Chapter Seven
Will
My knee is aching today. Most days, it doesn’t bother me much, but today, it’s hurting something nasty. That throbbing and pinching throughout my left knee and into my quad is telling me I need to take it a little easier than I’d like.
I remove a plate from either end of the bar and finish my set of leg presses with less weight than normal, focusing on form instead of how weak I feel because my knee is angry with me.
I knew I fucked it up when it happened, but I thought it would be fine in a month, back to normal in a few weeks like it usually is whenever I’ve tweaked it in the past. That’s the main reason why I didn’t work out much over the summer, I was trying to rest my knee and give it some time to heal without the stress of practice or games.
But it's been nearly eight weeks since I tweaked it water skiing, and my knee’s not getting any better.
It’s actually only gotten worse since practice started up again.
I hop off the leg press machine and take a small lap around the weight room, testing out my knee.
It feels unstable; my kneecap is feeling loose and the joint itself is aching.
I’ve been able to convince myself that it wasn’t a problem, but there’s no way I can keep telling myself that lie any longer.
My left leg feels weaker and I’m babying it during drills, I'm slower too.
Toward the end of weight training, Coach calls out, “Will Taylor!” My stomach drops, “meet me in my office after you're finished with your set.”
I set my weights down. Coach calling someone into his office is not usually a good thing. A few of the guys are laughing and hooting at me as I make my way out of the weight room and toward Coach’s office. I knock on the door, feeling oddly nervous.
“Come in,” I hear through the door.
I open the door and find Coach sitting in his chair behind his desk looking slightly like a movie villain.
“Sit,” he says.
I take a seat in the chair across from him and rub my hands over the fabric of my shorts, wiping away the nervous sweat on my hands. “You wanted to see me.”
“You’re damn right I wanted to see you. What the hell are you doing out there, Taylor?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you want to blow out your knee on the ice this season? Because that's what’s going to happen if you don’t start taking care of yourself.
I will take you off the ice before I willfully let one of my players destroy themselves.
That’s not how I run my team. Next time I see you not taped or braced up, you’re not going on the ice. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get your ass to the athletic trainer's. Now. And for God’s sake Taylor, don’t treat your body like shit just because you decided you aren’t going to the league next year.”
He waves me off, dismissing me. I don’t mention the fact that I haven’t made up my mind on whether or not I really will refuse to sign with the league when I graduate, and instead, I take my ass to the athletic trainer to get my knee taped up.
Two guys are already laying down on the blue leather medical tables being wrapped and iced.
“Come on in and take a seat,” the athletic trainer says without looking up from the ankle she’s wrapping.
How she knew I was standing in the doorway, I’m not sure.
I plop myself onto the next available table and lay back, extending both legs forward.
The leather groans and sticks to the back of my legs.
“Your knee giving you problems again?” the trainer says, pulling up her stool to the edge of my table. I nod my head yes and point to my left leg.
“Yeah, water skiing over the summer,” I admit. I don’t admit how much it's been bothering me or for how long either, not wanting to hear a lecture about what I should have been doing and how I’m only hurting myself by not doing it. Coach let me have it enough for one day.
The trainer is efficient and doesn’t try to make awkward small talk while wrapping my leg, which I appreciate about her.
She tapes my knee up with some instructions to start adding in my physical therapy exercises and stretches back into my daily routines, and to come back in two days to get my knee retaped.
I hop off the medical table and shift my weight back and forth between my legs, testing the stability and the pain, surprised to find my knee does feel a little better. It definitely feels more stable than it did even a few minutes ago.
◆◆◆
Back at the apartment, Adrian’s in his room with the door closed. I’m not sure where Liam is.
Hushed and muffled voices float through Adrian’s door and a women’s bag is set on the kitchen counter. Damn, he works fast.
I pull out a gallon bag and fill it with ice, knowing that I need to stop pretending my knee is fine and take some steps to actually heal it. I wrap the bag of ice in some paper towels and head into my room where I can ice and stretch it.
