Cuts and Bruises

Chapter Six

Sorry I haven't updated in awhile, but here you go! :) Xo

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I checked my phone screen again, seeing the bold 9:15 A.M. splayed across the top of the screen, and then huffed in annoyance, crossing my arms over my chest. With narrowed eyes, I scanned the locker room for the umpteenth time, but I was still in here alone, the only noise in the room being my occasional sigh every time another minute passes.

I glanced at the stack of papers sitting on the bench with the list of stretches and workouts I had spent all night researching and had half a mind to throw them out and leave. If Vincent wasn't going to bother showing up to physical therapy, then I wasn't going to bother putting effort into his recovery.

My angry thoughts were cut off by the sound of a large door slamming shut from the back of the locker room, followed by a string of muttered curses. I knew immediately it was Vincent. I turned around in time to see him walk into the main area of the locker room with the assistance of his crutches, his head down watching where he was going.

"Nice of you to finally show up," I greet bitterly, my arms still crossed against my chest.

Vincent looks up with bags under his eyes, which looked red from sleep- or lack thereof- and his brown locks were disheveled. "I left my dorm at eight thirty, alright? A man can only go so fast on crutches."

Still suspicious, I questioned hesitantly, "Really?"

He gives me a blank look. "Do you want to try walking all the way here on crutches, because I can assure you it takes some time-"

"No," I interrupt with a slight laugh. "I mean, did you really leave at eight thirty?"

Vincent nods vigorously. "Well, duh. I didn't want to piss you off on the first day of PT, or else you would've intentionally made my MCL worse."

I roll my eyes at him, but nonetheless, feel my previous annoyance and anger fade away. He was actually putting in an effort to get here on time, even after I chose the morning for our sessions just to piss him off. With a slight nod, I gesture to the ground, where I had cleared the benches to give us full access to the ground.

"Sit down," I order, and then walk over to grab the list of stretches. "By the way, you don't need to keep using the crutches as long as you have a knee brace."

He sits on the ground and groans dramatically. "Seriously? You couldn't have told me that yesterday?"

I sit down across from him and place the papers beside me. His legs were outstretched and he was leaning back on one hand, the other running through his hair, something I knew he did when he was stressed or nervous. I inwardly cringed when I realized I could recognize some of his habits: I was around Vincent and the other boys way too much.

"It was a good idea to keep off your knee for the first day or two," I tell him, and then raise my eyebrows. "Relax, Vincent."

I could see his tense shoulders remain stiff and he narrowed his eyes at me and questions snappily, "Why are you telling me to relax? You relax."

I roll my eyes again. "I can tell that you're tense. Are you scared?"

"Scared you're going to fuck up my knee, maybe," Vincent mutters under his breath, and then runs his hand through his hair again.

I take a deep breath and looked at him square in the eyes, waiting for him to meet my gaze before I spoke. "Listen, Vincent, I understand how important football is to you. Even though we don't always see eye to eye," That's an understatement. "I would never intentionally set back your recovery process, alright? You don't have to worry about that."