Chapter 7
LOGAN
“Just keep your left foot planted on the ground, and hinge your hips upward.”
A sting of pain rips through my left knee, but I lift my hips as my physical therapist, Dave, keeps his hands on my knee to stabilize it.
“Good. Keep going for at least eight more reps.”
I grunt as I keep going, hating that it takes so much effort to do something so simple.
I pretend I’m with my teammates, music blasting through the gym speakers while they hype me up and encourage me to push out one more rep.
That’s how things used to be. I had a whole team of people behind me. I may not have been the quarterback, but we were a united front.
Now I just have my physical therapist. And the only weight I’m lifting is this injury on my shoulders.
After nine more reps, I let my hips fall back onto the mat.
My physical therapist taps my knee. “That was good, but I can see you’re still struggling a bit. Have you been keeping up with your exercises?”
I puff out a breath. “Sometimes.”
Dave looks me in the eye. “Logan, if you want to get better, you have to keep up with the stretches and exercises.”
I avoid his gaze. I know he’s right, but what’s the point of getting better?
Is all of this just so I don’t walk with a slight limp and can run again? What’s the point if I can’t go back to what I had?
“I will. I just—life’s been busy,” I lie.
Dave smirks. “And yet you don’t have a few minutes every day to do them?”
I shrug. “Fine. I’ll try harder.”
Dave pats the mat. “Okay. Time’s up.”
I swing my legs off the treatment table and pull my socks back on.
“How’s the semester been going so far?” Dave asks.
“Fine. I might be changing majors next semester,” I answer, focusing on pulling my left sock on slowly so I don’t cause myself too much pain.
“What are you thinking of changing to?”
I really don’t care for small talk with Dave, even though he insists on it every time we meet. I know he cares about me. But most of the time, he wants updates on my life, and I don’t want to update him when everything feels like it’s going wrong.
“Dunno. Maybe social work,” I mumble.
“That could be fun.”
“Yeah.”
I finally get my sock on and reach for my shoes.
I check my watch. It’s five o’clock, which means dinner at the cafeteria and then studying.
My stomach grumbles, and instead of cafeteria food, I’d rather have a lemon square. But I need an actual meal, and I believe in delayed gratification.
I put my shoes on and face Dave.
“You going to the home opener tonight?” he asks.
My chest constricts as I picture my teammates huddled together in the locker room right now, talking shit about the opposing team, hyping each other up, feeding off that pre-game adrenaline.
I still dream about that excitement. I wake up with that buzz hammering across my chest, but it disappears just as quickly as it comes.
“Uh—no. I, um… have a lot of homework to do, and I’m trying to be a good student.”
Dave sighs. “Well, I hear it’s gonna be a good one. I’m sure your teammates will miss you there.”
“Yeah, I wish I could support them,” I lie.
Dave slips his hands into his pockets. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’ll see you next week, Logan.”
“See you. Thanks again,” I mumble.
I leave his office and make my way through the hallways of the kinesiology building.
I rub my forehead, thinking about how badly I want to be at that game.
But I’ve never been in the stands before. If I went, would everyone think I’m some kind of failure?
I puff out a breath and focus on the hallway ahead of me. As if the churning in my stomach couldn’t get any worse, I spot Mikayla walking toward me with Joel Whitlock’s arm slung around her shoulders.
I glance at the bathroom door beside me and consider diving into it just to avoid them, but when I look back, I realize Mikayla has already noticed me.
She nudges Joel and juts her chin in my direction so he’ll look too.
Great. Now I have my ex and her new boyfriend gawking at me.
I close my eyes and inhale.
I can pretend I don’t see them and just walk past.
I keep moving, albeit slowly, so it doesn’t look like I’m limping, hoping they’ll ignore me.
“Abbott.”
I sigh and turn to face Joel.
“You coming to the game?” he asks.
It’s just another knife to the gut. One part of me is pulling me toward the game, and the other is dragging me in the opposite direction.
“No, I uh—gotta study. I have an exam tomorrow. Good luck, though.”
Joel snorts. “You can’t come support your old team?”
I wish I could disappear right now. Joel never lets things go. He likes pushing people’s buttons in all the wrong ways, and right now, it’s the last thing I need.
“Sorry. I’m, uh… gonna fail if I don’t study.”
“Abbott, come on. It’s the home opener,” Joel presses.
I can’t even look at him or Mikayla. I just keep staring at the floor like it’s going to give me the perfect answer to the anger rising inside me.
“I said I can’t, Whitlock. Take a fucking hint,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Whoa, man, what’s your damage?” Joel goads.
I finally look up and meet Mikayla’s eyes. A glint of regret swims there before she immediately drops her gaze to the floor.
I want to ask her why she isn’t saying anything. I want to ask why she chose a dickhead over someone who actually cared about her.
“Good luck at the game,” I mumble before walking in the direction I was originally heading.
I don’t have any obligation to be nice to Joel or Mikayla, and technically, I was. I wished him luck at the game.
Ahead of me, I hear the rumblings of raucous classmates decked out in maroon and gold, carrying huge signs, and I want to turn around.
Instead, I pull out my headphones, shove them over my ears, and blast my music as loud as possible. I keep my head down as everyone passes by me and just hope I can get somewhere that doesn’t remind me of the life I used to have.