Page 5 of Holding On

"So...how are things?" He fakes a smile, the same one he gives to athletes he no longer wants to represent. Either they're not performing the way he wanted, or they're not making enough money, or they're too much work to manage. Whatever the reason, when he's ready to dump them, he gives them that smile.

And now he's giving it to me.

"Things are fine," I say, clenching my teeth. His fake smile is pissing me off but I don't want to start an argument. It wouldn't take much. I'm on edge having him here and I'd really just like him to leave. And I know he desperately wants to. He's only here because my mother forced him.

"Someone will be here on Thursday," she says, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. "It's the soonest I could get. Your father and I will cover the cost." She sets her phone down on the coffee table. "We'll get you a room at the hotel until then. It's not sanitary to live under these conditions."

I fight back an eye roll. The house is a mess but it's not unlivable. She should see the apartments of some of the guys on the team. Sometimes you can't even see the floor. By comparison, my place is clean. And if my mom was really that concerned, she could clean up the place herself. But she'd never do it. She doesn't clean. She even put it in the marriage contract she made with my dad. Did I mention she's also a lawyer? But not the same kind as my dad. She does family law, specifically high profile divorces, which are a dime a dozen in L.A.

"I don't need a hotel," I tell her. "It's not that bad."

My dad's eyes zero in on my leg. "I spoke with your doctor."

"You what?" I straighten up on the couch. "Why the hell would you talk to my doctor?"

He clears his throat. "I'm your father. I was concerned about your treatment. The physicians in this town can't possibly know what they're doing. If they did, they wouldn't live here."

"My doctor graduated from Columbia," I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

When I said I don't feel any emotion, that wasn't entirely correct. I do feel one emotion. Anger. And it comes out whenever my dad's around. Like right now? I'm furious, my blood boiling. I'm 21 fucking years old. A fully-functioning adult who has lived on my own for three years. My dad has no right to interfere with my medical care.

"He's in Ohio because he grew up here," I explain. "Not because he's incompetent."

"Still," my dad says. "I needed to make sure he was doing all he could to get you walking again."

"He can't make it heal any faster. It's bone. It heals on its own time."

"I'm going to consult with some orthopedists in L.A. See if they have a differing opinion. They have access to the top research facilities. They might know of something your small town doctor is unaware of."

I shake my head. "It's a broken leg. I'm not going to a research hospital for a broken leg."

"It's more than a broken leg. It determines your future. If you don't get the appropriate treatment and don't heal properly, your chances of playing in the pros are over."

"You seriously think I'll be able to play professionally? After breaking my leg so bad I needed surgery?" I laugh, a harsh humorless laugh. "I didn't know you were such an optimist."

The lines in his forehead crease as he leans forward, pointing his finger at me. "You think this is a joke? You think I spent the last fifteen years preparing you for this, hiring the best trainers, only for you to give up?"

"Andrew," my mother says, trying to calm his temper.

"Stay out of this, Claire." He keeps his eyes on mine. "This is not the end. I've seen guys bust out a knee and be back on the field the next season. You're younger than them. Stronger. You can be back out there this fall if you put forth the effort."

I clench my jaw. "I can't train with a broken leg."

"Your doctor said you'd be on crutches soon. After that, the cast will come off and you'll be walking again. By August you could be back in the gym."

"Just because the cast is off doesn't mean I'll be able to play again."

"If that's your attitude, then no, you won't." He sits back. "I shouldn't be surprised you're acting this way. You always were a quitter."

I ball my fists but keep quiet. I refuse to get into this with him. It's not worth arguing about. If you don't do what he says, you're a quitter. It's as simple as that. I can't win. Even when I do what he says, it's still not good enough.

"Well," my mom says as she picks up her phone, "how about some dinner? I could call and make a reservation somewhere."

"This town doesn't have restaurants that take reservations," my dad says. "Don't you remember that from last time?"

"Regardless, we still have to eat so we'll just have to pick a place. What was the name of that restaurant we ate last time?"

My father texts someone on his phone.

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