Everything spins until it stops and the next thing I know I’m bent over a toilet throwing up, with someone’s fist in my hair.
“Good boy, Alex,” Vance says, his voice dark and full of humor. “Let it out.”
My head spins, those three little words wedging themselves into me.Good boy, Alex.
I groan as my head hits the toilet seat and heat ransacks my body as he laughs. I feel like I could crawl into a hole and die.
I’m never drinking this much again. Fuck me.
When I finally stop throwing up, exhaustion hits and I curl around the toilet, worried I’ll start dry heaving.
“Where’s my phone?” I murmur. Seconds later, a hand offers me my phone. His thick gold ring glistens in the light. I look up to see Vance standing above me, and I realize this bathroom isn’t my hotel bathroom. It’s too nice. No, this… this is someone’s house.
Vance’s house? Maybe? How the fuck did I get here?
Vance stares at me from above as I take the phone from him, cycling through my contacts, but I don’t see Mack’sname. I can’t remember his number off the top of my head. I can’t—
“Get some rest, rookie,” Vance says as he walks out of the bathroom, leaving me curled around the toilet, the cold tile against my heated flesh a welcome contrast.
I clutch my phone to my chest, trying to remember the numbers I so desperately want to call, but it’s no use. My fingers hit the screen, and when I look down, I see my photos staring back at me. One in particular pulls my attention. I hit it with my thumb, focusing my gaze on the selfie from the bus. With Mack.
The last thing I remember is my phone slipping to the floor and my heart breaking because I’ve never felt so alone.
Part Two
Now…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jordan
Seven years later…
“Come on, Max. You got this. Give me five more.” He pulls on the band, breathing heavily. “That’s it. Four. Three. You got it. Two more. Great. One more. Yes. Hell yes, buddy.” I give his good shoulder a squeeze, then guide him over to the table. “Relax. I’ll be back in five.”
Max is a linebacker for the Brighton Bulldogs—same team I played on some years ago. He got hit hard, landed harder—right onto his shoulder. It was so bad they had to put him under to pop it back in. He went into physical therapy right away, determined to be back on the field as soon as possible.
I have to keep reminding him to take it easy. This isn’t the field, and if he pushes too hard, he could do more damage than good. I think the only thing that makes himlisten to me is knowing I used to play for the same team. He trusts me because we have something in common.
I clean up the area he was working at, spraying and wiping everything down, then putting the band away.
Shark Sports Rehab is the best in the state, and it’s known for its cleanliness and professionality. I take pride in that, and so I do my part in keeping the place clean. It’s the second rehab facility I’ve worked for, and I like that I get my own space and equipment here. It’s like having my own office. It’s the same for all the physical therapists here, and our patients like that they get privacy to be in pain alone. Going through therapy isn’t easy, and it isn’t pretty. I know better than most that men don’t like to cry in front of anyone. I see it every day. At least here, they can do it in peace.
When I get back to the table, I ask, “How you feeling?”
“Sore.”
“We’ll be done in a few. Hang your arm off the side.”
Max carefully lowers his arm to the side of the table, letting it hang. I grab the lotion and put some on my hands before massaging it around his shoulder. I’m careful and precise, making sure to feel around and test out pressure.
“How are classes?” I ask.
“Shitty,” he mumbles, and I laugh.
“Hilcox fail you on that test?”
He chuckles. “Nah, I got a B+.”
