Page 42 of Game Face

“What are your terms?”

“You make it to the end of the hallway and back, and I’ll tell your team to leave you alone until the game is done,” he says.

Shit. That’s a good deal.

“Gah!” I groan, pushing the thin blanket from my body and nodding toward Steven, my physical therapy assistant. I swore at him a lot just an hour ago when he made me walk with Death Trap. I’m surprised he came back for more.

He quirks a brow.

“Fire her up, Steven,” I say, and my father and Dr. K cheer.

Steven steadies my right side as my dad steps in at the left, and they secure the harness that takes some of the weight off my right leg while I attempt to walk. I feel like a zombie, dragging half of my body along the tiled floor while people back away to make room for me, not sure which way I’m going to go.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask, kind of missing her words of encouragement right now. While my dad and Steven tend to root me on and praise me with lots of comments like, “You’re doing so well,” my mom gives it to me like it is.

Suck it up, sunshine.

You already made it this far; you have no choice but to go back now. Unless you want to just lie on the floor.

And my favorite from early this morning, which she directed at my dad when she caught me rolling my eyes at his hyper-positivity.

I wouldn’t exactly say she’s hauling ass, Reed.

I’ve never been motivated by soft coaching, and my dad should know that. But I guess this is a special circumstance. It would feel better if everyone talked a little more real, though.

“She may be picking you up a little something Grandma Rose whipped up,” my dad reveals. My gaze snaps to him, and I can tell by his smirk and the flicker in his eyes that it’s tortilla soup.

“Now we’re talking,” I say, wrapping my hands around Deathtrap’s handles and pulling myself to my feet as Steven tightens the harness to help me stay upright.

My arms shake. I adjust my grip and grimace, but nothing I try is going to make this easier. The only remedy for this is time.

“Let’s do this,” I command, and together, the three of us work our way to my door.

“Good work,” Steven mutters.

“No, it’s not,” I grumble.

Dr. K chuckles behind me, clearly having been warned about my attitude. Little does he know this is simply how I’m built. He could be teaching me a tumbling pass right now on the mats, and I’d find fault with my attempt. I set a high bar for myself, and I’m not going to lower it now. In fact, now it’s higher.

We get to the doorway, and I shake my head, needing a short break to adjust my grip. My right leg feels as though it’s being dragged along for the ride, and I look down to see if I’m even standing on the ball of my foot or just grazing the floor with the tip of my toe. When I see it anchored flat and centered within a square of the tile, I try to lean into it.

“I feel like I’m falling.”

“You have to relearn balance. It’s normal,” the doc says behind me.

“Define normal,” I huff out in a pissy laugh.

Nobody answers my request, which is probably for the best.

I nod that I’m ready, and we begin our route down the hallway. There are fewer nurses standing around, and I’m not sure whether it’s because they’re on rounds and busy or my mom kindly asked them not to. Whatever the reason, I like the lack of an audience. Maybe it’s mental, but it makes me feel stronger, and when I make it to the end of the hallway, I nod my head forward.

“I want to go all the way around,” I demand.

“That’s my girl,” my dad says, and I let him have this one because it reminds me of all the times he’s uttered that phrase. I let my mind drift through my past as we push on around the nurses’ station. My first back handspring in the front yard, and my dad’s boastful cheer as if he taught me how to do it himself. The time he took me out to kick field goals on the field in junior high when he was home during the off-season. I doinked two of them. And freshman year, when he insisted I go to his gym with him and learn how to hit a boy hard enough to knock him out.

Fueled by my former successes, I make the lap and am nearly back to my door when my body gives out and Steven swoops in to support me completely. He’s a big guy, maybe six-foot-two or three. He’s close to Wyatt in height, but his body is bulkier, like my grandfather in pictures of when he was younger. My mom calls it fluffy.

We get back to my bedside mostly on Steven’s strength, and my dad helps undo the harness so I can sit on the edge of the mattress while he smooths out the sheets and blanket before I lie back. Everything gets caught on my brace—blankets, cords, even my hair somehow. I think my biggest motivator to build strength is to get rid of wearing this thing twenty-four-seven.

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