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THE GYM SMELLS LIKE SWEAT, metal, and the faintest hint of that shitty air freshener they use to try and mask the stink. It’s just me, Jack, and Hassan today. Carson ditched to be with Aly. Again. At this point, he’s made it painfully clear he’d drop anything for her.
I grunt as I press the bar up one last time, my chest burning with effort before I rack it back with a loud clang. Sitting up, I rub my hands over my face, trying to shake off the tension gripping my shoulders. Across from me, Jack is screwing around with my crutches, spinning one like a bloody baton.
I shoot him a look. “I’ll snap your ankles so you can have your own crutches. Just say the word, lad.”
Jack smirks but drops them. “Damn, someone’s in a mood.”
I ignore him and push myself off the bench, my ankle twinging as I limp toward the dumbbell rack.
If he got injured during the fucking finals he would be in a mood too, that’s for sure.
“Are you sure you should be doing this?” Hassan asks, watching me with a frown.
“It’s not like I broke my arms,” I mutter,
grabbing two 25kg dumbbells.
He doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but you should still be resting.”
I know he means well, but it pisses me off. The last thing I need is people treating me like I’m some fragile glass figurine.
I should’ve been at the finals, played till the end. Should’ve been celebrating with my team at The Holloway but instead my dad decided to take me to some physical therapist. Jack and Hassan aren’t rubbing the celebration in my face, but the rest of the lads on the team couldn’t shut up about it at lunch.
I should have been able to come but dad insisted I go to the appointment. He’s been all over me about this recovery, watching my every move like a hawk. He used to play football before he tore his ACL. Never bounced back after that. Mum always said it was because he pushed too hard, never let himself properly heal. And yet, here he is, making the same mistakes with me.
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth as I curl the dumbbells.
Jack scoffs. “Yeah, limping across the gym totally screams fine.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
Hassan sighs. “You’re both idiots.”
Jack grins. “We’re aware.”
“Who’s we, dickhead.” I shake my head and focus on the burn in my arms instead of the conversation.
For a while, we work out in silence, the only sounds being the clanking of weights and Jack’s occasional complaints about how sore he is. Eventually, Hassan leans against the wall, wiping sweat off his forehead with his shirt.
“Royal United starts in spring,” he says.
I nod, setting the dumbbells down. “Yeah. Coach Castro already put the squad list up.”
“That man’s obsessed,” Jack mutters. “We just finished the season, and he’s already got us training for the next.”
“He’s not wrong, though,” Hassan says. “Most Academy players go straight into United. We need to be ready.”
I roll my shoulder, exhaling. I can’t miss out on that opportunity. We’ll be travelling, going to tournaments that only the best teams get to go on.
“Will you be good by then?” Hassan asks.
Jack gives me a look. “You better be. We need you, man.”
“I will be.” It comes out sharper than I intended. I will.
Before they can say anything else, my phone buzzes on the bench beside me. I grab it, seeing Dad on the screen. I swipe to answer. “Yeah?”
“I’m outside,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I clench my jaw. “Alright.” I can drive, it’s not like I’m paralysed, but for some reason my dad didn’t take no for an answer. He wanted to drive me to school and pick me up.
“Get moving.” And then he hangs up before I can argue.
Sighing, I pull my hoodie from my bag and yank it over my head. It’s royal, Royal Academy Football embroidered on the front, my last name and number printed on the back in white. I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder and glance at the crutches by the bench before finally deciding to pick them up.
“See your moody ass tomorrow!” Jack calls out as I leave the room. Somehow that kid is full of jokes.
Without realising, my steps slow down as I pass Carmen’s locker. She visited me at the hospital. For some reason, I still can’t believe that. It was… sweet. No, more than that. It was fucking everything. While I was at the nurses room, she stayed. She was with me when I was truly scared for the first time in my life since my mum died and she said all the right things.
She’s something else. Always has been. Ever since I saw her in that locker room on my first day of school.
I knew there was something about her. She drew me in ever since that day. We weren’t even friends and I was getting fucking annoyed when I saw her arguing with Felix that one time or when she was talking to Jude.
I hate to admit it but that girl hasn’t left my mind since. Shes doing something to me and I don’t even mind.
I shake my head, exhaling sharply. I haven’t heard from her.
Maybe she’s busy. She did promise she’d be with me through my recovery. And Carmen Castro doesn’t make promises she can’t keep, according to her.
I shove the thought away and step outside. Dad’s car is in front of the doors, the window is rolled down as he’s taking a smoke. When I slide into the passenger seat, he gives me a once-over.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Your ankle?”
“Better.” That’s a lie. The pain is still sharp, still constant. But he won’t let me rely on the pills. Won’t let me use them unless I absolutely have to. Because that’s how Mum died. Those stupid, fucking white pills. I get it. I understand.
That’s why I don’t complain. Why I don’t let him see how much it actually hurts.
He exhales, rubbing his chin. “I have a work trip.”
I don’t even blink. This is nothing new. “How long?”
“A week. Maybe longer.”
I nod, staring out the window.
“I want you to take your recovery seriously, son,” he continues. “Even though I won’t be here, I’ll be checking in.”
“I’ll be fine, Dad.”
He studies me for a second before nodding. “I know you will, lad. You’ve got my genes.”
A short chuckle escapes me.
“I’m leaving tonight,” he adds as he takes a right turn. “Left some money on the counter.”
“Thanks.”
He nods, offering a small smile turning his attention back to the road.
As I let out a deep breath, my eyes fall onto my left ankle. The black brace that the physical therapist gave me is peaking out of my shoes.
I can’t lie, it’s been helping. It keeps it sturdy and helps with the swelling. If I keep doing everything she told me, it should be fine. It will be fine.
I have to get better.
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