Ruin (boyxboy)

Everything's Going to be Fine

        Time is going by way too fast — my body can feel it, my soul hates it, and my heart is breaking every damn day.

-Austin-

The weekend with Alan was at the top of my list as best weekends ever. Friday I hadn't been in the mood to do anything except mope around. We watched movies all day and ate popcorn. Saturday we swam some more, and Sunday I helped him put together his schedule for Spring Semester.

 He was still trying to pick a major. He said he wanted to pick one and have it over with — his idea was that his major should be purposeful, he wanted a purpose in his life. I couldn't blame him for that, so I just stayed silent and helped him pick the Gen Eds he would need anyways.

 By the time Monday rolled around, I knew the clock was not going in my favor. I had started my new meds and hadn't dealt with that kind of nausea since starting my treatment.

 Both Alex and Jack were worried, especially since I had one more baseball game before I was officially off the team.

 He'd never seen me play.

 I'd always played for the team, for the fans, for my dad, for Anthony, even for myself. I'd never in my life played for another guy. It was special, and I wanted to do a good job, which meant I had to haul ass to practice when all I really wanted to do was puke and sleep.

 Food had completely lost its taste. In fact, it had been slowly getting worse ever since last month.

 Alan obviously didn't know, but it was like every time he ate, I tried to imagine what it tasted like. Tried to remember how turkey tasted, how sugar tasted.

 Concentrating on those things just made me feel weak. I mean, how lame was it that an over six foot, one hundred and seventy-five pound guy was upset because he couldn't taste turkey anymore?

 I wiped the sweat from my forehead and did another dead lift. Tony was spotting me as usual, when Coach came up behind us and took his spot.

 "You up to it?" he asked as I did another lift.

 "Yup." I clenched my teeth as I threw the weight down. "I've got this."

 "M'kay." Coach looked away and wiped at his eyes. "And if there's anything I can do—"

 "I'm not dead yet, Coach." I snapped.

 "I know." His eyes watered.

 Aw, shit.

 I put my hands on my hips and sighed, looking away from the man who'd given me my scholarship, who'd watched me play in high school when I was a senior. We'd been to Hell and back, and I'm sure it felt to him like he was losing family.

 I knew that only because it felt the same way to me.

 My team was my family. They were my brothers.

 I worried about them, I fought with them, I ate with them. We were a team and I hated to think about them going on without me. I despised the fact that I wouldn't be there to offer my support when they graduated, or went to their first jobs, or possibly get the game we'd been wanting since Oregon stole it from us last year.

 "I'm a fighter," I finally said, my gaze never wavering as I stared Coach down. "And I'm going to win."

 "Hell yes, you are." Coach stalked toward me and got right in my face. "You sure as hell will beat this thing, and you'll do me proud, you hear?"