“Good job, bro. I swear that guy hates anyone who can hold a ball.”
He laughs again, and I move my hands up to the top of his shoulder, then slip under to the other side.
“All right, sit up,” I tell him when I’m finished. I do some range of motion, then help him get his shirt and sling back on. “Make sure you keep this on,” I say as I tighten all the straps.
“I do,” he groans.
“It’s not the end of the world, Max. Once you’re healed, you’ll be back on the field. Next year, you’ll be stronger and better than ever.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He holds his hand up as he walks away.
“It’s Friday. Enjoy your weekend!” I call after him.
“See ya.”
I lean against the table, watching as he walks out of the room, crossing my arms over my chest. I feel bad for the kid. He was going places. Scouts were supposed to be checking him out this year and now he’s hurt. Once they know that, he has to prove himself even more. Players with injuries aren’t the ones who get picked first, not unless they show a lot of promise. If he goes through therapy the way he’s told, and follows everything I tell him, he will be fine. It’s up to him to make that decision, though. I have no control over what he does when he leaves this place, and that’s the hard part about this job.
I huff a sigh, then wipe down the table, tidy up the room, and shut the lights off before leaving.
“You outta here?” Monica calls out from her room. She’s another physical therapist. Played basketball for a few years, hurt her knee, and decided she needed to do something else with her life. Now she’s here.
“Yep. See you tomorrow.”
“Have a good night!”
I head out to my truck and wait a few minutes after starting it up before taking off. If I don’t, she’ll stall out. She’s finicky but loyal. I make good money doing what I’m doing, but life is expensive and my truck is still running. I don’t need something new; I just need something to work. And she works—most of the time.
I stop for gas at the station down the street and run in for an energy drink and a Snickers. The city always has more to choose from than the small ass stores at home, but still I always end up with the same two things—caffeine and chocolate.
“Forty on pump two,” I tell the kid behind the counter. He looks like he’s still in high school.
“$44.98,” he tells me.
I hand him three twenties. “Keep the change. Whatever’s left over on the pump, give it to the next person.”
“Sure thing,” the kid says with a smile like he’s never seen someone do something nice before. If he’s in high school, he probably hasn’t. “Thanks, mister!”
I give him a head nod as I walk out to fill my truck. It tops off at $31.09. Someone could really need those extra few dollars in gas, and hopefully it’ll help.
The drive back home takes roughly a half hour. It’s not all that far, and I don’t mind the drive. It’s time to unwind, listen to music, or open the windows and listen to the world pass as I go. Sometimes I do both. I like driving by myself with no distractions. Just me on my way to my destination.
Work is fine, but home is suffocating. It’s what makes it easy to get up in the morning, but going home in the evenings is never easy.
Ashbourne hasn’t changed since I was born. It’s still the same small town inhabited by small-minded people with big mouths. It’s all it’ll ever be, and I’m angry at everyone who’s escaped its grasps. The only plus side is Austen is still here, but I barely see him anymore because of work. Our poker nights have been far and few between since I started working at the facility.
I could afford a place in the city, closer to work. I make enough for that, but something keeps me in Ashbourne. Guilt, maybe. I don’t fucking know. Don’t really care, either. It’s just a place to lay my head at night. A place to call home, but what the fuck does that really mean?
Before I know it, I’m pulling up my driveway, the gravel crunching under my tires. When I shut her off, I see smoke coming from the hood.
“Damn, girl. Not again,” I say, grabbing my Monster and taking the last gulp of it. I toss it and the snickers wrapper onto the passenger floor with the rest of them. I clean it out a few times a month.
I go around to the front of the truck and open the hood, waving my hand in front of my face and stepping back when the smoke billows upwards.
Once it clears, I can tell right away the coolant is empty. Probably a leak or some shit. I’ll have to fix that up this weekend or she won’t last me much longer. Last thing I need is to catch fire on the highway.
“I’m not giving up on you yet, girl,” I say, dropping the hood and giving her a little pat before heading inside.
I don’t bother to lock the truck or my house, so I walk right in.
