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Chapter Twenty-Three

Jordan

Seven years later…

“Come on, Max. You got this. Give me five more.” He pulls on the band, breathing heavily. “That’s it. Four. Three. You got it. Two more. Great. One more. Yes. Hell yes, buddy.” I give his good shoulder a squeeze, then guide him over to the table. “Relax. I’ll be back in five.”

Max is a linebacker for the Brighton Bulldogs—same team I played on some years ago. He got hit hard, landed harder—right onto his shoulder. It was so bad they had to put him under to pop it back in. He went into physical therapy right away, determined to be back on the field as soon as possible.

I have to keep reminding him to take it easy. This isn’t the field, and if he pushes too hard, he could do more damage than good. I think the only thing that makes him listen to me is knowing I used to play for the same team. He trusts me because we have something in common.

I clean up the area he was working at, spraying and wiping everything down, then putting the band away.

Shark Sports Rehab is the best in the state, and it’s known for its cleanliness and professionality.

I take pride in that, and so I do my part in keeping the place clean.

It’s the second rehab facility I’ve worked for, and I like that I get my own space and equipment here.

It’s like having my own office. It’s the same for all the physical therapists here, and our patients like that they get privacy to be in pain alone.

Going through therapy isn’t easy, and it isn’t pretty.

I know better than most that men don’t like to cry in front of anyone.

I see it every day. At least here, they can do it in peace.

When I get back to the table, I ask, “How you feeling?”

“Sore.”

“We’ll be done in a few. Hang your arm off the side.”

Max carefully lowers his arm to the side of the table, letting it hang. I grab the lotion and put some on my hands before massaging it around his shoulder. I’m careful and precise, making sure to feel around and test out pressure.

“How are classes?” I ask.

“Shitty,” he mumbles, and I laugh.

“Hilcox fail you on that test?”

He chuckles. “Nah, I got a B+. ”

“Good job, bro. I swear that guy hates anyone who can hold a ball.”

He laughs again, and I move my hands up to the top of his shoulder, then slip under to the other side.

“All right, sit up,” I tell him when I’m finished. I do some range of motion, then help him get his shirt and sling back on. “Make sure you keep this on,” I say as I tighten all the straps.

“I do,” he groans.

“It’s not the end of the world, Max. Once you’re healed, you’ll be back on the field. Next year, you’ll be stronger and better than ever.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He holds his hand up as he walks away.

“It’s Friday. Enjoy your weekend!” I call after him.

“See ya.”

I lean against the table, watching as he walks out of the room, crossing my arms over my chest. I feel bad for the kid.

He was going places. Scouts were supposed to be checking him out this year and now he’s hurt.

Once they know that, he has to prove himself even more.

Players with injuries aren’t the ones who get picked first, not unless they show a lot of promise.

If he goes through therapy the way he’s told, and follows everything I tell him, he will be fine.

It’s up to him to make that decision, though.

I have no control over what he does when he leaves this place, and that’s the hard part about this job .

I huff a sigh, then wipe down the table, tidy up the room, and shut the lights off before leaving.

“You outta here?” Monica calls out from her room. She’s another physical therapist. Played basketball for a few years, hurt her knee, and decided she needed to do something else with her life. Now she’s here.

“Yep. See you tomorrow.”

“Have a good night!”

I head out to my truck and wait a few minutes after starting it up before taking off.

If I don’t, she’ll stall out. She’s finicky but loyal.

I make good money doing what I’m doing, but life is expensive and my truck is still running.

I don’t need something new; I just need something to work. And she works—most of the time.

I stop for gas at the station down the street and run in for an energy drink and a Snickers. The city always has more to choose from than the small ass stores at home, but still I always end up with the same two things—caffeine and chocolate.

“Forty on pump two,” I tell the kid behind the counter. He looks like he’s still in high school.

“$44.98,” he tells me.

I hand him three twenties. “Keep the change. Whatever’s left over on the pump, give it to the next person.”

“Sure thing,” the kid says with a smile like he’s never seen someone do something nice before. If he’s in high school, he probably hasn’t. “Thanks, mister! ”

I give him a head nod as I walk out to fill my truck. It tops off at $31.09. Someone could really need those extra few dollars in gas, and hopefully it’ll help.

The drive back home takes roughly a half hour. It’s not all that far, and I don’t mind the drive. It’s time to unwind, listen to music, or open the windows and listen to the world pass as I go. Sometimes I do both. I like driving by myself with no distractions. Just me on my way to my destination.

