Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Windy

It's amazing, in an awful, terrible, no-good sort of way, how little time it takes for everything to go from normal to phenomenal to shit. Breath-stealing, hands-shaking, eyes stinging with angry, hopeless tears shit. I want to scream and rail at fate for teasing me with a happiness I didn't even know was real before ripping it away. Dramatic much? I'm a college senior with my first real heartbreak. I think I'm owed a little grace when I let the angst of it all get to me.

"Howell, you're cooked. Get off my field. Hit the showers and go home. You're dragging ass and knocking everyone else off their rhythm. Ice and rest for the night, you know the drill"

Assistant Coach Michaels yelling at me startles me from my mental sobfest and I trip over my own feet. On the plus side, wiping out on the turf is so common it doesn't hurt anymore. The downside is rolling to my knees and looking up to see everyone staring.

Even the special team's football players who are practicing kickoffs and punt returns nearby. Even their head coach, the Daddy my heart still wants for my own. Wants. Can't have.

The dorms are a ghost town when I make it over to that side of campus. Normally, the team travels like a pack. It's nicer that way because it's easy to blend in with a group. No one pays me any specific attention when everyone's laughing and talking.

There's a convenience mart that takes student meal cards in the building next to mine. I swing through there on my silent, solo, booted-out-of-practice walk of shame. Maybe today I'll eat the turkey sandwich and cup of pasta salad. More likely, they'll wind up piled next to yesterday's and the day before's food.

Hard to feel like eating when all I want to do is go running to Daddy to fix everything. Too bad Deke is part of the problem. Why'd I have to go and fall for a famous, important guy? Why couldn't I meet an ordinary Joe Schmoe that Director Franklin didn't have any power over?

The plastic sack with my dinner in it gets tossed on the desk next to the pile and my practice jersey, shorts, and socks land in the overflowing laundry basket. I spray down my shin guards and cleats with anti-fungal spray, because even heartbroken I'm not willing to let that funk manifest.

The upshot of being a senior in a solo dorm room is my bathroom is mine alone. The downside is it's the size of a shoebox, so a bathtub is as improbable as a formal dining room, Still, my parents surprised me with a pop-up cylinder tub that fits in the shower stall and keeps water cold for ages.

Do I like frigidly cold soaks? Duh, of course not. Years of swollen ankles, knees, shoulders and wrists make what I like less important than what's necessary. So even though all I want to do is bury myself under the fluffy blankets piled on my bed, I don't.

I grab the two buckets stuffed under the sink and swing to the industrial ice machine in the lounge by the vending units. Another upside of getting booted from practice is there's a full bin that has yet to be raided by all the other players and teams.

Cold water from the shower has filled the basin nearly up by the time I lug the full buckets back a third time. More than anything I want to skip this next part. Ice baths are the literal worst. Already, my joints are aching at the cold I know is ahead. Undressing is a battle I wage internally, promising myself extra Lego-building time later if I do this now. Probably three or so minutes pass where I just stand and stare at the slowly swirling ice cubes floating in the water. It's pretty, but sucky.

Sore muscles aren't gonna un-sore themselves though, so I force myself to lift one leg in and then the other, my breath sucked in and held tight the whole time. My cheeks puff out like chipmunks to trap the gasp that wants to be a scream the instant my skin registers the frigid wet. Quickly, before I have time to talk myself out of it, I sink down until I'm seated crisscross applesauce with my butt on the bottom of the tub and my shoulders just barely peeking out of the waterline.

Stinging needles numb my skin quickly, goosebumps giving way to flesh tight and shivery. No matter how many times the athletic trainers explain the ways ice reduces inflammation and helps overworked muscles heal, it makes no sense. Right now, it feels like every muscle I've got has entered a permanent state of lockdown. And yeah, this isn't my first rodeo. I repeat these anti-inflammatory soaks every couple days during soccer season and have for years. Not that it ever gets any easier.

I'm not sure how much time passes while I huddle in the water, shivering and being miserable physically and mentally. The shaky chills do help clear some of the fog around my brain that's been dulling my ability to focus and think. So far Director Franklin's upheld his end of the deal. I accepted the baggie of little capsules of the Meldonium he expects me to take. I've been flushing them, which luckily Franklin has no way to tell because it's not like he can drug test me. In return, there haven't been any new rumors and me and Deke. No scandal and no one screaming for Coach McCree's head on a platter.

And I guess that's the real kick in the throat about being a grown-up. Freezing my bits off in an ice bath to hustle along sore muscle recovery so my blackmailer won't realize I'm not seeing any gains from the illegal drug he's coercing me to take. Because I'm not actually taking it. All so I can protect the guy I'm pretty sure if I'm not already in love with, I could be with just the tiniest encouragement.

I hadn't even known having a Daddy was a real thing until I had my very own and had to kick him to the curb for his own best interests. And what really, really sucks? The way he hasn't sent a single text message to me today. Guess ghosting him for three days is enough to convince him I'm not worth the effort.

Effort is such a small word for such a huge thing. My head tips back onto the hard plastic ring that holds up my human-size ice bucket. Effort is too much to hold my head up anymore. Effort is too much to climb out of the water even though my extremities are going numb from the cold. Effort is having no idea how I'm going to manage to convince Director Franklin that I'm taking his stupid drugs long enough to get through the soccer and football season. Effort, effort, effort.