Better Than Milkshakes, Better Than Boys (girlxgirl)

[47]

I don't know if you've ever tried to shower with your leg inside a trash bag, but I one hundred percent would not recommend it to a friend. The art of balancing on your one good leg, focusing on washing your hair, and also trying to avoid knocking your knee against the shower glass is exhausting. I knew I had just under two and a half hours before the final kicked off, and I can guarantee I spent over half that time trying not to get my leg wet whilst I showered off three days of grime. If it wasn't massively important that I get my ass to the stadium, I would've crawled under the covers and just slept, then dealt with the uncomfortable apology I needed to give to my girlfriend.

The girls will be well underway with their pre-match warm-up by the time I turn up, and the guilt starts to strike me when I realise that I'm not there for them. I've had a selfish couple of days to wallow in self-pity and upset, but I'm disappointed with myself for forgetting that I am the captain of this team, with or without playing. This is the most important point of every senior's career, and some girls might not make States ever again.

Coach Sanders made me captain because of the way I stuck up for the team, because of the way I led the team from the back, an indomitable brick wall in defence. I need to continue to fight for them while on the bench, even if I coach them from the sidelines.

I pull a pair of shorts carefully over my legs, wincing as I rip the tape off my skin that was keeping the bag over my brace. I've pulled half of the leg hair on my thigh, an angry red line visible across my skin. I spy Mackenzie's team hoodie, her number proudly displayed on the front next to the school badge. It still smells like her shampoo and perfume as I pull it over my head, the fabric soft and comforting against my skin. I could've worn my own, but I want her to know that I'm there for her, and in my own way, I want to show her I'm sorry before actually telling her I'm sorry.

I don't bother putting too much effort into my appearance. I hide the bags under my eyes with concealer and throw my hair into a haphazard ponytail, the tips of my locks curling as they dry. I'm not going to a fashion show; I'm going to support my team in the state championship final.

I text my dad and ask him to come and pick me up once I've made myself look presentable, then eye the crutches leaning against the bed. I really don't want to have to use them, but given that my father—who is also my doctor—is picking me up, it's probably in my best interest to use them. I hobble out of the room and into the elevator, trying my best to keep my weight off my bad leg. I can already hear the lecture my dad will aim my way if he realises I don't want to use them.

It's the best thing for your recovery... If you want to play soccer again, you need to listen to me... Blah blah blah, yes, I'll use the crutches because I know he's right. I just know how awkward it's going to be trying to get to my seat all the while trying not to smack a poor passer-by with a stray crutch.

"You look better," my dad teases softly as I make my way out of the front of the hotel. He's changed out of his scrubs into more casual jeans and a T-shirt, sunglasses pushing his long salt and pepper hair out of his eyes. I attempt to hug him as best as I can manage, attempting to enjoy the embrace with my father all whilst trying not to clout him in the shins. "Though I don't think you've adjusted to the crutches yet."

"Don't start," I grumble, pulling away and looking at him with a sulky look on my face. "I look like a trainwreck."

"Don't insult my surgical skills like that," my dad quips, opening the passenger door for me and guiding me gently into the car. "You'll have a gnarly scar, but that's what all the cool kids want, isn't it?"

"Dad, shut up!" I laugh, pulling the door shut and watching him laugh to himself as he walks around to his side. Once he's seated and driving, I look his way. "Are you staying for the game?"