31 - The Other Shoe

31

The Other Shoe

T he room is silent.

Coach Teller stands with her arms crossed in the back, and I sit anxiously on the PT table, waiting to see the results of the MRI scan. My teeth worry at my lip.

"Matthews?"

"Yes, Coach?"

She raises a brow. "Breathe."

My chest deflates. In and out. In and out. The weight of the pressure I've placed on my shoulders is heavy. So, I decide to make the already tense room worse. I blurt out, "Would a trade be possible, Coach?"

Coach Teller's eyes have never focused quicker and sharper than that moment. "Say that again, Matthews?"

Exhaling, I rub my palms against my legs. Strange that I can feel the slight difference in the muscle tone in each leg. "I'm not sure playing under the coaching of my father is a good idea anymore." Her stare burns. "We haven't spoken. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't coach me. And it's going to affect the way I play. If I ever step foot on that damn field again," I joke, but it falls flat.

"When," Teller corrects. When she raises an eyebrow, I know she's waiting for me to continue.

"I don't really know what else to say…just that I won't let it affect the team, and I won't let him ruin this for me. It's my sport." I swallow. "I'm not saying I'm definitely going to do it, but I thought I'd bring it up."

"Noted."

I groan. "Coach, come on."

Teller shrugs, adjusting her ball cap. There is anger simmering under the surface. Whether that's directed at me, my dad, or the whole situation, I'm not sure. "Got nothing else to say right now, Aurora. It's noted. If that's the decision you make, we'll deal with it. But I don't plan on losing you."

There's an uncomfortable feeling in my chest. Rubbing it with the heel of my hand does nothing to alleviate it. It's nice to be wanted, to know that she wants me to stay. But is that at the cost of my dad's job? I may not want to work with him anymore, but that doesn't mean I want him out of a job.

Two knocks on the door send my heart plummeting, and the doctor enters. It's a different doctor from my previous, and my eyes narrow on his name tag—Dr. Walsh. I watch as he grabs the stool and takes a seat, wheeling over, the folder resting on his legs.

"May I?" He motions to the knee.

"Sure."

The cool touch of his hands takes me by surprise as he feels around. Pressing the ligaments, rotating the knee. Up and down. In circles. Yadda, yadda.

"How's it feeling? How's PT?"

A small pit of dread sinks further in my stomach. I know he's asking to get a full picture, but my gut is telling me something is wrong. "For the most part, good. PT has been going well. If anything, I've had to slow myself down on doing the work. But sometimes, it aches." I try to wave it away, spinning the ring on my finger. "It's only with certain exercises, certain movements. Not a sharp pain, by any means. I just become more aware of it. But I figured that comes with the injury."

Dr. Walsh hums and removes his hand. "You need to have a second surgery."

I swallow thickly, pressing my lips together. In my lap, my hands are wrung so tight, the skin is turning white, and I can't bring myself to look at anyone else in the room. "There's no other option?" I ask, my voice shaky.

"It's a simple procedure. There's a secondary tear that was missed. Minute. Miniscule. Only exacerbated by the work you've been doing."

Huffing, I throw my head back, willing the tears to stay in my eyes. "So, because of the PT I was doing, I worsened something else?"

It's so stupid, but I feel foreign in my own body. Previous injuries, the more I did, the better I got. Each recovery requires something different. I know that. Some require you to push through, some force you to rest. But I've always excelled at that because I wanted to get better. And now, I've made myself worse?

"Aurora." Coach Teller's voice is stern, and I clear my throat.

"That's not exactly it. The tear was most likely caused at the same time as the MCL."

"How long will the recovery take?" I meet his eyes.

"It will add about four weeks of recovery."

Blowing out a breath, I bow my head. Four more weeks. The first showcase usually takes place in February. Sometimes the very beginning of March. Right now, based on the recovery I've already done, I should've been ready to get back on the field at the start of February and to go all out to prepare. But now…I'll be lucky if I'm even ready to go by the time the first camp comes around. The time to find my groove again has basically been eliminated.

"Okay." My voice is small. The world feels like it's closing in and pressing on my chest.

The wheels of the stool echo in the quiet space. "We'll get you in for surgery next Thursday, the seventh."

I can't believe it's already November. October was here one second and gone the next. It was such a blissful blur. Falling in love, being in love. Watching the leaves change while Isaiah and I melded more into each other's lives. But why does it feel like this sport is trying to leave me behind?

Dramatic, I know. To feel like a failure because of an injury, to feel like a fraud because of something that happened and the way my body responded. I can't out train an injury, no matter how hard I try.

"We'll have you back in PT the following week. You'll be alright. Get you back on the field in no time. Okay?" Dr. Walsh clasps his hands together. He places the folder with the surgery details next to me.

"Okay."

With a deep sigh, Dr. Walsh leaves the room with one last pitiful glance. I gather up the materials and hop down. Though maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe my fucking knee will decide to tear again.

"Come on." Coach Teller rubs my back, but the touch feels like a painful scratch. I push my shoulders back, evading it as we head down the hallway.

Every footstep feels like a mile.

