5. Fine
Chapter 5
Fine
Two Years Ago
T he season ended, but my hope of bouncing back persisted. The semester following my accident was filled with physical therapy and sympathy, encouraging words and jokes to mask the pain.
Then summer came. The last summer before senior year. The season that counted because, hopefully, I’d be entering the draft with a degree in sports science I’d never use.
But my coach had called. He needed to see what I could do after months of recovery. Now that I was fully healed, he needed to ensure I could still perform at the level that I was before the injury.
Apparently, he didn’t like what he saw.
My leg was different. It had healed slightly shorter than it was before, limiting my speed and agility. Expected after a continuum compound fracture, but still a shock because of my determination to play again.
The coaching staff decided I wasn’t what they wanted for the team.
Then, as if that wasn’t heartbreaking enough, the admissions office called.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Porter, because you’re unable to play, we have to revoke your scholarship. So, unless you’re able to come up with the tuition yourself…” the lady trailed off because there was only one way she could have ended that sentence. I worked all of my life to get that scholarship. But that scholarship was to play football. Which I could no longer do. And of course, I was enrolled at one of the schools that doesn’t have any heart or understanding.
That happened last week, but I haven’t told the guys yet. They’ve asked me what’s wrong several times, to which I respond with, “My leg is bothering me, that’s all.” They’re in their rooms getting ready to go to practice, I’m laying in my bed that I can’t seem to get out of.
Callum knocks on the door before poking his head in. “We’re about to leave, you need anything?”
I shake my head.
“Alright. Don’t make plans for tonight. We’re going out or something, to get your mind off that leg.” With that, he leaves, Tyler leaves, Sam is already gone, probably with a girl, and I’m left here all alone.
The house falls to a deafening quiet that will drive me mad if I don’t get out of here, so I finally roll out of bed. I shower, but don’t bother with jeans, sticking to the sweatpants that have become my usual attire, then head to Kenna’s. The only good thing I have left in my life.
She opens the door in a towel, her red hair wet from her own shower. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming. Did you text me?”
“Do I have to?”
“No, of course not.” But her voice is high and squeaky. She steps away from the door to allow me room to enter and I shut the door behind me. She points to the couch. “Do you want to sit down? I’ll go change and we can go get breakfast or something.”
“Why can’t I just come in the room with you?”
“You can. I just thought you could watch TV or something.” She’s being weird. I follow to her room, as she walks slowly, periodically looking back at me and smiling.
When she opens the door, she rushes around cleaning up clothes. I tell her that she doesn’t have to clean up for me. Her room looks like this every time I come over, why would she suddenly be ashamed of it?
The answer comes in the form of boxers she tries to cover up with her own clothing. Boxers that aren’t mine.
As if slapped with an open palm, my face reddens, and my gaze bounces around the room, looking for what I’m supposed to do now.
She’s all I have left after losing football and school. I don’t know if I have the strength to risk a confrontation or to hear her explanations. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions—they might not even belong to a guy, they could be hers. Or, maybe they belong to the boyfriend of one of her roommates and they just accidentally ended up in here.
Then, I see a used condom in the trash can underneath her bedside table and I’m no longer able to pretend I didn’t notice. I can’t pull my eyes away from it as the lump in my throat threatens to choke what little life is left in me.
After Kenna places the clothes in the hamper, she turns to me, then follows my gaze.
“Nick,” she says, gently.
“I see why I haven’t seen much of you lately,” is all I can think of to say.
“Nick.” She approaches me, but I back out of her reach.
“I’ve lost everything, Kenna. How could you?”
She considers her answer for a long while, and when she finally speaks, I wish she hadn’t said anything at all. “Was I supposed to just sit around and wait for you to wake up and remember that I existed? The only thing that has had your attention lately is training.” That’s not even remotely true, she’s the one who’s been distant. Always busy when I ask her to dinner, or to just be in the same room at the same time. If it makes her feel less guilty, then I won’t say anything to refute it. But I won’t sit here and take it, either.