Work is fine, but home is suffocating. It’s what makes it easy to get up in the morning, but going home in the evenings is never easy.

Ashbourne hasn’t changed since I was born.

It’s still the same small town inhabited by small-minded people with big mouths.

It’s all it’ll ever be, and I’m angry at everyone who’s escaped its grasps.

The only plus side is Austen is still here, but I barely see him anymore because of work.

Our poker nights have been far and few between since I started working at the facility.

I could afford a place in the city, closer to work. I make enough for that, but something keeps me in Ashbourne. Guilt, maybe. I don’t fucking know. Don’t really care, either. It’s just a place to lay my head at night. A place to call home, but what the fuck does that really mean?

Before I know it, I’m pulling up my driveway, the gravel crunching under my tires. When I shut her off, I see smoke coming from the hood .

“Damn, girl. Not again,” I say, grabbing my Monster and taking the last gulp of it. I toss it and the snickers wrapper onto the passenger floor with the rest of them. I clean it out a few times a month.

I go around to the front of the truck and open the hood, waving my hand in front of my face and stepping back when the smoke billows upwards.

Once it clears, I can tell right away the coolant is empty. Probably a leak or some shit. I’ll have to fix that up this weekend or she won’t last me much longer. Last thing I need is to catch fire on the highway.

“I’m not giving up on you yet, girl,” I say, dropping the hood and giving her a little pat before heading inside.

I don’t bother to lock the truck or my house, so I walk right in.

No one steals shit in this town, and even if they did break in, there’d be nothing worth taking. If they did find something, I guess they need it more than me, so they can have it.

My house isn’t much, just an old farmhouse that’s in serious need of renovations.

I refuse to fix the place up because when something breaks, it gives me something to do.

Just like all the land. It could be used for something good, like growing shit, but I just use it as therapy.

Going out there and cutting it with music blasting in my ears is better than talking to people who’d buy the produce from me .

One of these days I’m going to plant a shit ton of corn and make a maze for the kids for Halloween, but I’ve been saying that since I bought it three years ago. Hasn’t happened yet.

I change out of my khakis and Shark Sports polo, throwing on some sweats and a T-shirt. I drop onto my lumpy couch, beer in hand, and put on Sports Center. Thank fuck football season is starting because I can never find shit to watch on TV otherwise.

The announcers go on to talk about all the new draft picks, and the mistakes they think the team made, who’s going to do well this year, and who won’t. Sometimes they’re right, but a lot of the time, they’re just talking out of their asses.

My phone rings, and I reach for it blindly, swiping to answer as the announcers get into a heated discussion about some scandal one of the coaches was involved in.

“Hello?”

“Are you almost here?”

“Huh?” I pull the phone from my ear to look at the screen.

Maggie. Fuck.

“The restaurant, Jordan. You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

I search my brain, certain I did not make plans with Maggie today, a Friday night.

Usually, she goes out with her sister on Fridays.

The date nights she makes me go on are on Tuesdays.

She said weekly date nights will keep our relationship alive, but I don’t think it was ever alive, so… we’re just beating a dead horse.

“Jordan?” she says, annoyed.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Please don’t tell me you forgot.”

Maggie is a patient woman who puts up with my shit. She’s an x-ray tech, and we met when her little brother came to the rehab after a broken leg. We’ve been dating now for almost a year—

Fuck!

“I did not forget,” I say, jumping up from the couch and spilling beer on me that I frantically try to wipe off but only end up spilling more. “I’m just running late. Fuck!” I shout as I hit my baby toe on the end table. Fucking karma.

“Late? Where are you?”

“In my truck.”

“The hell you are,” she says, her voice getting higher each time she speaks. “Where are you?”

“On my way.”

“You know, I really trusted you not to forget this time,” she says as I hurry into my bedroom, putting the phone on speaker so I can pull my shirt off.

“Yesterday, I was going to text you to remind you, but then I told myself you’d remember because this was important to me.

” I yank a button-up from a hanger and get it on while grabbing a pair of jeans from my drawer.

“Again this morning, I typed out the text and everything, but nope. I didn’t send it because I knew you’d show. ”

“I am on my way, Maggie,” I say as I balance myself on one foot, shoving my pant leg in the other side. I yank on socks, then step into my boots. “Seriously, ten minutes.”

I snatch up my phone and run for the door.

“Just forget it, Jordan. I’ll… talk to you later.”

The call goes dead just as I step onto my porch.

“Fuck,” I say, letting out a sharp breath. Just another thing I’ve fucked up.