I climb into the passenger seat, and every word that Coach says is a buzz in my ear. I can't…I can't focus. I can't comprehend. It doesn't make sense. The drive back to the facility is a blur. I step out of the car into the cool air. It wraps around my throat and makes it hard to breathe. Exhaling, I try to remember what it feels like, but I just feel lost. Like I'm floating on a cloud above it all.

Like my biggest dream isn't slowly slipping out of my fingertips because of a fucking injury.

"Aurora?"

I blink. "Sorry, Coach."

She sighs. "Come sit down for a minute. You're not driving yourself home right now." I let Coach Teller lead me to the sidewalk and sit down on the curb. Teller bends down, crouching in front of me. "You're gonna be okay, kid."

Kid.

Funny how the smallest things are the last straw. Kid. As many times as Coach has called me kid herself, all I can think about are all the times my dad has.

That's the real shit stick of it all. Right now, all I want is my dad.

"I have something for you in the office. Do you want to come in, or will you wait?"

"I'll wait."

Coach gives me a steely look but dips her head. She knows I want to be alone, but I know she cares. My ears ring. Thoughts pounding in my mind, the wind chilling my exposed skin. And maybe I'm crazy, but I swear I can feel the tear in my knee—where the tendon has weakened and torn.

Tears fall down my cheeks in slow pathetic drops, staining the folder in my hands.

I don't—I don't understand. Why? Why now?

It seems so fucking stupid, but it's my whole life. This sport is my life; it's everything I ever wanted and the one thing I have always counted on. The one thing where the work and the effort was worth it, even when I was downtrodden. But now? It feels like being kicked in the gut. A dream handed over, only to be taken right back.

A painful sob creaks out of my chest, barely a sound at all but enough to make my eyes sting.

The sound of footsteps draws my head up, and I see my dad stepping off the curb a few feet away.

Time moves in slow motion as I take him in. He walks right past me.

"Are you fucking serious?" I ask, sounding slightly deranged.

Dad stops, hands tucked in his pockets, and squares his shoulders. When he turns to face me, his face is unreadable. Like it always fucking is.

Like he's above it all.

But the thing is—everyone else accepts that about him. Or ignores it.

It's me that it agitates. Me that it affects. Me that suffers from it.

Because I've seen the few times he lets it slip. Shedding tears at a movie that catches him off guard. The notes he writes in all of our birthday cards. How playful he becomes with Joey and Zaza. I've seen the best, like I've seen the worst. More than anyone.

I stand on shaky legs, pushing my sleeves up. "How do you do it?" Confusion flashes over his features. "How do you hear your daughter sob—because I know you did—and see her cry and continue to walk away? For the second time, no less!"

The memory of him being nowhere to be found at the initial tear flashes like a neon sign.

I step forward. "Seriously, how the hell do you do it?"

We stare off. I wonder what he sees. The stubborn daughter he raised? Or an insolent girl who became this way on her own?

"It didn't seem like you wanted to be bothered." He stands rock still. It's infuriating.

"But it didn't cross your mind to check on me?" My voice cracks.

"Didn't seem like the time."

I laugh dryly. "What do I have to do for you to love me?"

Finally, there's a fissure in his stoic face. Barely. But I see the crack. "I do."

"Not enough. Not the way I need you to. Not the way I've been begging you to." It all comes tumbling out. One by one.

I didn't understand. Why me? Sophia was a momma's girl. She escaped the pain of being his favorite daughter. Never had to live with the pressure of living up to that on her shoulders. But I—I was always a daddy's girl. Always reaching and searching for him as a kid. He was steady when I was standing on a crumbling cliff. Until it changed. Or until I saw through it.

But he was always just out of reach.

"I've always loved you, Aurora. I always will. More than anything," he says, but I shake my head.

"We used to talk about other things, you know. Used to do more stuff together. Until life became soccer 24/7. And then, you just kept hammering. When I was down, when I needed a sliver of encouragement, you never stopped. You'd offer ways to get through it, ways to improve, but never an ounce of understanding of how I may have felt. Sometimes, I just wanted you to be my dad, not my coach. Instead, you just kept raising the bar for both, making it impossible for me to reach it."

The wind breezes between us, cooling my cheeks where the tear tracks lay.

Dad sighs. "I just wanted you to be great. I only ever wanted you to be great."

Jesus Christ. I'd rather him take a knife and drag it across my skin.

"Yeah, well, all I wanted was to be loved. Unconditionally. So, I guess neither of us can get what we want."

Logically, I know he loves me, but it's not enough.

Love that has conditions and requires me to jump through hoops isn't enough anymore.

I wipe my eyes and find my keys in my jacket. Coach Teller might be mad, but I have to leave. Stalking past him, I locate my car in the parking lot and head that way.

"Aurora," Dad calls, and I stop, but I don't turn to look at him. "You know I'm not good at all this shit." Emotions, he means. "I don't know how to…show it any other way."

I close my eyes, grip tightening on the folder in my hands. "Well, no one can teach you. We've tried. You've gotta figure it out yourself."

And I walk away.