Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“ I ’ll make you a deal, Peyton,” Dr. K says as he leans on the deathtrap walker at the foot of my bed.
That’s my name for it. Deathtrap Walker. It’s a ridiculous contraption, and I feel like I would have fewer obstacles to contend with if they simply pushed me out of bed and told me to figure it out. This thing is—a lot. It has brakes, for Pete’s sake. Brakes!
My eyes shift to my father as he stands in the corner of my room near his handiwork. He went out and bought a bigger TV for the game. Ridiculous. But also, atta boy.
“You should entertain his offer,” my pops says.
I exhale, and it hurts a little. Everything hurts a little. A lot of things hurt a whole bunch. But the hurt is good. The fact is, I hurt in most places. Not everywhere, but most.
I level the doc with an impatient expression, my mouth pinched at the corners, my stomach growling finally for real food.
“What are your terms?”
“You make it to the end of the hallway and back, and I’ll tell your team to leave you alone until the game is done,” he says.
Shit. That’s a good deal.
“Gah!” I groan, pushing the thin blanket from my body and nodding toward Steven, my physical therapy assistant. I swore at him a lot just an hour ago when he made me walk with Death Trap. I’m surprised he came back for more.
He quirks a brow.
“Fire her up, Steven,” I say, and my father and Dr. K cheer.
Steven steadies my right side as my dad steps in at the left, and they secure the harness that takes some of the weight off my right leg while I attempt to walk. I feel like a zombie, dragging half of my body along the tiled floor while people back away to make room for me, not sure which way I’m going to go.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, kind of missing her words of encouragement right now. While my dad and Steven tend to root me on and praise me with lots of comments like, “You’re doing so well,” my mom gives it to me like it is.
Suck it up, sunshine.
You already made it this far; you have no choice but to go back now. Unless you want to just lie on the floor.
And my favorite from early this morning, which she directed at my dad when she caught me rolling my eyes at his hyper-positivity.
I wouldn’t exactly say she’s hauling ass, Reed.
I’ve never been motivated by soft coaching, and my dad should know that. But I guess this is a special circumstance. It would feel better if everyone talked a little more real, though.
“She may be picking you up a little something Grandma Rose whipped up,” my dad reveals. My gaze snaps to him, and I can tell by his smirk and the flicker in his eyes that it’s tortilla soup.
“Now we’re talking,” I say, wrapping my hands around Deathtrap’s handles and pulling myself to my feet as Steven tightens the harness to help me stay upright.
My arms shake. I adjust my grip and grimace, but nothing I try is going to make this easier. The only remedy for this is time.
“Let’s do this,” I command, and together, the three of us work our way to my door.
“Good work,” Steven mutters.
“No, it’s not,” I grumble.
Dr. K chuckles behind me, clearly having been warned about my attitude. Little does he know this is simply how I’m built. He could be teaching me a tumbling pass right now on the mats, and I’d find fault with my attempt. I set a high bar for myself, and I’m not going to lower it now. In fact, now it’s higher.
We get to the doorway, and I shake my head, needing a short break to adjust my grip. My right leg feels as though it’s being dragged along for the ride, and I look down to see if I’m even standing on the ball of my foot or just grazing the floor with the tip of my toe. When I see it anchored flat and centered within a square of the tile, I try to lean into it.
“I feel like I’m falling.”
“You have to relearn balance. It’s normal,” the doc says behind me.
“Define normal,” I huff out in a pissy laugh.
Nobody answers my request, which is probably for the best.
I nod that I’m ready, and we begin our route down the hallway. There are fewer nurses standing around, and I’m not sure whether it’s because they’re on rounds and busy or my mom kindly asked them not to. Whatever the reason, I like the lack of an audience. Maybe it’s mental, but it makes me feel stronger, and when I make it to the end of the hallway, I nod my head forward.
“I want to go all the way around,” I demand.
“That’s my girl,” my dad says, and I let him have this one because it reminds me of all the times he’s uttered that phrase. I let my mind drift through my past as we push on around the nurses’ station. My first back handspring in the front yard, and my dad’s boastful cheer as if he taught me how to do it himself. The time he took me out to kick field goals on the field in junior high when he was home during the off-season. I doinked two of them. And freshman year, when he insisted I go to his gym with him and learn how to hit a boy hard enough to knock him out.
