Chapter 9 #3
There was no one like her. No one saw me for who I really was. She saw the real me and understood me on a deeper level. And in that moment, I knew I needed to do everything in my power to keep her.
“I'm good to drive, unless you would like to drive.” I watched as her face lit up, and I moved to open the door so she could climb over to the driver's seat. “You never drive?”
“Aaron never lets me,” she shrugged, putting the car in drive and giving me a much better driving experience from the get-go. “And I don't have a car because I love walking, the town is small, so it's fine.”
“If you ever want to drive, even with no destination in mind, let me know.”
And the smile she graced me with mended all of my broken parts.
I was a complete goner for this girl, and from now on, I started playing off-side.
The field stretched endlessly before me, the grass too green, the sky too bright. I was running, my legs pumping, the ball at my feet. Everything felt perfect...my knee strong, my breath even, my mind clear.
This was it. The championship game. The crowd roared my name.
I saw the opening, the perfect angle. Max passed the ball, and it rolled to me like destiny. The goalkeeper was out of position. All I had to do was shoot.
I pulled my leg back.
That's when I saw him.
Ander Sanchez. Westpoint's captain. His eyes locked on mine, and he smiled. Not a friendly smile. A predatory one.
He was too far away. He couldn't reach me in time. I was safe.
But then he was there, right behind me, impossibly close. I felt his presence like a storm cloud, dark and suffocating.
“You're dead,” he whispered.
I tried to move, to dodge, but my body wouldn't respond. My legs were cemented. My knee locked.
The attack came from behind...brutal, deliberate. I felt his cleats connect with my knee, and heard the sickening crack that echoed across the silent stadium.
The pain was instant and all-consuming. White-hot fire shot up my leg as I crumpled to the ground. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.
The crowd had vanished. My teammates had vanished. It was just me, alone on the field, clutching my knee as blood seeped through my fingers.
“You were never that good anyway,” Sanchez's voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. “Now everyone will see the truth.”
I looked down at my knee. But it wasn't my knee anymore...it was twisted at an impossible angle, bone jutting through skin, the joint completely destroyed beyond recognition.
“No, no, no...” My voice finally worked, coming out as a desperate plea. “Please, no…”
The grass beneath me turned red, spreading outward like a pool. I was sinking into it, drowning in my own blood.
“Derek!”
A voice cut through the nightmare, but I couldn't place it. Couldn't reach it.
“DEREK!”
I jolted awake, gasping for air, my sheets soaked with sweat. My hand flew to my knee, expecting to find it mangled, destroyed. But it was fine. Whole. The scar was barely visible in the darkness of my room.
My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it hurt. My breath came in short, desperate gasps. The room spun.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
But my body didn't believe it. My knee throbbed with phantom pain, my hands shook uncontrollably, and I couldn't seem to get enough air into my lungs.
Panic attack. I was having a panic attack.
I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over a water glass in the process. The crash made me flinch. My phone screen said 3:47 AM.
I should call Dr. Morrison's emergency line. That's what he'd told me to do.
But my fingers, moving on their own, pulled up a different contact.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
She's asleep. Of course, she's asleep. It's almost 4 AM. What are you...
“Derek?” Rosalie's voice was thick with sleep but immediately alert. “What's wrong?”
“I...” My voice cracked. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...”
“Are you hurt?” The rustling of sheets came through the phone. “Where are you?”
“Home. My room. I'm not hurt, I just...” Another gasping breath. “I can't breathe. I can't...”
“Okay. Okay, listen to me.” Her voice shifted, becoming steadier, more grounded. “You're having a panic attack. I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”
“I don't...”
“Yes, you can. In for four counts. Ready? In...two...three...four.”
I tried to follow her count, but my lungs wouldn't cooperate. The air felt thick, suffocating.
“That's okay, you're okay. Try again. In...two...three...four. Hold...two...three...four. Out...two...three...four.”
This time I managed it, barely. My chest loosened just a fraction.
“Good. Again. In...two...three...four.”
We breathed together, her steady counts anchoring me. Slowly, painfully slowly, my heart rate began to decrease. The room stopped spinning. My hands stopped shaking quite so violently.