I tore my ACL my junior year of high school during a hockey game.
It was a complete tear and I had to have surgery to fix it.
Luckily it was early in the season when it happened, and although I missed playing the rest of my junior year, I didn’t miss playing my senior year.
Since then, though, it's been an on and off again issue. Sometimes I tweak it and it's fine, or other times, like right now, it upends my entire life and everything I do. My knee is a huge part of why I’m thinking about not signing with the Panthers after I graduate. I don’t want a knee replacement by the time I’m 30.
I don’t want to be in so much pain that I can’t play hockey with my kids or go dancing with my wife.
I know some guys would sacrifice everything for a chance to play in the league, but I’ve seen what happens to those guys' bodies, and I don’t want that for me.
Hockey is number one, but I know that will change someday, and I just can’t stomach the idea of missing out on life because my knee is fucked up beyond repair from two or three years of pro hockey.
Call me a sentimental pussy, but it's true.
I roll a blanket into a log on my bed and rest the crook of my knee over the towel, bending my knee slightly, balancing the bag of ice over my leg.
I’m flat on my bed, phone held up over my face, thinking about Kennedy’s fucking mojo list for the hundreth time when I hear the unmistakable sound of Adrian and the girl he has over moaning.
I’m sure he’s into it, but to me, the moans sound fake and I hate fake moans from a girl.
She’s practically screaming, like she’s auditioning for porn or something.
If I’m going to be subjected to the sounds of Adrian having sex, I’d at least like the sounds to be enjoyable–this is borderline torture complete with shrill screaming and over the top exclamations.
I toss an arm over my eyes and contemplate my next move.
My knee feels really good right now, resting over the blanket with ice, but my headphones are in my backpack.
In order to get my headphones, I’d have to move from this position and I really don’t want to move because for the first time in a weeks, I’m getting some relief.
The moans continue and I decide that for now, the knee is more important than the headphones in my backpack. So, I reach behind me to grab my pillow and pull it over my head to try and muffle the fake pornstar moans coming from the room next to mine.
As the minutes go on, I’m more than a little disappointed in myself when I start getting a semi.
I actually need to leave, knee be damned. Maybe I’d feel less disgusted if these noises weren’t so fake, but as it stands right now, I’m questioning things. It’s got to be the fact that I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell lately, it's making my body desperate.
Will: Going to the library if either of you want to come?
Miranda: UGH why do you have to be such a good student? You’re making me feel like I should actually do my work
Kennedy: I’m actually already at the library–third floor
Will: Come or dont come Miranda, I don’t care
Miranda: I’ll come asshole, but I’m not happy about it
Will: No one is making you come to the library with me
Kennedy: Are you guys fighting
Kennedy: It's hard to tell with you Taylor siblings
Will: No
Miranda: Yes
I run a hand down my face and sit up. Why did I invite my twin to go to the library with me?
Oh yeah, because for some reason, ever since my party, Kennedy’s been haunting my every thought and it would have been weird if I only invited her and not Miranda.
But Miranda is the worst person to study with.
She always wants to talk instead of doing any real work.
She tends to treat it as a social hour rather than a study session.
I’m not sure how Kennedy and Miranda are able to work together with how disruptive Miranda is.
Kennedy, though, I know studies intensely.
An excessively loud “Yes!” wafts through my walls and I decide for sure that even not studying with Miranda is better than staying here and being forced to listen to the performance happening next door.
I gather my things and stuff them into my backpack before heading out.
The sounds from Adrian’s room are somehow still getting louder and even more over the top.
The girl lets out what I can only liken to the sound of a yowling cat–staying here for the next few hours is out of the question.
I’ll fulfill some of my mandatory hours and not be subjected to Adrian and the porn star girl he has over.
And maybe, I admit to myself, a small part of me wants to hang out with Kennedy.
I know I hang out with her all the time, but this feels different.