Author's Note: Written to cheer up a friend who has a broken ankle.

Jon's ankle hurt like blazes. The painkiller Doctor Phlox had given him must have worn off. The unwieldy cast that went from his toes to just below his knee didn't help. If anything, the cast only made him more aware of the pain emanating from his broken ankle.

Maybe he should call Phlox. The doctor had wanted to keep him in sickbay overnight, but Jon had insisted on returning to his cabin, primarily so he could sulk in peace. He eyed the com panel across the room as he tried to decide which was stronger -- his pride that kept him from calling Phlox, or the unrelenting agony of his ankle.

Jon's mouth pulled down in a frown as he recalled how his injury had happened. It had been his idea for the senior staff to have basketball games on a regular basis. They all needed to blow off steam on occasion, and it was a good way for them to bond outside of work situations. The senior staff that plays together works better together, or some such clap-trap. It had made sense when he'd come up with the idea.

So there the six of them were, down in the cargo bay they'd fitted up as a basketball court. They didn't have the space to make it regulation size, but they weren't using full five-man teams, either, so it balanced out. Each time they played, they rotated team members, so that the same officers weren't always playing together.

Jon's team members were Hoshi and Malcolm. On the other team were T'Pol, Trip and Travis. Jon thought the teams were evenly matched, for Phlox had been detained in sickbay by a crew member who had become ill. Invariably, Phlox's team always won because of the physician's wickedly accurate long shots. Jon was looking forward to seeing how his officers played without the ace shooter around.

As they began playing, Jon wondered if his team might be handicapped by Hoshi and Malcolm's shorter stature compared to that of Trip and Travis. His team members were agile, however, and the game started with both sides racking up several goals. True, Trip and Travis made several goals shooting over the heads of their opponents, but Hoshi and Malcolm were able to duck to the inside for lay-up shots. T'Pol, Jon noted, was becoming more adept at passing the ball. He knew she disliked being touched, and the sooner she got rid of the ball, the less a target she was for body contact with the other players.

Of all his officers, only Trip seemed not intimidated by the fact that they were playing with their captain. Travis, for example, had practically fallen over one time in an effort to avoid ramming into him, and Malcolm persisted in calling him "sir," even when yelling at him to pass the ball. But Trip didn't care who Jon was. Trip just wanted to win. Jon and Trip often slammed into each other as they fought for the ball.

Despite the exertion, bumps and bruises, Jon was happy. It was good to see his officers taking some time for a little friendly competition. None of them liked to lose, and that was exactly the type of people he wanted on his ship.

Then Trip blindsided him, careening into him as he'd jumped up to make a shot.

"Foul!" he heard Malcolm shout as he began to fall.

He hit the floor hard. Worse, his shot had gone wide and had missed the basket completely.

Trip offered a hand to help him up. "Sorry 'bout that," Trip said with a cheeky smile.

Jon snorted. He knew Trip wasn't the least bit sorry. Gaining his feet, he held out his hands for the ball, which Hoshi threw to him. He'd show Trip. He'd make two points in foul shots. He turned to say something over his shoulder to Trip as he walked to the free-throw line.

And that's when it happened. One of his shins banged into something. He knew what it was, and he instinctively twisted so as not to kick it. He lost his balance and went down again.

This time when he fell, he could have sworn he heard bone break.

A whine came from the end of the bed. Jon pushed himself up straighter against the pillows and glared at the furry head that popped up. When he made eye contact, another whine, louder, echoed through his cabin.

"I told you to stay on the sidelines," he chided Porthos sternly.

The beagle ducked his head and dropped down. Jon could hear him snuffling around unhappily on the dog bed that was just past the foot of his own bed. Porthos whined again, louder and even more heartbreakingly sad.

Jon relented. He couldn't stay mad at Porthos. It really hadn't been the dog's fault. He'd seen Jon fall and had run onto the court to make sure he was all right. He'd only been doing what any faithful dog would do.

Jon thumped the mattress. "Come here, Porthos."

Immediately the beagle bounded onto the bed. His tail wagged furiously as he scampered up next to Jon. Porthos's eyes closed in ecstasy as Jon petted him and rubbed behind his ears.

"I know you didn't mean to do it. You were just checking to make sure I was all right, weren't you?"

Porthos didn't answer. He was too busy enjoying the attention. But when Jon's hand stopped petting, he opened his eyes to look up at his master.

Jon smiled down at the dog next to him. "You wouldn't happen to know how to turn the com panel on over there, would you? I need to talk to Phlox."

--the end--