I towel off, put my street clothes on, and fish the car keys out of my duffel. There’s dried blood under my nails, a streak on my t-shirt.
I look like I lost a bar fight. I look exactly how I feel.
The parking lot is empty except for a couple guys smoking weed in a dented Subaru, windows down, EDM leaking into the night.
I walk past them and they barely look up. I get into my own car, a Civic so ancient it still has a tape deck, and sit there for a minute, staring at my hands on the wheel.
I wonder if Darius is okay. “Personal fucking stuff,” Raz said.
Maybe it’s family, maybe it’s something worse.
I should text, but what would I even say? We’re not close. Just teammates. He’s a goalie, I’m a winger. We don’t talk unless it’s shit-talking.
Still, I type out, “You alive?” and delete it before sending.
I drive home in silence, just the sound of my own breathing and the occasional rattle from the glovebox when I hit a pothole.
I can’t remember the last time I drove with music on. It always makes me think too much.
By the time I get to my place, the adrenaline has worn off and the pain in my face is a steady drumbeat.
I wonder if the cut will scar, if the blood will come out of my pillowcase, if anyone will notice tomorrow. I already know the answer.
I always get up. I never ask why I bother.
Maybe tomorrow will be different, but I know myself too well to buy that line.
———
My apartment is barely bigger than the locker I just left, a fourth-floor walkup with a view of the alley behind a closed vegan bakery and the dumpster where the feral cats have made their stronghold.
Capitol Hill rents will eat your soul, but it’s all I can afford until someone in this league decides I’m worth more than a twelve-month contract and fifty thousand in “performance incentives” that I will never, ever see.
I dump my gear bag at the door, right where the cleaning lady my mom keeps threatening to pay for would trip over it.
The place smells like detergent and old coffee, which is better than the alternative, so I’ll take it.
I shed my jacket and shoes and go straight to the freezer for the blue gel ice pack, the one with the cartoon penguin on the cover, a gag gift from Maya that I now rely on more than my own sense of humor.
I press the ice to my face, right above the cheekbone where the cut is throbbing, and wince so hard my vision flashes white.
It doesn’t hurt as much as I want it to.
I keep the pressure on, lean against the counter, and listen to the refrigerator hum. It’s the loudest thing in the apartment, like the building’s shitty little heartbeat.
I check my phone, just out of habit.
One text from my mom, “Saw the game, hope you’re okay. Love you.” Three group chats about tomorrow’s practice, which nobody reads.
A push notification for a news alert about the Mariners signing a pitcher who will inevitably bomb by June.
I open Tinder, scroll through the blur of faces, none of them sticking.
I’m not even horny, not really, just bored. I close it.
Open Grindr, look at the grid of torsos and blank profiles, and close it even faster. I’m not ready for that, not here, not in this city, not with this fucking face.
Besides, I know what I’d find, a bunch of guys who think “athlete” means “closeted” and want to break you open for the thrill.
