I hear the faucet turn off in the bathroom and Olivia rushes out, eyes wide, alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything!” I snap, all my pent-up emotions bubbling to the surface and boiling over. “Everything is wrong!” I reiterate.
Olivia stares at me, stunned.
After a beat she approaches me slowly, worry and concern flooding her eyes. “Hey,” she coos calmly. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay!” I shout. “My fucking leg is broken!” I gesture to my leg, which is covered in plaster from my foot to midthigh. “How the hell am I going to play football now? You can’t fully come back from something like this, and no scout is going to want to talk to me when they find out about it!” I explain, furious.
“You don’t know that,” she says softly, optimistically, making my blood boil further.
In a way—deep down—I wish she’d yell at me, be just as furious. Somehow, I think it would make things easier.
To me, anger is better than pity. I’d rather have someone screaming at me, reminding me of what a fuckup I am, than give me pity. Pity makes me feel weak, vulnerable, and I hate people seeing me that way. At least with anger they think I’m strong enough to take it, or that I’m not completely torn down yet.
“Yes, I do! My whole future is down the drain. What the hell am I supposed to do now?” I fight back.
She carefully sits on the edge of the bed, gently placing her hand on my knee. “You’re still getting your degree. You have options.”
I let out a low growl, scrubbing my hands harshly over my face in frustration. The NFL has been my dream for years; I can’t swallow the fact that it’s all over just yet, and she obviously doesn’t understand that. She has her whole future ahead of her, all perfectly mapped out and tied up with a fucking decorative bow.
“Hey.” Her thin, cool fingers wrap around my wrists, pulling my hands from my face. “Don’t shut me out. Talk to me,” she begs.
“I don’t need or want to fucking talk, Olivia,” I snap, pulling my hands from her grasp. “Talking isn’t going to fix anything,” I insist.
Hurt flashes across her face. “You’re mad at the world right now. I get it. But—”
I bark out a laugh, cutting her off. “How could you possibly get it?” I argue. “Olivia, you have the perfect fucking life! You have amazing parents and you’re so fucking smart that you’re going to become a cardiac surgeon. You literally have a white picket fence! So don’t tell me youget it.”
Her lips press into a thin line, pain written all over her face at my harsh words. I instantly regret them.
Fucking hell.
I know I’m being a dick, and the tactless words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them.
I feared this would happen. That I’d lash out at her and make her my emotional punching bag. Anger always seems to be my default setting. I use it to mask my weakness and not show what I’m really feeling. It makes me feel strong, powerful. In control when I actually feel anything but.
“Fuck, baby.” I grab her wrist as she stands from the bed, ready to walk away. “I’m sorry.”
Reluctantly, she sits back down, refusing to meet my gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat sincerely. I exhale a harsh breath. “It’s just that after all that’s happened between the other day and today, I feel like everything is crashing down around me. I feel like everything I’ve worked so hard for is gone in the blink of an eye. And being here of all places . . .
“As a kid, I always promised myself I’d be something. I wanted to prove everyone wrong. Myself wrong. With football, I thought for once that I was going to be something. Make something of myself. All of my childhood, I felt so unhappy, unstable. I just wanted a life I could finally be proud of.”
Her honey-colored eyes finally meet mine, full of sadness. “I understand,” she says softly, and I bite my tongue about how she’ll never understand.
Sensing my restraint, she stands from the bed once more, and I’m certain she’s about to walk away. I wouldn’t blame her. She should have walked away from me a long time ago, because she deserves better. Not a miserable son of a bitch who can’t do anything right.
Instead of walking away, she places both of her knees on the bed, carefully swinging one of her legs over me, straddling my lap. Instinctively, I place my hands on her hips and urge her to sit down, but she hardly puts any weight on me, scared she’ll hurt me.
She takes my face in her hands, her thumbs lightly stroking my cheeks. “I know you don’t think I understand,” she says, staring deep into my eyes. “But I do. I understand what it feels like to be scared, alone,broken.”
I furrow my brows, wondering when she could have ever felt that way; her life seems perfect.
She nervously chews at her bottom lip, looking contemplative, unsure.
Eventually, she comes to a conclusion. As she sits back, her hands fall from my face to reach for the hem of her shirt. Taking a deep breath, she hesitantly lifts the fabric up and over her head, the oversized T-shirt landing beside us on the mattress.
