Chapter 41
Not all love stories were meant to end with a happily-ever-after
I woke up to a numb arm and Melinda wrapped around me in her sleep.
After the events of today, I bet even asleep she required the safety of my arms. I wiggled my fingers, trying to send blood back to my fingertips, in vain.
Moving slowly to avoid waking her up, I slid from under her before tucking the covers around her.
I’d been so scared earlier when Nichols had kicked her in the stomach.
I had done my best to prevent my face from betraying the cocktail of emotions that had raged inside me to avoid scaring her too.
I still couldn’t believe he had succeeded at pulling me into a chokehold.
If my brother and Rutherford hadn’t arrived when they did, a few more seconds and I would have fainted.
I wanted to puke, just thinking about what the motherfucker would have done to Melinda if I had.
I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to forgive myself for getting her hurt when I was the one supposed to protect her, no matter how many times she’d told me none of this was my fault.
Deep down, I still felt inadequate for what had gone down, and the giant bruise forming across her stomach was the proof of my mistake—and my failing.
I stretched my neck to the right and to the left to relieve the tension that had lodged there in the last few hours while listening for any sounds or voices, other than snoring, that would hint one of our friends was awake.
Nothing. Everyone was out cold.
In the dark, I slipped on the sweatpants I’d discarded at our feet when we went to bed earlier. Quite unlike me, I had kept my T-shirt on, not wanting Melinda to see my own bruises, the ones covering mostly the right side of my body.
Moving to my knees, I unzipped the tent, keeping an eye on my girl to make sure she stayed asleep. She stirred, a grimace flickering across her pretty face, and I held my breath. Rolling to her other side, she drew the covers up and squirmed for a second, without ever waking up.
Slowly, I exited our tent and surveyed the living room from where I stood, making sure I hadn’t roused anyone. Satisfied, I tiptoed up the stairs toward my bedroom. I hadn’t had a minute to myself since the fight earlier, not willing to leave Melinda’s side even for a short instant.
I closed the bathroom door behind me and removed my shirt, studying my naked torso in the mirror.
Random bruises were forming everywhere Evan Nichols had hit me.
My ribcage was dotted in bruises too, and I wondered if I had a broken rib.
Using my finger, I traced each bone, trying to find indents that would confirm my fears.
So far, so good. After what felt like forever, I risked a rotation of my right shoulder.
I’d been avoiding it until now, afraid my teammate had landed a punch there and I hadn’t noticed amid the brawl.
Pain radiated from the crease between my shoulder and neck, down my arm, and up to just underneath my ear, where Nichols had held me around the neck. I extended my arm, and pain radiated everywhere it shouldn’t.
I couldn’t hold in the tears threatening to leak. My good shoulder slumped in defeat. All my life, football had defined me. Without it, I had no idea who I’d be or what I should aim for in the future.
Everything I had done—the early trainings, the sweat, the tears, the icing, the pain, the injuries—all the sacrifices I had made through the years would soon be for nothing.
I had to find a way to heal, or else I would never be recruited to play pro, and my dreams would come crashing down.
I had three more years of college, and my shoulder wouldn’t survive it without proper care.
It was about time I was honest with myself. I had done everything in my power to fix it on my own, but I was lacking resources and ideas these days.
Fucking Evan Nichols.
He didn’t just send my girl to the hospital tonight, but he also fucked me up pretty badly too.
If I lost football, I would not only lose my sport, but also my scholarship, my shit, and the last shred of control I had left.
Sitting on the tiled floor, I pressed my back against the wall and stretched my legs, crossing them at the ankles as reality slammed into me like a ton of bricks.
My world was collapsing around me, and my options were limited…
or almost nonexistent. I swallowed hard, the only thing preventing me from bawling my eyes out.
I was a fucking failure. Or worse…seconds away from turning into one.
Breathing felt impossible, as if my lungs were slabs of concrete.
My future was slipping through my fingers.
