Tragedy On The Roof

1: The Diagnosis

"Welp, your results came back." The doctor sighed, "It's not pretty."

Bret looked at him, "What's the issue now?"

"You've had too many concussions as an athlete." The doctor explains, "I'm afraid you'll have to cut it short this year."

"I can't do that!" Bret exclaimed, "My team is depending on me! I'm one of their best linemen."

The doctor shakes his head, and Bret walks out, "Thank you for telling me this."

***

As the day comes closer, Bret finds himself getting more nervous. He has always been a good student, but he's never been intelligent. He didn't think he could get into college without being great at football. However, now that he knows that he won't be able to play next season, Bret isn't sure what he can do with his life. His dad hasn't graduated from high school or even attended college.

"This is it then, career over, just like that. Fuck." Bret sighed and grabbed his sleeve, exposing the scars of his suicidal tendencies, "These cuts will never heal." Bret muttered as he stared down at the faults he forced.

He was sitting in his room, looking through old pictures of his family. Bret loved them all so much, and they were the only reason he had stayed alive this long, "Mom and Dad, I'm sorry for being a complete failure to the family."

But now, with his career ruined, Bret felt like he had nothing to live for anymore. He had put everything into his work, and it was all gone.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking at the city below. He could hear the traffic and the noise of people going about their days. It all seemed so pointless to him now.

Bret thought about just ending it all as he had tried before. But then he saw his little sister's face in one of the pictures; She was smiling and laughing, wearing a tiara and holding a teddy bear.

Bret knew that he couldn't leave her behind. He couldn't hurt his family like that. He needed to find a way to keep going, to pick himself back up and start again.

He opened his laptop and began searching for ways to rebuild his career. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he was determined to try.

"If this is the end, I'll make what I can out of this." Bret raised a fist in triumph.

He walks over to the weight room, where his teammates: Steven, Frank, and Omar. Are lifting. He sighs and joins them, exposing the scars to see if they'd notice.

"Hey, guys." Bret greets, "How much are you lifting, Frank?"

Frank puts the bar pack on the rack, "Lifting 210, why?"

"Just curious." Bret chuckled, "I might lift with you guys."

"Ah, come on, you sly American." Omar laughed as his French accent kicked in.

"You talk a lot of shit for someone whose country surrenders a lot," Bret smirked.

Omar struggled to have a comeback, "Touche, Soby."

Frank patted Bret's back, "What did the doctor say?"

Bret held back a tear, "I can't play anymore. Too many symptoms."

Steven gasped, "Dude! Who will blow shit up when I'm trying to throw the ball?"

"You'll find somebody soon to replace what we once had." Bret laughed nervously.

"That laugh explains the scars." Frank frowned, "I didn't know you were suicidal."

Bret looked confused, "I have been for years. The sport kept me from doing so. Come on, let's drop the topic and lift, alright?"

The boys nodded and decided to lift for a few hours, where they laughed, cried, slapped each other's asses, and made homosexual remarks as a joke. To poke fun at Omar, of course.

"Omar and the French people are all together. Agreed?" Frank giggled.

"Fuck you! You dog!" Omar grabbed Frank by his shirt.

Bret immediately shoved the Frenchman to the ground, "You don't EVER grab Frank like that! You hear me, cocksucker?"

"Fine! Don't be saying shit like that!" Omar pouted.

"Homo." Steven murmured.

The boys did some PRs and went on with their nights. Giving their goodbyes and headed back to their dorms. Bret had tears going down his face after realizing he hadn't harmed himself in a while, "I won't touch a fucking blade again. Going inches deep into my arm."

He fumbled with his keys until his roommate opened the door, "Trying to get inside?"

Bret sighed, "Daxton, come on, man. I'm not in the mood for games. Let me in."

Daxton chuckled, then let the blond athlete in. Bret rubbed his neck and lay on his bed, "Fuck, I shouldn't have tried to hit my PR."

"Which was--"

"Deadlift is now 355. Fucking hell." Bret gritted his teeth.

"Impressive. You should try 390 or even 405." Daxton jumped on his bed, "Goodnight see you in the morning."

"Yeah. Goodnight." Bret replied. He tossed and turned for fifty-five minutes before realizing he had some laundry to do, "Shit."