I'm Your Wreck

13- Moral Support

Soccer tryouts slid into view way too soon. I was still fumbling with the ball, messing up some very basic drills that I used to be able to finish in my sleep. I wasn't ready, but I didn't really have a choice. For the passed month, I'd practically been living on the field for this moment.

If I couldn't do it for myself, then I had to do it for my friends who had worked so hard to support me through all of my mental blockers. Some of which, I was still dealing with.

I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my shorts so that nobody could see how badly they were shaking.

The captain of the team introduced himself as Chris. He was a tall guy with warm brown skin and black hair that flowed to his neck. He talked with an easy friendliness to him, his shoulders slouched and relaxed. These tryouts were no big deal, he'd said. Just take it easy, we're all here just to have a good time.

It was completely the opposite attitude of the teams I played for before my injury. The competitiveness, the drive and hunger, this team had none of that. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"Liam Howard?" somebody called out my name. He wore the Tate Club Soccer t-shirt that all of the existing players had on, jogging toward me with a wave of his hand. "I feel like I'm meeting a celebrity."

I tried to place the man, lanky and pale with light brown hair, but I had no idea who this person was. "Have we met?" I asked in the most polite voice I could muster.

"Kind of? I'm Allen, I played for Bridgman in high school," he explained. Bridgman was a school we played against a couple of times a year, so I recognized the name. "Watching you play back then was incredible, man. Seriously. It was such a shame, what happened with your knee, but you'll be an incredible asset to the team. I can't believe I'll get to play next to Liam Howard."

His words were supposed to be encouraging and I tried to smile gratefully at him before walking back toward where the other hopefuls were getting prepared for tryouts. Nausea broiled deep in my stomach as I imagined the scenario playing out.

Allen had so many expectations of me, and maybe so did other people on the team if he told them who I was. I was going to get on the field and disappoint every single one of them, including myself and my friends and Quinn.

He would tell his friends from high school, who would tell people from my old high school, and then all of my old teammates would know what a fucking loser I was now.

I couldn't do it. My hands were trembling at my sides now, my breathing going ragged and sharp.

It was better to walk away now and let Allen think that I was still a great player after recovery instead of go through with the tryouts and let him know that I was hardly any better than little leagues anymore.

I turned to walk off the field, itching to pull off my shin guards and get back to my car in hopes that I could even out my breaths before I got back home. My friends would be so disappointed, but they'd understand. Quinn maybe not so much, but she'd get over it.

I had my chance to play when I was eighteen and I blew it. It was stupid and foolish of me to think I even stood a chance to become the player I used to be.

But then, I spotted a familiar tuft of black hair standing at the far edge of the field. Banks offered me a small wave from where he sat at the very end of the bleachers. What the hell was he doing here?

The confusion quickly morphed into some sort of relief to have a familiar face there, rooting for me. Even from far away, the warm encouragement on his face dissolved all of the rising anxiety in my stomach. Well, maybe not all of it, but enough of it to get me to stay on the field.