Page 18 of Fragile

My heart starts pounding harder. “I just... I forgot, okay?”

“Forgot?” he repeats, voice rising. “This is your career we’re talking about. You think anyone else is going to forget to take care of their body? You think the competition’s out there slacking off like you?”

“I’m not slacking,” I say, but it comes out weak, almost defensive, and I hate myself for sounding that way.

“Really?” he barks. “Then where are you right now? Hmm?”

My throat tightens. “I’m, uh, just—”

“Stop stuttering, Miles,” he hisses. “Where. Are. You?” Each word resonates like a slap, his anger rising with each one.

“I’m at home,” I admit quietly, wincing in anticipation.

“You’re supposed to be at the gym!” He’s past the point of exploding now. “I gave you a schedule for a reason, and you’re ignoring it? Do you even care about this? About any of it?”

“Of course I care!” I blurt out. “I just needed a break, Dad. I can’t—”

“Oh, right, a break. Sure. Because you’ve earned that, right? With all the hard work you’re putting in? You didn’t even call the damn nutritionist!” He lets out a harsh laugh. “You don’t want this bad enough, Miles. You’re wasting time,mytime, and you don’t even realize it.”

His words slice into me, guilt and something much darker curling in my stomach. I grip the phone tighter, attempting to stay calm. “I’m trying,” I reply through gritted teeth.

“Trying isn’t good enough!” he yells. “Trying gets you nowhere. Action gets you results. You keep this up, and you’re going to end up like everyone else—mediocre. Is that what you want? To be just another guy who didn’t make it because he couldn’t stick to a simple plan?”

I’m silent. I don’t know what to say. Ihatewhen he talks to me like this, like I’m already failing before I’ve even started.

“Miles, I’m telling you this because I know what it takes. And if you can’t handle the pressure now, then maybe this isn’t for you.”

That hits even deeper. I bite my lip, my chest tight with frustration and rage I can’t release. “I’ll call the nutritionist,” I mumble, just to end the conversation.

“You better,” he says, voice cold as ice. “And get to the gym.Now. I don’t care how tired you are. If you want this, you’ll do what needs to be done. If not, I’ll stop wasting my time.”

“No,” I whisper, defeated, but hating that I’m succumbing to him. “I want to do this.”

“Then get your ass in the fucking gym and call the nutritionist. You’d better not be this sloppy at tonight’s game.”

Just then, I hear the faint call of a flight number in the background. He must be at the airport. I swallow hard, dread creeping up my spine. “You’re coming?” I ask.

“Of course I’m coming. Why would I not?”

My chest tightens at the thought of screwing up again, of him watching from the stands, eyes burning into me every time I miss a pass or hesitate on the field. The weight of his expectations pressing down on me is suffocating.

“You better not embarrass me.”

The line goes dead before I can respond.

The dial tone I’m so accustomed to greets me, and my grip tightens around my phone, before I launch it across my room with a deafening roar. Anger grips me in its fierce jaw, as I watch the device smash into the doorframe and land with an echoing crack. My breaths are heavy, weighted, and harsh as adrenaline courses through me all the way down to my toes.

I stand in a rush and grab my gym bag, slinging it over my shoulder as irritation makes my skin crawl. Why the fuck can’t I just tell him to fuck off? Even in my haze, I know why. My fists open and close rhythmically as the pill catches my eye again. The elephant in the room, my saving grace and my damnation. I’m moving toward my desk before I can register what I’m doing. This is my only option to get him off my back. I’ve worked hard my entire life, but it’s never enough, and I need an edge. I need this.

So, I take one and pocket the rest, heading out to the gym, just like he wanted. I pause by the door, staring down at the spiderweb crack on my phone, that spreads from the corner of the screen. Damaged. Broken. Tainted. Just like my relationship with my father.

***

The first quarter is a whirlwind of intense action. Seb is on fire, his passes precise. Our offense is clicking, and we’re moving the ball down the field with a rhythm that feels unstoppable.Hudson, our outside linebacker, is anchoring our defense, making crucial tackles and keeping the San Jose’s offense in check. I’m in the zone, blocking hard, running my routes, and waiting for my moment.

I’ve barely thought about the fact that my dad is here. I didn’t see him before the game, which is for the best. It meant I could focus and get my head where I needed it to be.

On the next play, I move to the line of scrimmage. The snap comes, and I rocket off the mark, breaking into my route. I glance back just in time to see Seb’s eyes lock onto mine. The ball spirals through the air toward me. I leap, fully extending as my fingers make contact with the leather. Pulling it in, I secure the ball tightly as I hit the ground. First down.

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