5. Odin, Forging Chaos (Forging #3)

5. Odin

CHAPTER 5

ODIN

I sit in the front of Mom’s car after getting wheeled out to the curb, cramming cookies in my mouth and staring out the window as she drives me home. When we get to my apartment, we realize it’s not an accessible building. There are stairs everywhere.

I stand outside the door, one leg resting on the knee roller, one hand on the handlebars, the other clutching that damn tin of cookies.

Mom stares at the steps into the building and the stairwell up two floors to the apartment I share with my brother and cousins. “Odin, I’m so sorry.” Mom gestures at the stairs like she is the architect or something. “This isn’t accessible at all, is it? Not even a ramp…”

I sniff. This building is for student-athletes, so it makes sense that there’s a minimum expectation of walking ability. Mom sighs. “I’ll run up and grab your brother, okay? We’ll get you inside.”

I have no idea what the plan is to get me upstairs. I’m not crawling up the steps. I guess I’d let Gunnar give me a piggyback ride. Lord knows I’ve carried his drunk ass up to our apartment that way before .

Gun and Stellan make their way outside, along with Mom, who looks like she wants to cry. Gunny claps a hand on my shoulder. “This sucks, bro,” he offers. I grunt at him.

Mom fiddles with her car keys. She’s double-parked outside the building, and people are starting to stare at us as traffic backs up behind her black SUV. “I’m just going to move the car, and I’ll come in with your things, okay?”

I wave a hand at her because what do I care where she parks?

Stellan walks around my knee roller, checking out the foam pad where I’m supposed to rest my cast. I can put weight on my knee, but not under any circumstances, my foot or lower leg.

Gunnar points a thick finger at me and says, “I assume you don’t want me to throw you over my shoulder?”

“Fuck you.” I flip my brother the bird because this is how we communicate our love when our parents aren’t around.

Stellan scratches his chin, squinting at the apartment entrance. “I think we can hop this together,” he says.

Gunnar nods. “Odin, you put your left hand on the banister, right arm around me, and we’ll hop you up. Stelly can carry this contraption.”

“Why do you get to help him hop?” Stellan is now put out over not being chosen to help his invalid cousin up the stairs. I groan and finagle my roller toward the banister, testing my weight on the creaky railing.

“I’m his brother, asshole. When your brother gets hurt, you can help him hop.”

Stellan flicks Gunnar in the ear. “Don’t say that about getting hurt, man. You’re going to jinx us.”

I kick the knee roller away with a growl. “You guys going to fight all day or help me inside?”

“Sorry, bro.” Gunnar slides up against my side. “I won’t even pinch you this time. Or tickle you. Maybe.” He wedges his shoulder under mine and locks an arm around my waist. We’re about the same height, so it works okay. After a few days lying in a hospital bed, I’m weaker than I want to admit, so I give him my weight and hop up the few stairs to the apartment door.

I use the roller to get down the hall and then rely on Gunny again to get up two flights of stairs to our apartment, which I realize I’ll have to leave every morning for PT. “How is this shit going to work,” I ask the room at large.

There’s an uncomfortable silence as my brother and cousin shift their weight and stare at their backpacks. They need to get to class. Mom walks in the door carrying the football uniform I forgot I was wearing when they rushed me to the hospital. Someone stuffed it in a clear plastic trash bag, which is probably where it will stay. I'm not sure what happened to my pads or helmet. I guess I have to return the jersey to the athletic department. That’s a problem for another day.

“What do you need to get comfortable, Odin?” Mom sets the bag on the ground and looks around the apartment. There are a lot of cardboard boxes stacked all over since Wyatt is moving out, but the place is otherwise not too messy—for once. Typically, Mom is full of jokes and comments about our filthy kitchen and toilets, but today, she wrings her hands together and stares at me, her eyes shiny, like she’s trying not to cry.

You and me both, Mom.

“I’m just going to bed,” I say, testing out the knee roller on the apartment carpet. I glide my ass to my room and am glad to see I fit through the door pretty easily. From there, I quickly hobble into my bed; once settled, I realize I didn’t set myself up with water, snacks, or anything. “Can you bring me my cookies, Mom?”

I’m 22 years old, asking my mother to bring me a box of cookies. But she does it, smiling. She sets the tin on my nightstand along with a glass of water and a clementine. I know we don’t keep fresh fruit in the apartment, so this is clearly pity fruit. “Isn’t this for your snack later?” I reach for the cookies but point at the orange.

She smiles. “Your father can bring me another one. He likes visiting my chambers.”

“Gross, Mom.” My parents are always making weird sex jokes about her judge’s office.

She ruffles my hair and kisses the top of my head. She reaches into her pocket and sets a few pill bottles on the nightstand. “I’ll call around four if I don’t hear from you that you took these, okay?”

I nod and adjust the covers. I hear her talking softly to Gunnar, and then I hear the apartment door close. I’m alone. I cuddle the tin of cookies to my chest like it’s a throw pillow. Did Thora really come to the hospital to give me shit about a group project? I guess she at least brought me some cookies. I stare at the phone number on the lid of the tin. Should I thank her? Or give her shit for being a jerk about schoolwork?

I decide to send her a text.

Hey

Thora From Class

Sorry. Wrong number.

It’s Odin [deer emoji]

Thora From Class

Oh shit. Sorry! How are you? I’m so sorry I was such a jerk yesterday. There you were in the hospital after surgery, and I was bugging you about class. Don’t even worry about it. I’ll write the paper and put both our names on it .

I stare at her message. It’s not like I ever care much about my classwork. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d happily take credit for her work and be done with it. But nothing is ordinary anymore. Before I can think too hard about it, I write back:

No way. I can’t have you putting my name on something I haven’t even read. What if you do a terrible job?

Thora From Class

Okayyyy well…are you going to be able to work on it? From the hospital?

I’m home now, actually. And I no longer have football practice eating into my spare time, so…

Thora From Class

So?

So why don’t you come over? We can work on it this afternoon when my pain meds wear off, and I can think clearly.

Thora From Class

Today? Are you sure? We have a few weeks.

I literally have nothing else to do.

This is partly a lie. I’m supposed to schedule meetings with my academic advisors, coach, the financial aid people, and my athletic trainers. I have a whole team of people who care about their investment in my attendance at this school as a football player. But here I am, for a change, doing something as a student.

Bring more cookies.

I toss the phone on my nightstand without waiting for her reply, and I roll over and finally grab a few hours of sleep.

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