Fueled by my former successes, I make the lap and am nearly back to my door when my body gives out and Steven swoops in to support me completely. He’s a big guy, maybe six-foot-two or three. He’s close to Wyatt in height, but his body is bulkier, like my grandfather in pictures of when he was younger. My mom calls it fluffy.
We get back to my bedside mostly on Steven’s strength, and my dad helps undo the harness so I can sit on the edge of the mattress while he smooths out the sheets and blanket before I lie back. Everything gets caught on my brace—blankets, cords, even my hair somehow. I think my biggest motivator to build strength is to get rid of wearing this thing twenty-four-seven.
“It’s almost kick-off,” my dad says as the scent of Rose’s soup hits my nose.
“Oh, my God, I need that now,” I say, turning to my left where my mom has already set up the rolling table with a steaming bowl. Grandpa likes her pozole, but for me, this creamy bowl of perfection can never go wrong.
“She shredded the chicken a bit finer,” my mom says.
The spoon is already in my hand and I’m sifting the broth to cool it enough to devour. My grandma’s soup is more like pureed enchiladas, which is probably why I love it so much. Unable to wait, I bring the first bite to my mouth and suck it in, not even caring when it burns my tongue a little.
“Heaven,” I say, glancing at the discarded oatmeal bowl from this morning. I glower at it and my dad laughs before clearing my old dishes.
“I’d think he was trying to impress the cute orderlies by helping out so much if they weren’t all six-foot-tall men in their fifties,” my mom jokes.
“Oh, he’s trying to impress them all right. One of them said he was a fan, and you know Dad. Has to show off how he’s Captain America,” I say before blowing on my next bite of soup.
My father comes back into the room after a few minutes, probably having taken my dishes all the way down to the cafeteria. He ups the volume on the TV, and I settle in, watching for Wyatt between every slurp from my spoon. After a few minutes, my dad’s phone rings with a FaceTime call. He smiles at the screen and quickly hands the phone over to me.
“He wanted to watch the game today with his favorite buddy,” Rose says, flipping her phone so the camera captures both her and my Grandpa Buck.
“Hey, kiddo. Gonna be a tough one today. You ready?” My grandfather’s voice warms me as much as my grandmother’s food, and for the first time since I got here, I feel a tiny sense of home.
“I have faith,” I say, propping my dad’s phone on my table so I can have everyone in my family with me while I watch the love of my life leave it all out on the field.
My little sister pops in and out of the camera every few minutes, wanting to share everything about her last week at school with me, including the bit about the boy who picked her last for dodgeball. I make eyes at my mom as Ellie talks about how gross that boy is—his name’s Jacob. Oh, Ellie. He likes you. And you thinking he’s so gross? Yeah, you like him back.
With Deathtrap parked on the other side of the room and a full belly from real food, I settle in just as Wyatt runs onto the field. Grandpa claps, and I catch him sitting forward in his favorite chair just before Wyatt takes his first snap. He rushes out of the pocket a little early, and I wince, bracing myself for him to pay for it, but he quickly breaks free of a tackle and runs the ball for a fourteen-yard gain.
My gaze flashes to my dad, who insists on standing when he watches Wyatt play. He folds his arms over his chest and rocks on his feet. He may as well be out there on the field coaching him. The sight makes me chuckle softly.
The next play is a pass that hits Keaton in the chest, but he somehow can’t hang on to it. And despite Wyatt setting an aggressive tone out of the gate, they end up having to kick after a loss of two on a running attempt and an overthrow out of bounds.
“It’s all right. We knew Western was going to come out hard,” my dad says. He steps around my bed and takes his phone for a few minutes to swap game plans with my grandfather that nobody can hear or put into action. My mom rolls her eyes, then reaches into her tote bag to pull out a small bag of homemade tortilla chips she smuggled in.
“Don’t tell anyone. They didn’t want me giving you so much salt but you’re not a senior citizen. I think you’ll be fine.”
My grin spreads wide as I dig my hand into the oil-stained paper sack. I try to mute the crunch from my first bite, but my father’s Batman-like hearing hones right in, and his hand scoops out about a dozen chips in one swoop.
“Dammit,” my mom mutters. I think she wanted to hoard the chips for herself and me even more than she wanted to hide them from the medical staff.