And no, it wasn’t even a football pun. It was the truth.
Every time I thought I’d fixed my joint, something else went wrong, and I was back at square one.
Life was clearly sending me a message I was too stupid to understand.
Everything I loved, except my relationship, was teetering on the edge, about to be ripped away.
I wasn’t a victim. I had to take charge. I had to fight back. I had to reclaim some of the control I’d lost. But what was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to make it all work now that I was hurt again?
Sweat beaded on the back of my neck. The world felt heavy, pressing down on my shoulders.
I didn’t know how long I stayed there, frozen on the bathroom floor, unable to wrap my head around the shittiness of my situation—a cruel joke that seemed unfixable—and struggling to think of a solution.
I was usually good at coming up with game plans.
I had playbooks full of strategies for every situation.
Right now, though, it felt impossible to keep going without involving a bunch of specialists and my coaches and losing my starting position on the team.
At the moment, I despised myself for diving headfirst off that cliff over a year ago.
My heart kicked in my chest, and my palms turned clammy.
I was screwed. There was no other way to define the truth.
It hurt like hell. It was fucking ugly, but it was mine to accept and deal with.
Bile rose in the back of my throat. Once I came clean, there would be a permanent mark on my player’s file, and scouts would probably be skittish about recruiting me later, wondering if my shoulder would hold up through the intensive training and pro-level games.
Being backed into a corner against my will was the worst kind of feeling.
My heart rate became a deafening staccato.
I eyed the vanity, trying to convince myself the thoughts in my brain were shit.
I had made promises.
I had sworn it would never happen again.
I had even convinced myself I could do better.
I was losing everything anyway. What was I even risking at this point? It was either this…or hanging up my cleats for good. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t wanna stop playing football. It was part of my identity. Baked into my DNA. It wasn’t just a sport. It was an extension of me…of who I was.
Could any doctor really fix my shoulder for good?
Right now, I had a hard time believing it.
My shoulder was doomed. I was doomed. I had to take matters into my own hands.
I was the only one I trusted to figure out what my body needed.
Just this once, and then I’d be over with it.
I could get real medical help during the off-season.
Yeah. If I could survive the next few weeks, I would have more time to heal and find someone competent enough to get my shoulder back in the game.
Okay, that was a solid plan. It made sense and fit into my football schedule.
I only had to fake it a little longer. I could make this work.
Keep my head down, do my job, and hide the pain from everyone.
A little voice in my head whispered that I was wrong, but I shoved it down.
That voice didn’t know me, or my dreams, or my situation, or the pressure crushing me from every direction.
I shouldn’t listen to it. Nah, I had to do this my way.
My starting position on the team. My scholarship. The scouts. Playing pro.
Those were the things that mattered in my sport, and I had to focus on nothing else.
I wiped the tears streaming down my cheeks with the back of my hand.
Some days, I became someone I barely recognized.
Was my plan really bulletproof, or was I just fooling myself into thinking it was?
I could get caught at any moment. The idea squeezed my throat like a vise.
I felt lightheaded just imagining what would happen if someone found out.
Pressure always got the better of me. It always felt like it was crushing me to pieces and taking me hostage.
I inhaled and exhaled, but it did nothing to soothe the storm raging inside me.
My thoughts felt wrong. My body felt wrong. My entire existence felt wrong.
Leaning to the left, I cracked open the vanity door, hand digging beneath a box of tampons and toilet paper stacks I kept under the sink. I pushed a few towels aside until my fingers brushed against the first-aid kit at the very back.
I pulled it out, wincing as pain shot across my right side and the bruises on my jaw.
Opening the red box, I slipped my hand inside, fishing one of the three glass vials I kept in there and closing my fist around it.
My stomach churned. I breathed through my nose. I was going to be sick.
I shut my eyes and shook my head. How had I become this guy? The one masking the truth and putting on a brave face. I couldn’t believe this was what my life had turned into.