Page 18 of Flawless

“What’s that?”

“The public isn’t vested in their success or failure.”

“Listen, I don’t want any special treatment. I didn’t come here for that.”

“Good. We’re on the same page because you’re not going to get it. You’re going to get your ass kicked just like everyone else. You’re going to put in the work just like everyone else. And if you’re not, then you’ll be asked to leave just like anyone else.”

I lift an eyebrow at her as we stand staring at one another for several long seconds.

“Will there be anything else?” I ask with hostility vibrating through me.

“No. That’s all, Danica.”

I move around her and head back down the hallway to the second wing where my room is located. When I return to my room, I fall flat on my bed, wondering what the hell I’ve signed myself up for.

We don’t even have access to our phones. We’re only allowed to use the phone in the observatory or the recreation rooms once a week.

I glance at the pink and white journal on my nightstand with the floral design on the front.

Exercise.

Writing.

Individual therapy sessions.

Group counseling.

Art sessions.

That’s what I’ve signed up for. I have a feeling this will be the longest three months of my life.

5 – ZENON

...coming up on the fifth anniversary of that fateful day. Not only causing Azzurri to lose the championship, but it also led to a career-ending injury for the one-time superstar midfielder, Al.”

“The country is remembering that disastrous defeat as they face their Brazilian teammates again, Steve. And many are once again questioning where Diaz’s loyalties lied during that game.”

I slide off my barstool, leaving a tip on the counter since my tab is paid. I know that before this sports report ends there will be more than a few people in my face.

A few customers had already slid a gaze my way when the sportscaster threw my face up on the screen.

Next week will be five years since I acted like a jerk and got myself kicked out of the game, lost the championship, and ruptured a meaningful relationship. No matter how hard I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to live that down.

I maneuver through the crowded bar, walking around the tables with my head ducked as I head for the door. Just as I push the doors open, I hear someone behind me say, “Hey! Isn’t that Diaz?”

I sprint down the sidewalk and around the corner to my car. Just as I breathe a sigh of relief about my great escape, a photographer steps out of an alley.

“Zenon Diaz,” he greets while snapping pictures of me as I desperately fidget with my key fob to unlock my car door.

“Get that thing away from me,” I grumble.

“A man has the right to make some money. I’ve got a family to take care of,” he says, getting closer.

I spin around angrily. “Do I look like I give a fuck about your money or family?” I rumble as thunderclouds arise within me.

That doesn’t stop him, and I grab his shoulders, feeling the anger taking over.

“Are you going to get mad and kick my ass, too?” he says while still snapping pictures.

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