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Luke Madden is a NHL superstar. But when an injury sidelines him, he's required to undergo physical therapy. With a stable family and girlfriend, Luke has all the resources he needs. Or so he thinks. As it turns out, there are...
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Luke
Over the next two weeks, I notice a change in Rosa's behaviour. She's friendly, but more curt—if that makes sense. We engage in plenty of conversations, but I miss the playful banter we were developing. It feels like there's an empty, gaping hole in my chest. She was becoming a good friend.
Which is why I can't blame her. I know how important professionalism is. There is, however, nothing wrong with me feeling the way I do. So long as I recognize why it's happening. The last thing I want is for someone to see us together and suggest something else is happening. That would ruin Rosa's career and paint me as a cheater.
As a remedy, I've been eating lunch and dinner in the cafeteria. I have yet to make any friends. Which surprises me. I don't like to flex my status as an all-star athlete, but damn. Having that under my belt should give me some advantage. It doesn't, though.
I suppress a sigh, rubbing my tired eyes. I'm sitting on a workout bench, pumping thirty-pound weights in bicep curls. Right now, both weights are sitting on either side of me. A bottle of water is on the rubbery floor beneath my feet.
Looking at my knee, I release that pent-up sigh. Minus the pink scar and knee brace, my knee looks somewhat normal. It's hard to believe a month has passed. I can shave, shower, and almost distribute my weight. This knee brace, however, will be around for six more weeks.
Six more weeks of loneliness. Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. The progress I've made makes me happy. Watching my team make it to the next round by a hair makes me happy. What doesn't make me happy is the lack of visits from Liv, Mason, and other teammates. 'Seeing' them through social media and television broadcasts... it's not the same. I'll cut the team lots of slack—they've been fighting to keep their spot in the playoffs. These feelings can co-exist.
The biggest problem is Liv. Responses to my texts are rare. If she replies, they're bland and hold a lack of connection. She also isn't showing her support for the team like she does. One thing I love most is watching her game-day makeup tutorials. I haven't seen a single one of those. And whenever I think about her, I'm dreading our next meeting. The last one was awkward enough.
Questioning everything we have is never a good feeling, but it's inevitable at this point. She's had several surgeries: appendix, ovarian cysts, and LASIK. Each time, I was there when I could be, catering to her needs like a boyfriend should. It's not that I expect Liv to be here every day—she has a job she's passionate about. But I expect the support, be it through FaceTime or messages.
A strange feeling settles in my gut. I run a hand through my sweaty hair. There's a conversation we need to have. One that could cause separate directions because Liv does not like conflict. Growing up with my parents doesn't allow me to skim over issues. They would always face their head-on and never let them rage like an out-of-control wildfire. That's one of the many examples I will always follow.
