Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
It’s no wonder people go mad after long stints in the hospital. The incessant beeping of machines alone is enough to drive you insane, and if that doesn’t do it, the pitying looks from the nurses will.
Outside of a quick phone call to let my family know I’m alive, I’ve spoken to no one over the last twenty-four hours.
My team is already back on campus, preparing for a long day of practice tomorrow, and I’m sitting in a fucking wheelchair at an airport. The gang thinks my cousin is picking me up, but I lied to my sister when I told her that.
I can’t face any of them right now, especially Nate when I saw the score from his game. He slayed, and I got fucking filleted.
My cousins likely think I’m headed back to my parents’ house, and my parents think I’m headed to the beach house where my cousins can help look after me. I don’t plan to tell anyone, and I’m hoping the others won’t find out I’ll be staying just down the road. I don’t need their help or pity during this mandatory recovery period.
That’s right. I’ve been benched, deemed useless to my team.
Not my team. The team. The team I’m technically not a part of for the next who the hell knows how long.
Who gets injured on the first drive of the first game they start in at a higher level?
Weak, slow, worthless fuckers, that’s who.
A familiar truck pulls up, and my buddy jogs around, but I don’t meet his eyes. I can feel him staring though, taking in my injuries and this chair I don’t need but am required to sit in so long as the team facilitator is standing beside me.
The second he pulls open the passenger door, my glare grows deeper.
“I can open a door.” I push to my feet, forcing myself to stand tall. My ribs scream in protest, but I don’t show it.
Duke lifts his hands and stands back, watching as I walk toward the vehicle, my hoodie tight due to all the bandages wrapped around me beneath it.
My shoulder is on fire, burning like a dozen branding sticks are pressed into my skin, but I hide that, too. I climb inside and don’t look his way when he glances over.
Duke is a cool dude, a surfer we met years ago who gives cheap lessons off the pier. Sure, I had to pay him to come get me, but I like it that way. Now I don’t feel obligated to talk, and he’s perfectly happy to sit back and listen to the soft rock bullshit he likes so much.
Needless to say, the ride is a long one filled with nothing but shitty music and an overwhelming array of emotions, the easiest of those to hold on to being anger. Anger is good. I might buckle under anything else, but at least rage can be funneled into something else.
When we pull up to the beach house, he parks in the damn grass, getting as obnoxiously close to the front door as possible. He’s grinning when I swing my scowl on him, and I almost relax, but the tension doubles when I struggle, and he quickly looks away.
Sighing, I face him with a forced smile. “Thanks for coming, man.”
“I was free, so no big.” He shrugs. “Let me know if you… Just call if you want.”
I nod, climbing from the truck, every inch of my body objecting. That’s the only reason I don’t get pissed when he carries the small, worthless duffel I had taken on the away trip. There’s nothing in there but a toothbrush, some deodorant, and the pills the doc sent me home with, the clothes I’d brought for the ride home already on my back. I don’t even have a phone charger.
He doesn’t try to come in, and I don’t bother with an invite, just close the door and hide myself inside.
With each aching step, I curse the world a little more, determined to make it to the kitchen for a glass of water.
By the time I get one filled, my limbs are shaking, and it hurts to breathe. Pushing off the island, I head back for the living room. I nearly pass out from the throbbing in my temples, my hand shooting out to grip the wall, but of course, my dominant hand is what goes out to save me, sling be damned.
“Ah!” I scream in agony as my shoulder erupts in flames, and this time, my knees buckle.
The glass falls from my fingertips as my body goes down. It shatters across the tile floor, and I slam into the broken shards, screaming again when my ribs seem to crack a little more.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I shout, kicking at the wall, my head lolling to the side.
That’s when I do a double take, my entire body freezing in horror, gaze focused out the floor-to-ceiling window of the back deck.