What am I going to do?
I’m supposed to be a football star. The NFL is already looking for the best players. It’s my junior year. I shouldn’t be sitting on the bench. I should be out playing. What’s Mom going to do if I don’t get onto a team after I graduate? I stop in front of my door and rummage for my keys in my pockets. I hiss when I move my shoulder just the slightest bit and groan when a packet of my painkillers slide out, landing on the cement. I groan, slowly reaching for them with my good shoulder. I pick up the packet and stare at them, my body urging me to take just a few. Just one. I need just one. I shake my head. No. I don’t need that on top of everything else. I need to get better, not just numb my pain. If I don’t get better… How am I going to be able to pay for Mom’s chemo?
I push the key into the door and kick it open. My gaze lands on Rachel standing in the kitchen washing dishes and I scowl. I’m really not in the mood to deal with her. Are those my dishes?
She opens her mouth while her hand scrubs at leftover egg.
“I’m cleaning fucking nothing,” I say between clenched teeth while kicking the door close behind me.
“Oh,” she breathes, still watching me with wide green eyes. She’s dressed in black leggings and thick knee high grey socks with an oversized, high necked blue-green sweater. The sleeves are baggy and she continues pushing them over her elbows. “Is everything-“
“Just leave me the fuck alone,” I mutter, shaking my head and biting down another surge of pain going up my shoulder and through my neck.
I stomp through the flat, ignoring her eyes on me and make it to my room, slamming the door shut. I drop my bag and lean my head against the door. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Coach decided to bench me after it was apparent I could do nothing and now I’m taking it out on anyone who gets in my way.
I close my eyes and release a groan. This wouldn’t be happening if I got a physical therapist last year when I was initially injured. Sure, the hand is definitely broken. There’s nothing that will fix that for now accept for time, but my shoulder. That could’ve been dealt with last year and I wouldn’t be in this downward spiral of asking coach for drugs every game.
Just the look he gave me today when I asked him again.
“That’s for game day, son,” I remembered him saying to me, giving me that disdainful look. Like I was some drug addict looking for my next fix.
I shiver, remembering the shot they gave me on game day, how it instantly took all the pain away. I cringe. What the hell have I come to? I’m not a junkie. I’m a football star.
This isn’t how I planned for everything to go.
I stride over to my bed and fall into it. I gaze up at the ceiling. I should probably go to class, but what’s the point. I’m so far behind on everything. I’ll probably fail this semester, like all the others. Which never mattered, because I was playing. I have my plan and all.
But what if I fail?
What if I can no longer play?
What am I going to do then?
I can’t think about this shit anymore, I decide while pulling out my cellphone and search through my contact list. I stop when I find Millie’s name and send an eggplant emoji with a question mark. She’ll help me take my mind off this. A good fuck is all I need. I stare at the three dots, waiting for some sort of estimate of time.
I scowl when I read: Too busy. At practice.
I scoff. “Well, good for you.” I toss my phone across the body and stare up at the ceiling. I don’t know what I’m expecting. She’s a fuck buddy. Not a friend. Not a girlfriend. I shouldn’t expect her to drop everything just to be with me, or take care of me. Hell, she wasn’t there when I broke my hand so why should she be there for me now?
Three knocks pull me from my thoughts and I lift my head just when the door creaks open and Rachel pops her head inside. “Hi,” she says while entering a little further, pushing my bag to the side. She looks around briefly, sniffing at the mess and probably the sweaty odor. “I was able to scrounge up some cucumber sandwiches.” She shows me a plate with several mini sandwiches cut into triangles. “I was wondering if you would like some.”
I grimace at the small sandwiches. Cucumber what? “I’m not hungry,” I say, while rolling around onto my good shoulder and facing the window.
“That’s fine.” I hear her set the plate onto my desk. “Are you ok? Do you want to talk about it?”
I roll my eyes. “All I want to do right now is fuck, psycho bitch.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice is so fucking aggravating. It’s all hesitant and filled with pity. “You seem like you could-“
“Just go the fuck away,” I say while punching the bed. “I don’t want your pity. I want to be left the fuck alone.”
I wait for her to say something stupid, or to insist, but instead the door closes. I sigh. I’m not surprised. It’s for the best anyway. I don’t want anyone’s pity. The way the coach stares at me, my teammates, Hell, even my friend, is driving me so fucking crazy. Yeah, I got hurt. Yeah, all my dreams and plans are going up in flames. Doesn’t give any of them the right to treat me as if I’m going to shatter at any point.
Even though I just might.
The door opens and slams into the wall and I jump,