“Better?” she asked softly after several minutes.
“Yeah.” My voice was raw. “Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”
“Don't apologize. I'm glad you called.” More rustling. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
I stared at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by the streetlight through my window. “Nightmare. About the injury.”
“The same one?”
“Worse.” I swallowed hard. “It's always the same, but this time... this time my knee was completely destroyed. Like, beyond repair. And I was alone on the field, and everyone was gone and...” My breath hitched. “And I couldn't play. I could never play again.”
“But you can play,” Rosalie reminded me gently. “You are playing. You had a great practice today.”
“I know. Logically, I know that.” I rubbed my face with my free hand. “But in the dream, it felt so real. I could feel my knee shattering. Could see the bone.” I shuddered. “And Sanchez was there, telling me I was never good enough anyway.”
“Fuck Sanchez,” Rosalie said with such passion that I actually laughed, a wet, broken sound. “He's a piece of shit who tried to end your career because he couldn't beat you fairly. But he didn't win, Derek. You're still here. You're still playing.”
“Am I though? Really playing?” The question came out before I could stop it. “Because most days it feels like I'm just going through the motions. Like I'm pretending to be the player I used to be.”
Rosalie was quiet for a moment. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
“After my hip replacement, I had nightmares too.
I'd dream that I was performing, that I'd made it into a company, that I was dancing the lead in Swan Lake.
And then mid-performance, my hip would just..
. give out. I'd collapse on stage in front of everyone. And when I woke up, the loss felt fresh all over again.”
My chest tightened for a different reason. “How did you get through it?”
“Honestly? I'm not sure I have. Not completely.” She let out a soft sigh. “The nightmares still come sometimes. But they're less frequent now. And when they do come, I remind myself that they're just my brain processing trauma. They're not predictions. They're not true. They're just... fear.”
“Fear,” I echoed.
“Yeah. Fear of losing something again. Fear that we're not enough without the thing that defined us for so long.” Her voice softened. “But here's what I've learned: fear doesn't make us weak, Derek. It makes us human. It means we cared. It means what we lost mattered.”
“It still matters.”
“I know. And that's okay. You're allowed to grieve what you lost, even while you're fighting to get it back.”
I closed my eyes, letting her words wash over me. “Thank you. For answering. For... this.”
“Where else would I be at 4 AM if not talking to my almost-boyfriend through a panic attack?” The smile in her voice was audible.
“Almost-boyfriend?” I latched onto the phrase, needing the distraction from the lingering dread. “What does that make us now?”
“I don't know. Friends who almost kiss? People who are figuring it out?” she paused. “Does it matter what we call it?”
“No,” I admitted. “As long as you keep answering when I call.”
“Always. Even at ungodly hours,” she yawned. “Though maybe next time we could schedule your panic attacks for a more reasonable time? Like, say, 8 AM?”
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Appreciated.” Another yawn. “Are you feeling better? Think you can sleep?”
I did a mental check. My heart had returned to normal. The panic had receded, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My knee still ached dully, but I recognized it now as phantom pain, not real damage.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Good. But Derek?”
“If you have another nightmare, call me. I mean it. I'd rather lose sleep than have you deal with this alone.”
Something warm bloomed in my chest. “The same goes for you. If you need me, I'm here.”
“I know you are.” Her voice was soft, intimate. “That's what makes this different. We show up for each other.”
“We do,” I agreed.
“Okay. Try to get some sleep. And tomorrow in Pilates, I'm going to work extra hard for scaring me like that.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Liar.” I could hear the smile. “Good night, Derek.”
“Good night, Rosalie.”
I waited for her to hang up first, not wanting to break the connection. When the line finally went dead, I set my phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling.
The nightmare had felt so real. The fear is so overwhelming. But Rosalie's voice had pulled me back, reminding me that the nightmare was just that… a nightmare.
My knee was fine. I was playing again. And I had someone who answered the phone at 4 AM without hesitation.
Maybe that was enough.
Maybe I was going to be okay.
I rolled onto my side, tucking my phone under my pillow, and let exhaustion pull me under. This time, when sleep came, it was dreamless.