Page 1 of Forging Chaos

CHAPTER 1

ODIN

I wake up in a haze,my vision blurry and unfocused. Not sure why, but there are some harsh fluorescent lights above me. Something smells like chemicals—antiseptic.

Panic rises in my chest as I try to piece together what happened. I attempt to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shoots through my ankle, forcing me back down with a groan.

Last thing I knew, I was flying down the football field, defense bouncing off me like hailstones—until one of them didn’t, and I went down like I’d been struck by lightning.

The memory hits me like a freight train - the game, the tackle, the sickening pop as I went down.

I was hoping it was a dream.

Instead, it is a nightmare.

I know where I am.

Reality crashes down like thunder: I’m in a hospital bed.

Did I at least score the touchdown?

The thought flits past, and I almost laugh at how ridiculous it seems now. Here I am, laid up in a hospital bed, and I'm worried about whether I got the ball over the line in a stupid spring scrimmage that doesn’t mean anything. But that's who I am - or who I was. Odin Stag, star running back.The guy whose entire future hinged on his ability to dodge tackles and sprint down a field.

I just yeeted my Achilles, and I know what that means.

So, what am I now? A patient. A statistic. Another athlete whose dreams just fizzled out like a passing storm.

I'm pulled from my spiral of self-pity by the sound of the door opening. My mom walks in, her eyes red-rimmed. Dad's right behind her, his usual happy expression cracking around the edges. I can see the worry etched into the lines of his face, the fear he's trying so hard to hide.

"Hey, kiddo,” Dad says, his voice gruff with emotion. "How're you feeling?"

I paste on my best grin, determined not to let them see how scared I really am. "Like I just went ten rounds with a freight train," I quip. "But you should see the other guy."

Usually, this sort of thing has Dad roaring, coming back with bad puns. Today, he just nods. Mom lets out a watery chuckle, perching on the edge of my bed. She married a hockey player. Ty Stag—Pittsburgh legend. None of this should be new to her, but I guess it’s different when it’s your kid laid up like this.

Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "Oh, sweetie," she murmurs. "We were so worried."

Before I can respond, the door swings open again, and a doctor strides in, all business. He knows my dad, because of course he does, and they shoot the shit until the doc seems to remember I’m here. He launches into an explanation of my injury, throwing around terms like "complete rupture" and "surgical intervention." I try to follow along, but my mind keeps catching on to phrases like "extended recovery time" and "physical therapy."

What does this mean for my future? For the draft next year? For everything I've worked so hard to achieve?

My parents pepper the doctor with questions I can't bring myself to ask. How long until I can walk? Run? Play again?Each answer feels like another nail in the coffin of my dreams. As the doctor leaves, an uncomfortable silence settles over the room. Things must really be bad if Dad isn’t making a dumb joke about deodorant or trying to grab Mom’s butt.

"Well," Dad says finally, forcing a smile, "at least this gives you some time to focus on class, right? Might even boost that GPA of yours."

I know he's trying to help, to find some positive in all this, but it just makes me feel worse. Their presence feels suffocating right now. I'm torn between wanting their comfort and needing space to process this on my own.

I’m surprised my entire extended family isn’t here right now. The Stag family bench is deep, with three uncles, three aunts, and seven cousins usually up in my business. But I remember that theywereall here before the surgery, and Dad sent them home when I went under the knife. I don’t want to see the entire extended crew right now. I don’t want to see anyone.

First, I need to figure out who I am now.

My drug-addled mind repeats a bunch of thoughts. I’m not going to be a professional athlete. I might not even be able to be an Uber driver. And I know damn well my family will want me to look on some bright side or keep my spirits high or whatever rainbow bullshit.

Right now, I need to focus on the realities of what’s going on with my body: agony, yes, but also…deterioration. A torn Achilles is very much an Achilles heel. A career-ending injury. That’s just math.

I’ve spent my entire life planning a professional sports career. I was raised by an Olympic rowing mother and a professional hockey player father, and all my brothers are gearing up to follow in Dad’s footsteps. Where does that leave me? Even after I physically recover from this nightmare, I won’t be the same person I was before.

I was my Norse god namesake … wielding lightning or some shit. Now, I’m a has-been in an entire family of superstars.

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