IAN
January
It’sthe final game of the regular season, and we are all pumped to deliver. The energy is different, though. We have a score to settle with the other team, and I will forever blame these assholes for injuring my best friend.
I don’t care if I lose every other game, but never with them. That incident should never have happened. The league gave them a slap on the wrist and said it’s a brutal sport. Yes, but I thought fairness and teamwork counted for something. Fuck them.
The game progresses smoothly, and we almost have the win locked when someone knocks into me from the side. A pain rips through my arm, but I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of injuring me.
I shove at his chest, and the fucking asshole smirks at me.
He bumps his chest into mine, baring his teeth. “Did I hurt you, princess?”
My team has to drag me off him, managing to separate us.
“Are you okay?” Coach asks.
I nod through a set jaw. Don’t be stubborn, my mind reminds me. It’s my throwing arm, but I won’t give them the pleasure of having taken me out as well. I have a best friend to avenge.
The adrenaline pumps me up as I continue to play, pushing myself beyond my limits.
Suddenly, I feel something strain and snap in my bicep. Sweat breaks on my neck and forehead, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
You can do this, I urge myself, throwing the last and winning pass.
I push past the interviewers. If I don’t get something for the pain, I will fucking black out. The pain is atrocious.
“Man, what the fuck?” Roman asks, and his eyes bulge out as he sees me holding my arm. “You played with an injured arm. Coach is going to kill you.”
“Not fucking helping,” I grit out.
Thankfully, the team doctor takes me to his office.
He touches my arm, and I grunt.
He pulls it up, and I wince.
He sighs and I know it’s not good. “Your triceps is strained.”
I gulp, terrified to ask the question. “How bad is it?”
“You’re going to need three to six weeks to heal,” he says in a neutral voice.
“What?” I shout.
“What?” My coach screams from the door, fury burning in his eyes.
He stabs a finger in the air at me as he shuts the door behind him. “What was in your damn head?”
I grit my teeth. “You know what that was…”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to play against them.”
“They did that on fucking purpose,” I snap, losing my composure.
He doesn’t seem impressed with my outburst. “They already won because now you busted your arm trying to prove a point.”
“You need to rest your arm. Physical therapy. We’ll see how it will go,” the doctor says, wrapping a cast around my arm and shoulder and handing me some medicine for the pain.
