sorts of things, flickered through my mind.

I squeezed my legs together. "Want to go back to it?"

"Yes," he said fervently. "But unfortunately, this can't wait."

I pouted.

His brown eyes flared. "Joni."

I pouted some more.

"Please. I need you to move so I can make you a coffee and try to get rid of this embarrassingly large erection."

I edged away from the fridge but didn't hide my admiration for the prominent bulge in his jeans. My mouth watered as more memories of the night came back. And back. And back.

"You need to stop looking at me like that, too," he said as he pulled the milk out of the fridge.

"I thought you weren't good at reading people's expressions."

"That one is pretty obvious."

I chuckled. "Then you need to stop reminding me about your oversized equipment, sir. Don't want a girl to stare at the goods, then don't point them out."

Nathan looked at me for a moment. Then the fridge door was slammed shut, and I was yanked to him for another scorching kiss.

Many more seconds later, I was gasping for breath. Nathan appeared to be having just as much difficulty finding oxygen.

"We have to stop," he said against my lips.

"I know."

He kissed me again. "We have company."

"He could leave."

Another kiss. Then an audible groan. Nathan released me with a quick smack on the butt.

"Go change," he said gruffly. "Before I kick Jayce out and finish what you started."

I grinned but reluctantly followed orders.

A few minutes later, I returned to the living room, where Nathan and Jayce were chatting again over coffee, and a third mug was waiting for me. I had changed into another pair of shorts—ones that fit me properly—and a sweatshirt that didn't make Nathan yank me out of the room again.

I wasn't sure I liked that effect, but it was the polite thing to do.

"So, Joni," McAndrew said, already eyeing the still-dark scar on my knee with interest. "Why don't you tell me a bit about what happened with your knee."

I glanced at Nathan beside me, who nodded.

"Ah, all right. Well, I was a dancer in Chicago. And my knee gave out during rehearsal about a week before I was supposed to open."

"That had to be rough," the doctor said sympathetically.

I nodded. Rough didn't even cover it. Having your lifelong dream ripped out of your grasp days before it was supposed to happen was the end of everything for me.

"What were you doing when it happened?"

I told him the story. The basics of the routine which was very jump-intensive. I was one of the few cast members with a solid enough ballet background to handle moves like fouettés and cabrioles—it was one of the reasons why I'd gotten the part, despite not having quite as solid a background in vocal training as some of the auditioners. The choreographer had a lot of new ideas he wanted to implement for the new production. A cross between Fosse and Balanchine.

The combination proved fatal. To my knee, anyway. One twisted landing and I ended up in surgery two weeks later to repair a torn ACL.

McAndrew nodded throughout, asked a few questions here and there, listened carefully, and then had me do a series of evaluative tests to see how strong the joint was. By the end, he had typed out several notes on his tablet, all of which I was dying to read.

"It could be a variety of things," he said after we were finished. "It's possible your recovery is just taking longer than normal, although, in someone with your strength, I'd expect full range of motion by now." He scratched his chin. "I'd like to do an MRI, to be sure."

I wilted on the couch. "Oh. Well. We might have to wait a while then. I can't really afford that now, since I don't have insurance."

"When?" Nathan asked. "She needs to dance, Jayce—this is her livelihood. And it's been almost six months since her operation."

When I turned, his eyes met mine with silent instruction to follow his lead.

I didn't know what that meant, but he knew my situation. How was this going to work?

McAndrew pulled out his phone and made a quick call. "Hey, babe. Quick question—any chance we could get into the MRI twenty minutes earlier this morning?" He listened and smiled. "Thanks, hon." After the call ended, he smiled at me. "My wife's the chief radiologist at Sinai." He winked. "Up for getting some pictures taken?"

Two hours later, I sat with Nathan in Dr. McAndrew's office while we waited for him to return with the new MRI images. His wife, Dr. Paola Brunson, was a kind yet brusque woman who had hustled me into a hospital gown and then into the loud, clanging tube that took images of my legs for an hour while Nathan stood with her and Jayce in the control room, and I listened to a true crime podcast about Son of Sam.

It hadn't helped my anxiety.

Now, sitting in the office, I couldn't stop moving. My knees were bobbing up and down, my feet were shaking, and my fingers were tapping out the steps to "All That Jazz" on the chair arms.

One of Nathan's large hands landed on top of mine.

I turned. "Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize for a natural response," he said. "Stimming is an unconscious way of coping with difficult emotional moments like boredom, anxiety, or other stressors. It's particularly evident in neurodivergent people." He looked pointedly at his other hand, which was tapping a pattern on his knee. "I do that one too. It started when I had to take piano lessons as a child."

I bit my lip. "I've never seen you do that."

"I'm not usually very uncomfortable around you."

