Page 119 of Holding On

"But you're not in the chair anymore. That has to mean it's better."

"You tell me." I say, annoyed. "You keep talking to my doctor behind my back. You probably know more than I do."

"He wouldn't tell me anything," he scoffs. "Said you asked him not to."

I smile. So Dr. Livingston actually listened to me. I didn't think he would. I'm sure my dad offered him money for info, but the doctor must have turned him down. Guess some people still have integrity. Thought that trait died out long ago.

"There's nothing to tell," I say. "It's healing like it should. That's all he said."

"How much longer?" he asks, still staring at my leg.

"Until what?"

"You know what," he snaps. "How much longer until you can play?"

"How the fuck would I know?" I ask, angry that his only concern is football and not his son's health. He's always been this way so I shouldn't be surprised but it still pisses me off.

"Don't take that tone with me," he hisses. "I'm looking out for you. You don't get your ass back on that field and your career is over. Everything we've worked for. All the time and money we've invested will all be for nothing."

We. Our. I hate it when he takes credit for my success. Acts like he's part of it. Tries to lay the guilt on and make me feel like I owe him.

"I've told you a million times I can't control how fast it heals. And there's a chance it may never be the same. I may not even be able to—" I stop, knowing I shouldn't say it. It'll set him off and start a fight I'll never win.

His eyes narrow and he gets those lines in his forehead that appear whenever he's angry.

"Don't even THINK you won't be playing again. I don't give a damn if your leg isn't a hundred percent. No athlete plays injury-free. It's part of the game. You get hurt, you man up and play through the pain. Just wait till you get to the pros. Those guys are twice the size of some college kid so you better get used to the pain. What you're feeling now is nothing compared to what you'll feel when some 320-pound linebacker slams into you."

He says it without the slightest hint of concern. In fact, he'd probably like that to happen to me. He'd say it's good for me. That it'll toughen me up.

As for me? That's the part of the game I hate. Always worrying if some huge guy is about to come barreling down on me and knock me unconscious, my brain smashing against my skull. I know all about concussions and the long-term damage to the brain that comes with repeated blows to the head, but my dad doesn't give a shit about that. I'm sure my mom does, but she pretends it'll never happen.

"Have you been training?" he asks.

"I do what I can. For now all I can do is lift weights."

"And throw the ball." He waits for me to confirm it.

I keep quiet because the truth is, I haven't thrown the ball since before the accident. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I love it. The feel of the ball in my hand. Watching it soar in the air. I love it but I don't deserve it so I don't let myself do it. After letting my friends die, I don't deserve to live out each day, doing the things I love.

But fuck, I miss it. I miss the game. The pure, unadulterated game, free of contracts and money and pressure. If it were just a game, I'd be doing everything possible to make sure I could play again. But it's not just a game. It's my life, and my future career, which is why I have a love-hate relationship with it.

"You HAVE been throwing the ball, right?" My dad's anger is rising again. I can see the veins bulging in his neck as his jaw tightens.

"Of course I have. But throwing it from a wheelchair isn't the same as throwing it on the field so it's really not that useful."

"Now that you're out of the chair, I expect you to be on the field every day with your coach."

"I can't be on the field. People will see me."

"I'm talking about the indoor field. The practice area. You get your ass in there this afternoon and start training. I'll drop you off when I leave. Did they say when you can drive?"

"No." I look to the side, trying to remain calm but wanting to scream at him to leave me the fuck alone. I can't take all this damn pressure. I'm not ready to go back. Back to the field. To practice. Back to my old life. I'm not there yet. I'm still trying to get over the accident. Still trying to deal with the guilt. The shame. But all my father cares about is some goddamn game.

Does it even matter anymore? I ask myself this every day. Every hour. And I keep getting a different answer. I know football is what I'm supposed to do, but it seems so damn stupid now. I go on a field, throw a ball, and people see me as a hero? I'm not a fucking hero. I let three people die that night. Heroes don't let their friends die.

"Ethan!" my dad yells. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes. And the answer is no. I'm not going to train. Coach knows I'm not ready. He should've told you that."

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