Our defense does its job, and the ball is back in Wyatt’s hands after Western goes three and out. My superstitious grandfather insists that my dad put the phone back where it was, and together, he and I root Wyatt down the field in five plays. But with four yards to go, Coach sends in Bryce.
“Fuck,” I say, getting a quick reprimand from my mom, even though I’ve heard her drop dozens of those over the years while watching my dad. And when Bryce takes the snap and fumbles the ball for a turnover, it’s her turn to drop the F-bomb. I glance her way with pursed lips, but instead of pointing out the hypocrisy, I simply agree with her.
My dad groans and steps out of the room. I can’t see him, but I’m sure he’s pacing with his hands threaded behind his neck while he mentally lists all the things that went wrong with that play. I don’t want to be so hard on Bryce, but this one’s all on him—he has to hold on to the ball.
The first quarter finishes scoreless, but Wyatt manages to throw deep for a quick touchdown in the second. And by the time the fourth is winding down, we’ve managed to climb up by four touchdowns, the last one scored by a defensive recovery.
Bryce got in a few more times, mostly to run the ball on sneaks for a yard or two to get first downs. His frustration is obvious on his face, but I’m having a hard time worrying about him in the wake of Wyatt having a breakout game.
My family celebrates the win, keeping my grandparents on video chat for about half an hour after the game ends. Knowing my end of the bargain I made with Dr. K is coming due, I blow kisses to my grandparents and hug my parents goodbye so they can head home for a little rest of their own.
Steven’s still on shift, so it’s just him and me walking the hallway. I’m less ambitious now, maybe less motivated too, what with no promise of putting off the next round again, like last time. Plus, I’m tired. I’ve never been tired like this. We make our there-and-back trip down the hallway a little faster than the first attempt this morning, and I settle in for a well-earned nap when he puts Deathtrap back in its corner.
My room is dark when I wake. I’m not quite sure how long I slept, but based on the rounds I’ve memorized, I’m guessing it was near three hours. The nurse checks my vitals and forces me to stand for a few minutes to keep my body healing. As I shake holding myself up at the foot of my bed, though, I’m not sure how much healing is being done. At this point, maybe sleep would do more good.
She helps me back into bed, and I snag my phone from its charging cord before she leaves. It’s only seven at night, but it feels impossibly late. I’ve also missed a call and a text from Wyatt.
WYATT: You must be sleeping. Flight lands at seven your time.
I reply, letting him know I’m awake, hoping maybe he’s gotten in early. I’m staring at my message, waiting for it to say delivered, when the phone buzzes in my palm with his call.
“Hi,” I say, sinking down as deep into my thin covers as my brace and this miserable bed will let me go.
“Was the game that bad that it put you to sleep?” I can hear the bustling airport sounds in the background.
“Not all of it,” I tease.
“Ouch!” His voice is raspy, tired from the game and screaming in the locker room, I’m sure. He’s also not sleeping as much as he should. Because of me.
“Hey, I’m about to get my bag, then we get hauled back to campus. Can I FaceTime you when I get home?”
Home. We share a home. Well . . . shared a home.
“Of course.”
We both say I love you on top of the other’s words, and my face warms like a school child with a crush.
Wyatt calls back an hour later, this time on video, and it’s nice to see him in our bed. His shirt is off, and he’s wearing the red and black plaid pajama pants I bought him last Christmas. It’s maybe my most favorite look of his, and his skin looks so warm and smooth. His hair is damp from a shower, and I can nearly smell it when I concentrate. And all those sensory things that I draw on from memory flood me, and my heart hurts.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Wyatt says, holding the phone above him as he falls back onto his pillow.
“Can you put the phone on my side, like I’m lying with you?”
His gaze feels faraway, but his worried smile translates. Guilt and self-pity are harder to fight off at night.
“Yeah, here.” The camera focus shuffles around as he flips to his left side and jiggles the phone in his effort to prop it up against my pillow. He folds an arm under his cheek and lies flat, looking at me. I touch my own face, wishing it were him.
“You know I’m not coming back, right?” It’s something I’ve known since I got the news of my injury, and I’m sure Wyatt’s thought about it. Still, the reality demands to be said tonight for some reason. Hard truths .
Wyatt sucks in his lips and blinks slowly.
“I know,” he relents after several quiet seconds.
And I can’t help but feel as though somehow this is the beginning of the end.