It was like he knew just what to say. "Have I ever told you how much I like it when you nerd out on me?"

One brow lifted. "Stating simple facts is ‘nerding out'?"

I nodded, unable to hide my pleasure. "Oh, yeah."

"And that's a good thing?"

My grin fought its way out. "Oh, yeah. You'll be happy to know this girl's got a huge thing for smart guys. Especially when they are also tall, curly-haired doctors with glasses."

Nathan blinked adorably. "I don't know whether that's sarcastic or if you really mean it."

"Come here." I pulled him down for a little kiss with a lot of tongue. When I was finished, his eyes had darkened considerably, and he was squeezing my hand a lot harder than before. "Does that seem like I didn't mean it?"

He swallowed hard. "No."

I considered kissing him again, and he looked like he wanted me to. But I needed to talk about something else first.

"I am nervous," I admitted. "You went through all this trouble, called in favors with these big-shot doctors just for me. And what if nothing comes of it? What if it's the same old response—that my knee just can't dance anymore? Or what if it's something even worse, like a horrible surgery is needed that I absolutely can't afford? What if?—"

"All of those are possibilities," Nathan interrupted as he gently took my hand and cradled it between both of his. "With varying levels of potential. But honestly, you won't know until Jayce comes in here to tell you."

For some reason, his frank words made me relax a bit more. Nathan didn't say the things other people would say. If my sisters had been here, they would have been full of platitudes. Lea would have told me to calm down and stop worrying, while Kate and Frankie would have insisted that it would be good news no matter what. Marie would have just said it would be fine, no matter what.

And I would have known that deep down, none of what they were saying was true. I had every right to worry. There was no way of knowing what the news would be. And it wasn't going to be fine no matter what.

"Thank you for just saying the truth," I told him. "Thank you for being here."

Nathan looked up. "I'll always tell you the truth, Joni. I promise."

I squeezed his hand, then leaned in to give him another quick kiss. "Me too."

There was a knock at the door before it opened, and Jayce walked in, followed by his wife.

"Sorry about the delay," McAndrew said as he took a seat behind the desk and logged into his computer. "We wanted to compare the new images to the old ones to see if there were any differences. Took a minute to put them together."

Twin images of my knee popped up on a large flat screen on the other side of the room. We all turned to look at them as Dr. Brunson strode over.

"I spotted it immediately," Brunson said, pointing to the interior of what I assumed was my right knee in the first image. "There."

Nathan's eyes popped open with obvious recognition.

"What?" I asked. "What is it?" They both looked the same to me.

"Meniscal tear?" Nathan guessed.

"Very good," Brunson said. "Better than my former resident could do, and you're in plastics." She looked at me apologetically. "You'll be happy to know he left the program last month. Won't be missing any more stupidly obvious injuries anymore."

"Claflin wasn't that bad," McAndrew said kindly, though it was obviously a joke.

"He was a pain in my ass. I don't have time for that kind of mediocrity," Brunson said as she turned back to the screen. "There." She pointed at the second screen. "Do you see that white line? There's a small one in the first image, but the ACL tear is so obvious that the radiologist missed the one in your meniscus, and apparently, so did your surgeon. And then, while you were rehabilitating the knee, you actually made the meniscal tear worse."

"The pain would have been in a similar spot too," McAndrew added. "So there you have it. Now, do you want the good news?"

Nathan and I both immediately pivoted to him.

"There's good news?" I asked.

Beside me, Nathan was already smiling.

"There is," McAndrew said.

"The good news is, he can fix it," Nathan provided.

"Hey, man, that's my line." But McAndrew was chuckling. "But, yeah, it's a relatively easy fix. The tear is small, and it's in the vascular section—that's the part that blood can get to and help it heal—and I've actually pioneered some recent treatments with stem cell injections I think you'd be perfect for. We'll just trim it off, give you an injection, and you should be good to go."

"Prognosis?" Nathan wondered.

McAndrew shrugged. "Simple meniscectomy. Possible repair if I see any complications, but she should be able to walk out of surgery the same day and start PT. Generally, my patients recover from this sort of injury in six weeks, Joni. It might be a bit longer, given the extra stabilizing needed for the ACL, but I'd say you could be back to regular activity within a few months, barring delayed progress with your ACL. Running, yoga." He looked at me knowingly. "Dancing."

I sank back into my seat, feeling like I'd been punched in the gut. Nathan automatically reached for my hand and squeezed.

"You'll need to be careful, still," McAndrew said. "It's important not to rush things. You don't want to re-tear it."

But I was already shaking my head.

"Oh, no," I said, my eyes brimming with tears. "Six weeks is nothing. Not when you just gave me back the rest of my life." I grinned. "Not when you just gave me hope."