A Maxley Story

Chapter 2

After a long and tedious Monday, where Bradley did nothing but scroll through his phone, pick at tasteless hospital food, and groan, he was finally told he'd be discharged Tuesday afternoon. The hours had crawled by, each minute stretching into an unbearable eternity. The dull ache in his body was a constant reminder of his injuries, but the monotony of hospital life was somehow worse. The food—often overcooked and devoid of any real flavor—was just another insult. He pushed it around on his plate, barely able to muster the energy to pretend he cared.

When the nurse finally mentioned his discharge, a flicker of relief sparked inside him. But it was quickly extinguished when she added, "You'll need someone to pick you up, especially since you'll be on crutches."

The thought of hobbling out of the hospital on crutches filled Bradley with dread.

"Should I call your family?" the nurse asked, her voice kind but probing.

The question hit a raw nerve. Bradley's jaw tightened, his grip on his phone growing tense.

"I'll have a friend will pick me up," he said, his tone sharp.

The nurse paused, sensing the edge in his voice. "And what would your friend's name and phone number be?"

"Don't worry about it," Bradley snapped, his defenses rising. The nurse gave him a long, careful look before nodding and quietly leaving the room. The door clicked shut, and Bradley was left alone.

Alone, again.

He sighed and pulled up his contacts, scrolling through the list of names. There had to be someone he could call. Someone who still cared.

Tank's name came first.

Tank. Bradley's fingers hovered over the call button. Maybe seeing him like this—broken and in need of help—would spark something, some fragment of sympathy or guilt. Maybe even an apology. He hit the call button, listening to the familiar ring. Each unanswered buzz gnawed at him. When the call went to voicemail, Bradley felt his stomach drop.

He tried again, but the second attempt was cut off after just two rings. Tank wasn't just unavailable—he was ignoring him.

Bradley's frustration flared as he shot off a text, asking Tank to pick him up. The response was quick, almost too quick—No.

Bradley stared at his phone, disbelief twisting into anger. He fired off a picture of himself in the hospital bed, hoping to guilt Tank into something. Anything. But Tank's reply was cold, almost dismissive

Tank: "Just call your parents for a ride I'm busy"

Busy? Bradley's grip tightened on the phone. Busy doing what? Finals were over. There was nothing left to do but waste time with friends. The image of Tank hanging out, laughing with his frat brothers while Bradley lay here—helpless and alone—stoked his anger even further.

With Tank out of the picture, Bradley scrolled through his contacts again. He dialed Slouch. Then a few of his other friends from the frat. One by one, each call went to voicemail. Soon, he switched to calling every guy he knew in the Gammas, but not even the freshmen picked up. His texts were met with silence, the indifference of his so-called brothers cutting deeper than he'd expected.

Desperation gnawed at him. He scrolled through old texts, searching for anyone who might still be on good terms with him. The realization struck him—he hadn't saved most girls' numbers in his phone. They were just... distractions. Temporary, fleeting. A game he played, a conquest to claim. Once the thrill faded, so did his interest.

As he sifted through the conversations from the last month, his embarrassment grew. Some of the girls had clung to his brief attention, their replies dripping with eagerness despite his clear indifference. They'd held on even as his responses grew dry, dismissive.