I have to do this. I grit my teeth and continue with the painful exercises.
“Ethan.”
“Can we just do the exercises?” I say in a curt voice.
She holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
We continue the session in silence. She guides me through resistance movements, has me walk back and forth across the shallow end, and tests my balance and stability. I do everything she asks. I cooperate. I'm a model patient.
But inside, I'm falling apart.
By the time we finish, my knee is throbbing, and my jaw aches from clenching it so hard. Natalie helps me to the ramp, and I haul myself out of the pool, water streaming off my body.
“That was good progress,” she says from behind me. “Your mobility isn’t as bad as I was expecting.”
“Great.” I grab my crutches and head for the men's changing room without looking back.
The changing room is empty. I sink onto the bench and let my crutches clatter to the floor. My hands are shaking. I press them against my face and try to breathe.
I can't do this.
What if this is a waste of time? What if this is the end of my career, and I’m fighting the inevitable? I can't keep doingthese exercises, hoping everything will work out when there's no guarantee of any of it.
A sob builds in my chest, and I swallow it down. I don't cry. I haven't cried since my father told me about his diagnosis. I sat in my room that night and cried until I couldn't breathe, and then I made myself a promise. I would be strong. For him, for my mom, and for my sisters. I would be the one who held everything together.
But I'm so tired of being strong.
The door opens, and I don't look up. I assume it's one of the staff, or maybe another player, and I don't want anyone to see me like this.
“Ethan?”
It’s Natalie.What the fuck is she doing here?
“You shouldn't be in here,” I say without lifting my head, trying and failing to force the shake out of my voice. I clear my throat. “This is the men's changing room.”
“I know.” I hear her footsteps on the tile floor. “I wanted to make sure you're okay.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine.” She stops in front of me. I can see her bare feet, still wet from the pool. “Look at me.”
I don't want to look at her. I don't want her to see me like this, broken and weak and barely holding it together. But I lift my head.
She's wrapped a towel around her waist, but her shoulders are still bare and glistening with water. “It's okay to not be okay. You don't have to pretend with me.”
“You don't know anything about me.”
“I know your father is sick and you can't be with him. I know your career is uncertain and you're scared.” She takes a step closer.
The words cut right through me. But I don’t want a therapy session. I’ve never believed in talking things out to feel better. Facts are facts. My career is in jeopardy, and my father is in the hospital, and I don’t know how he’s doing.
What I want is to forget everything. If I were a drinker, I would want a bottle of something hot and strong. That’s not an option for me.
“You want to help?” I ask, knowing how sick this is and that she might slap me and quit her job. But my head feels like it will explode if I don’t do something to distract me from my life falling apart.
She nods. “Anything. It’s what I’m here for.”
I take her hand and pull her to me. Caught by surprise, she lands on my lap, her eyes widening with surprise. “What are you?—”