“Whatever, Kenna.” I move about the room collecting things I’ve left here, a couple of t-shirts, a toothbrush and other bathroom items, an extra phone charger, etc. “Have a nice life.” Then I leave.
When I get back to that empty house, I can’t stand being there either. We’d all been living under the same roof, yet in vastly different houses, pretending everything was still the same. But nothing would be the same again. So I spend the next couple of hours packing all of my stuff into my truck and I run back to Mom’s before the guys make it back from practice.
* * *
Present Day
S omething went wrong with the play and somehow the ball ended up in my hands. An offensive tackle with the body of a bear and the head of a chicken starts clucking while he pushes off the ground with his huge paws, and I start running as fast as I can for the end zone. Blinding pain starts shooting through my leg anytime I put weight on it, and when I look down, there’s a bone sticking out of my shin just beneath my knee. Somehow, I make it to the end zone, but when I collapse on the ground, blood pouring from my leg, I realize I never had the ball after all. What I carried was a clock.
I wake covered in sweat and gripping my leg at the imaginary pain. It’s not uncommon for these types of nightmares to occur. They used to happen a few times a week after the injury but had become less frequent.
The clock shows it’s just after midnight. I take my shirt off but remember my clean clothes are still in the dryer and I’m dying of thirst anyway. I step out of my room and pass by Sam’s door when it opens, revealing a wide-eyed Cori. She stops and averts her eyes at the sight of my bare chest.
She crosses her arms, covered this time by… my sweatshirt? It’s a North Houston University football sweatshirt, cyan blue to match the school colors. She probably thinks it’s Sam’s; most guys on the team had one. But I know this one is mine because of the bleach stain on the sleeve and the image of the Panther—Sam’s only had the school name.
I motion for her to go first and she quietly shuts the door before tiptoeing down the hall. When she gets to the end, she turns. “Umm, were you coming to sit out here or something?”
Weird question, but okay. “I just came to get a drink. And a shirt.”
She nods and chews on her lip looking conflicted before deciding to continue into the kitchen. I watch after her for a second, curious, as she starts messing with the coffee machine, then head for the laundry room.
After I’m dressed again in a dry white shirt, I fill a glass with water and stand at the counter gulping the whole thing. I refill the glass, then rummage through the pantry for my secret stash of chocolate chip cookies. Cori is already seated on the couch covered with a blanket and coffee cup in hand, no snack this time. I hold a cookie out to her, but she shakes her head.
“It’s okay, thank you, though.” She had said the other night, “ I didn’t want to hear a lecture about eating sugar or eating too late.” I assume she’s declining now for that same reason, but my mom struggled with her body image and eating habits for years after my dad left. I don’t want anyone feeling that way around me.
“There’s nothing wrong with sugar every once in a while.” I lay a cookie over the rim of her mug anyway and she watches with a blank expression as I sit in an armchair by the window.
“Can’t sleep again?” I ask.
“No.” Slowly, as if unsure whether it’s okay to eat it, she brings the cookie to her lips and takes the smallest bite I’ve ever seen. Meanwhile, I’ve consumed two whole cookies.
“Well, I’ve heard caffeine is good for insomnia.”
“It’s decaf,” she says dryly.
“Then, what’s the point?” Coffee is necessary when I have to wake up at five a.m. but the taste is awful and not worth it without the caffeine.
She bites her cheek, watching the steam curl out of the top of her cup, then lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know, it’s comforting. The heat, the taste. Reminds me of my Grandma.”
“Your Grandma tastes like coffee?”
She rolls her eyes, but I get a smirk out of her. “She drank a lot of it, so probably. I just mean, her house always smelled like a freshly brewed pot and she recommended coffee for any ailment.”
“And what’s ailing you?”
Her eyes meet mine. They’re a soft blue, almost gray, like faded denim or a stormy ocean. “Nothing really. Just can’t sleep.”
I’m curious about this woman, not just because she’s one of my friend's girlfriends, but because… well, she’s strange. She’s guarded and hesitant, but what is there to be wary of? Is she this way with Sam? Or is she unapologetically herself, whoever she is, when you knock those fences down?
