Fuck.
I stare at the ceiling and growl.
It’s hard to remember not to move. The pain is an instant reminder. I look down at my traitorous leg, buried under my gray comforter.Thanks a lot, asshole.
It was a routine play. Left foot, right foot. Left, right, left, right. Step over. Pass to Terence. Terence back to me. Then came the defender, who on any other day shouldn’t have been a big deal, but this guy was out for blood. He apologized in a post-match interview, saying he meant no harm, and wished me a speedy recovery. I responded with goodwill in my post-match interview, telling the reporter that injuries occur in sports, and blame is unnecessary.
Lies.That fucker wanted me on the injured list.
As if the torn ACL weren’t bad enough, I had to run into Ember. With herboyfriend. Apparently, my low point wasn’t low enough.
Throwing an arm over my eyes, I try to block out Ember’s image. Of course it’s useless. Ember exists on a reel tape in my mind. Why should this morning be any different?Because she has a boyfriend and now you can finally get over her.Despite her relationship, one thing has been bothering me since I hobbled away from her stare.
She lied about watching my game.
Why?
It’s a question I can’t answer myself, so I don’t even try. Instead, I sit up and inch out of bed, reaching for the brace on my nightstand. After it’s fastened, I grab the crutches propped against the wall and lean them on the bed next to me. Slowly swinging my good leg to the floor, I use my hands to lift the injured leg to the edge of the bed. I rise, balancing on one leg, and prop the crutches under each arm.
All that work just to get out of bed.
Everything is slower. It takes me four times longer to fucking do anything. Breakfast? Not if I want toast. The toaster is tucked in the back of a bottom cabinet. Eggs? Good luck reaching a pan. It’s also in a bottom cabinet. I ended up with an apple, stale tortilla chips, and then I found a protein drink.
Have I mentioned my career might be over?
And the love of my life has moved on?
Fuck my life.
* * *
My low pointjust got lower. I mean, I knew the likely prognosis from my internet research, but hearing the team doctor say it is somehow worse.
“Sorry, Noah. I know it’s not what you want to hear.” Dr. Clafin claps me on the back. He’s nearly all gray hair now, but when I started with the team he was only just beginning to gray. It took two years for his hair to lose pigment. The same amount of time it took my professional career to be in jeopardy.
“I’ll give the report to Marcus,” Dr. Clafin says, one side of his mouth upturned in a resolute smile.
I nod, picturing the displeasure I know will cross my head coach’s face.
Backing away from my couch, Dr. Clafin gathers his things and packs up the little bag he brought with him. When he’s finished, he looks at me. “I’m sorry, Noah.” His eyes hold a mixture of compassion and disbelief, as if even he can’t believe I’m injured this badly. He means well, but his pity only aggravates me.
An irrational urge rises up, but I manage to suppress it. The doctor can’t change his report, no matter how much I wish he could. There wouldn’t be a point. My obvious brokenness would give me away in seconds. I can’t play tough like I have in the past. A steroid shot won’t fix me this time.
“What now?” I ask, leaning back against the buttery soft, overstuffed couch cushions. Automatically, I drape an arm across the back and try to lift my right leg with the intention of crossing my ankle over my left knee. As soon as I try, I remember I can’t. The swift shot of pain is not nearly as agonizing as the blow to my fragile ego. I feel fucking worthless.
“Well, you’re going to need surgery for certain, but we have to allow time for the swelling to go down. Probably about three weeks? In the meantime, I’ll call a friend of mine in Arizona and see when he can get you in. You need the best if you want to play soccer again.”
“And until then?”
“Pre-hab it. The first thing you’ll lose is your quad muscle, and it’ll go fast. Don’t let that happen. I’ll email you a guide with exercises you can do.”
I dip my head back and bring it up slowly, two times. It feels like there’s a weighted blanket covering me. It’s all so big, so heavy, soexcessive. The world is a blender and my life is the smoothie.
“Try to keep in good spirits, Noah. Call your parents. Call your brother, and FaceTime with his new baby. Try to get out of here once a day.” Dr. Clafin raises his eyebrows. He’s waiting for me to agree.
“Sure, sure.” I say it to placate him. I’m not interested in hobbling around downtown Atlanta. Enough people were inadvertently tripped by my crutches in the New York and Atlanta airports already, I’m not trying to send anyone else sprawling onto sidewalks. Or be the recipient of any more irate looks. Some of them turned to compassion when they realized the person who accidentally tripped them was injured. Some of them… Well, not so much.
Dr. Clafin sends me one final wave on his way to the door. “I’ll be in touch about your surgery.”
