Page 2 of Forging Chaos

“Odin?” Mom places her hand on my arm, and I meet her eye.

I clear my throat and ask her to take me to the bathroom to have something to do. Mom presses her lips into a line. “Honey, you’re not supposed to get out of bed yet…”

I squint and look over my left shoulder at a catheter bag full of piss. I laugh. I can’t even control my bladder right now. I am totally, utterly at the mercy of these machines. Yet, the reality of it is that I haven’t been controlling anything for years. I eat what Coach tells me to. I lift what another coach tells me to lift. I follow the rigid path toward the pros because that’s my legacy.

That’s the plan.

But not anymore.

I sigh and reach for the clicker the nurse told me about with my morphine drip. I click until the monitors start to beep, and I fall asleep listening to my parents in manic planning mode with a zillion different specialists huddled around my bed.

CHAPTER 2

THORA

Rationally,I know I didn’t curse anyone. It’s just plain lousy timing that Odin Stag happened to get hurt moments after I complained about having to work with him on my final project for a class I absolutely need to ace.

People complain about group projects all the time. Just small talk. How was I supposed to know he’d go down like a dump truck full of gravel the second I finished my rant about him being a shitty research partner.

It’s not that I think he’s not smart. I don’t trust anyone but my best friend Fern.

Anyway, just in case the universe is testing me, I’m making Odin cookies. At home in my parents’ kitchen with the window open and a fan blowing to keep the plume of my father’s cigarette smoke away from the baked goods.

I really don’t bake. But how hard can it be to follow the instructions on a bag of chocolate chips? I’m pretty pleased when the first pan I pull from the oven looks exactly like the photo on the bag, like actual, regular cookies. I smile, scraping them from the pan onto a towel I set on the table. We don’t have any foil, and we certainly don’t have the cooling racks the instructions recommended. Hell, we only have onecookie sheet, and it looks like it’s been in the house for five decades.

My dad must have caught a whiff of the cookie’s success because he hollers, “Bring me a few of those, will you?”

I grind my teeth. Nothing is preventing him from getting up from the couch himself. It’s one thing when he asks me to bring him a drink on my way past. I’m not working today. I’m not waiting on people. Plus, these are spoken for.

I ignore him and get to work scooping balls of dough onto the pan for the second batch, thinking about Fern’s offer to accompany me to Odin’s apartment to deliver the cookies. She’s dating his cousin, who also lives there. I encouraged her to make a move on Wyatt, and that seems to have worked out great. Fern assures me nobody has mentioned a single thing about me having cursed Odin into a significant injury.

It’s self-centered of me to even imagine I caused this. I’m well aware. I lick a wayward hunk of dough from the outside of my hand before I slide the pan into the oven. I’m well on my way toward a peace offering I plan to combine with a reasonable insistence that I take care of the entire project for our shared class. If Odin is hurt, he’ll have much to deal with recovering. That’s just facts.

“You hear me?” Dad’s voice startles me. He stands at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “I asked you to bring me one of those.”

I swallow back the urge to point out hedemandedseveral of the cookies. Instead, I smile and explain, “These are a gift for a friend, Dad. He’s sick.”

He steps toward the stove. “You can make a few extra for your own family. If he’s sick, he can’t eat all that.”

I place my body between my father and the cookies. “They’re not for you.” My voice is sharp, harsher than I ever speak to my parents, even though they provide absolutely nothing for me at this point in my life. My scholarship covers rent for me to live here, more than my fair share of thegroceries. I’ve helped pay my way in the world since I was tall enough to work under the table at all the shitty restaurants my parents bounced between. I’m leaving here in a few months, just as long as I maintain my perfect grade point average and meet the expectations of my graduate school fellowship.

Dad’s lip curls up angrily. “Think you’re better than us now? Cookies for your fancy school friends? Is that it?”

I shake my head. “That’s not it at all. These cookies are a gift. For someone in pain.”

My father looks at me like I’m the enemy and turns on his heel, heading back to the living room, muttering about how his own kid won’t cut him a break.

I realize there’s no way the entire batch of cookies will fit in the empty nut container I brought home from the bar. After I clean up the kitchen, I glance at the overflow, about eight beautiful cookies. I fight an impulse to cram them in my mouth or shove them in the garbage. Instead, I pile them on a plate, leave them on the table, and walk out the back door with my get-well gift for Odin.

CHAPTER 3

ODIN

By morning,I’m exhausted from nurses entering my room every five minutes overnight. They’re gradually pulling tubes out of my body, which is great, but I would pay any amount of money right now for an hour of uninterrupted sleep.

I pay casual attention as the morning nurse reviews plans with me. Something about benchmarks to put weight on my foot and later to drive. I’m getting a knee roller and fancy physical therapy courtesy of the university football team, but I’m entirely dependent on others to get me to and from the facility. Great.

They pulled the tube out of my junk so at least I could pee on my own…under supervision and with several orderlies holding me upright. What a hero I am. If only the jersey chasers could see me now.

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