“So, you and Sam knew each other when you were kids? Was he just as ugly then as he is now?” I ask, hoping to break the tension a little more.
It almost works. The corners of her lips twitch, but if I weren’t watching so intently, I would have missed it. “No, he’s always been attractive. It’s annoying.”
I grin and she takes another sip of coffee. “Where were you coming back from earlier? Or headed to?”
Her eyes remain on her cup as she runs her thumb along the rim. “An interview.”
“Oh, did it go well?”
“No.”
“Ouch. Well, the right job will come along at the right time.” I thought it was a comforting thing to say, but her eyes snap to mine, her brows furrowing as if I offended her. Or maybe she’s trying to figure something out. She averts her gaze, but the pinch of her forehead doesn’t ease as she stares off into the distance and I’m at a loss of what to do or say next. I consider myself to be a confident person, pretty sure of myself and comfortable in my skin, but here with this woman, I’ve never felt more out of my element.
I notice a book next to her on the arm of the couch and I jerk my chin to it. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing, you won’t stop talking to me.” Her words are slow and soft like she’s unsure she wants to say them, and I hope she’s joking because the air is already suffocating enough. Her features soften into the barest of grins, but it’s still just a whisper across her lips as she turns the book around. I assume it’s fantasy, based on the crown and dagger on the cover.
“What’s it about?”
“A king kidnaps a queen from another land and they fall in love.”
I raise a single brow. “Sounds… romantic .”
She doesn’t respond.
“Do you read a lot?” I realize I’ve done nothing except ask her questions tonight, but she kills every conversation by not reciprocating. If she gives an answer at all, it’s a simple one. I don’t know how else to keep the conversation going if I don’t continue the interrogation.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” An idiot would know it’s because she enjoys it. But I’ve never understood how reading is more enjoyable than watching TV. Your brain doesn’t have to work as hard when the visual is already done for you.
“It’s a good escape.” She chews on her lip, and I fight the urge to ask what she needs to escape from. I can’t imagine she’d like that question.
Instead, I choose to state an observation, “You don’t talk much.” But it becomes apparent I chose wrong.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay.”
It’s not remotely the response I was expecting. “What? It’s just an observation I’ve made.” But I guess it’s an obvious one, one she’s likely made herself. By bringing awareness to it, I’ve only heightened the awkward tension between us.
She narrows her eyes again and cocks her head to the side. “I’ve answered every one of your questions.”
“Sure, but I feel like I have to pull words out of you.”
“I barely know you.”
Don’t people have conversations with strangers all the time? “You get to know people by talking to them.”
“I don’t like talking,” she shoots back. At least she’s honest.
“Then, I guess we don’t have to talk.”
“Fine.”
“ Fine .”
She holds my gaze instead of looking away this time, daring me to open my mouth. We sit there, awkwardly studying each other for a few minutes until, slowly, she reaches her hand over for her book, picking it up, and bringing it to her lap. Only after she turns the page to where her bookmark lies does she finally break our eye contact and look down.
For the next twenty or so minutes, she reads and I watch her. I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to look away. I have an overwhelming urge to understand what’s going through her mind, to know why she can’t sleep, to know why she doesn’t like talking. If for no other reason than she’s the exact opposite of any woman Sam’s dated before. She knows I watch her because she pins me with her gaze for a few seconds anytime she turns the page, her expression unreadable.
“What the hell are y’all doing? It’s after midnight.” Sam’s voice penetrates the tension as he appears in the walkway between the living room and the hall, rubbing his eyes.
“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.” Why is she apologizing? Cori rises from the chair, taking her coffee cup to the sink to rinse it out.
“Well, how am I supposed to sleep without someone to cuddle with?”
She dries her hand on the towel and walks toward him. “The same way you sleep whenever I’m at my own apartment.” It’s a statement, but her tone is lifted at the end.
“It’s too late for your sarcasm.” As she walks past him, he playfully pinches her butt. “Night, Nick,” he says, following her.
I’m left wondering if I’m still asleep and if that encounter with Cori was nothing more than a weird dream.