Better Than Milkshakes, Better Than Boys (girlxgirl)

[46]

"Grade three tear of the hamstring..."

"Three to four months of recovery..."

"Cannot train until July..."

I'm staring at the ceiling of the hospital room I'm lying in whilst everyone is talking about me as if I'm not lying in bed with a pair of working ears. Everything is bleak. The walls are bleak, the worried faces of those looking at me are bleak. Hell, even the dumb hospital gown I'm wearing is a bleak, off-white with no character. It doesn't even have a pattern on it for Christ's sake.

I feel numb. Inexplicably numb. There is so much I should be feeling, so much sorrow. So much pain. I should be drowning, but I can't feel anything. I can't feel the pain in my leg, but I also don't feel upset, angry, destroyed. In this moment, I don't seem to be capable of feeling anything.

I've been in this hospital room for nearly 24 hours now since I was raced here from the game. Coach didn't want me sticking around for handshakes and the post-game team talk. She had Coach Walker drive me straight to the hospital my dad works at, even if it was an hour away.

Turns out my dad had the unfortunate job of telling me that the tear in my hamstring was too high to heal on its own, and they had to take me in for surgery. I didn't even cry. I haven't cried in 24 hours.

I woke up with my leg bandaged and a brace anchoring my knee. I'm not allowed to bend it in case I damage the tendon and ruin my leg. I woke up with everyone I love around me—and felt nothing when I saw them.

I'm seeing concerned faces, faces of people that I love and know who care about me, yet the only feeling—the only emotion I can muster from my desolate soul, is spite.

My mom is sitting on one side of the bed, alternating between stroking the hair from my face and kissing my hand. My dad is obviously my doctor, coming in and out of the room to check my charts and juggle other patients. April and Freya are both sitting on the large sofa at the end of my room, a sight in itself quite bizarre.

I never expected Freya to be here, and under normal circumstances, I'd be grateful for the company, especially since I'd rather chop my whole leg off than have Faye and Clay in here with me. Her chestnut hair is thrown in a haphazard bun atop her head, her pale skin hidden underneath a green hoodie and the black team tracksuit bottoms. Her eyes hold concern, and she's the only one in the last ten minutes to ask me how I am.

I didn't answer her with more than three words, but I'm glad someone spared the time to actually speak to me and not about me.

They can't possibly understand what I'm going through. All of them are still fit, healthy, able to carry on doing what they love. My dad has never damaged his hand and had to stop performing surgery. Mackenzie is sitting next to me, idly holding my hand with two fully working hamstrings.

She gets to play in the final in two days time, while I'll be sitting on the sidelines with crutches and my leg in a fancy, expensive brace to stabilise my knee during recovery.

Is it bad that I feel so bitter towards a girl that I love with my entire being? A girl who wants nothing but the best for me. A girl who has stayed with me since the game finished and Coach let her leave, who showered at the hospital so she saved time. Who hasn't let my hand go since I woke up.

It wasn't her fault this happened to me. I made the decision to make that tackle. Nobody forced me. I wanted what was best for the team in that moment, and I knew there was a chance I would injure myself. But in that moment, I didn't care.

I care now. And that care is poisoning me.

"She'll need plenty of bed rest." My dad sighs, running a large paw through his hair after removing his scrub cap. I remember picking that cap out for him when I was little. It's blue, with small soccer balls on it. He laughed and told me it was better suited for a peds surgeon, but my seven-year-old self stomped her feet and didn't have any of it.