SUTTON
“Was that Cooper?”Meave, my older, adoptive sister, asks around my labored, burning breaths.
Each inhale is as if a shard of ice is puncturing my lungs. That’s what I get for running in the cold. Today, if you’d believe me, is a warm Wisconsin winter day with a high of thirty degrees.
“Unfortunately,” I groan, elongating my stride to skip a patch of ice.
“Tell him I said hi!”
Lakeland University might be frozen over, but hell has most certainly not. Thus, me going out of my way to speak to Cooper Carmichael will not be happening.
“No,” I respond impassively because she knows better.
“Are you ever going to forgive him?” Meave must have me on speakerphone. Through my headphones, I can hear the clattering of her paintbrushes and splashing water as she rinses them.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you two were best friends once.”
“You and Elliot are my best friends. I don’t need him.”
I stop at a red light, bounce on the balls of my feet, waiting for the signal to turn green. Each time my left heel taps the sidewalk, there’s a lingering strain of pain in my knee. Which wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for him.
“Plus, why should I forgive him when he’s never apologized?—”
“That’s not how forgiveness works, Sutton,” Meave cuts me off, but I keep going.
“—andenjoys reminding me how much better he thinks he is than me. Cooper Carmichael is nepotism’s finest, conceited, arrogant, and—” The first boy to break my heart. Ridiculously attractive. Has a dimple in his right cheek that deepens when he really smiles, not the fake one he’s been wearing since we started college, which makes me question why I hate him. I hate that he’s monopolizing this call with my sister. “Why are we talking about him? This is not why you called.”
“Have you heard from your advisor yet?”
Today has been marked on my calendar—the one hanging on my apartment fridge, digitally on my phone, and shared with Meave and my roommate, Elliot—since November.
Today is the second anniversary of deciding to hang up my skates after I never recovered from the terrible triad. Better known as tearing your ACL, meniscus, and medial collateral ligament. The blade of the player that collided with me, cutting open my thigh, was the cherry on top. I had to have two reconstructive surgeries and twenty stitches in my left leg during my junior season in high school.
Doctors were convinced I’d be able to play again. And I tried. Throwing myself into every PT session and workout. Spending endless time on the ice my senior year with my dad. But I was never able to get it back.
That was the second-worst part of all this. Watching my childhood dream go up in flames. Becoming a professionalfemale athlete was already a long shot. Opportunities limited, especially for women’s hockey, but I was determined to do it.
The worst part was that it was his fault. If he hadn’t shattered our friendship, I wouldn’t have been left weak and vulnerable right before a game that needed my entire focus. I’m not letting seeing him—I can’t let it—this morning ruin today too.
Today should be the final stitch in reconstructing a new dream for myself.
Today I’m supposed to find out if my independent study request is approved.
Lakeland has a stellar psychology department, one of the country’s best student health centers, and resources. Top rated in every category. But it wasn’t till I had officially changed my major that I learned they don’t have a sports psychology majororminor.
I thought about transferring, paperwork filled out and one click away from submission to three schools, when my new advisor, Dr. Manning said,Let’s build one. We pieced together courses I would need to take, collaborating with some of her colleagues and friends from other Universities. Adding classes such as kinesiology and exercise physiology to my required courses.
“Not yet,” I confess, optimism wavering.
I’m not confident I’ll hear back. The day is already halfway through, and with how close we are to the semester starting, I can’t imagine the department would approve it now. We submitted the request before Thanksgiving break.
It was always a long shot.
Maybe I should have transferred.
“The day is still young,” Meave reminds me, always visualizing the cup half full.
