Umm
Sure?
“Woah.”
Cleo’s gray eyes scan the union building, flitting booth to booth in agitation. There must be fifty tables, all clamoring about internships and career paths and “building your future” like there’s a future to build on.
The world is on fire. And so are my kneecaps.
I really didn’t want to come. Every time I think about the future, I feel this impending sense of doom.
This Autoimmune Hockey project—AIHL, as Peyton calls it? It’s a fantasy. A beautiful, reckless distraction. Just like Peyton. An excuse to keep moving instead of giving up completely. I know that. I’m not delusional. And sure, Professor Palit is great, but every hour I spend on the ice just confirms what I already know:
I don’t want to be a sports physical therapist. I want to be a hockey player.
My body just won’t let me.
I’ve been coaching Peyton’s morning sessions from the bench for the last few weeks. And my mom has stuck to her word, barring me from the rink just like she said. Even though I’ve been careful—wearing my braces, taking short walks, stretching—this flare up is still hitting me like a truck. My body feels like one giant cramp. Breathing’s a full-body exercise. My knees ache, my spine is on fire, and if I hadn’t been on bed rest for four days in a row, I’d be completely unable to function.
But Cleo needs me. So here I am.
“You okay?” I ask, studying her concernedly. She looks perfect, as always. The soft swoops in her pixie cut, her olive skin glassy and bright. Jewelry drips from every limb, bracelets, earrings, chains, things looped through her belt like charms on a key ring. Every step she takes, her own brassy theme song follows her.
It’s pretty fitting if you ask me.
“Yeah. No, I’m great,” she replies, eyeing the maze of tables cautiously. “I just don’t know if I’ll have time to get through them all.”
I plant a hand on my hip.
“If you can binge season two of Bridgerton in one day,” I counter, squinting at the clock on my phone, “you’ve got time for fifty booths in…two hours.”
Cleo grins proudly.
“Look at you,” she teases, patting my back gently, but not gentle enough to stop the burn in my skin from spreading. “The optimist.”
I roll my eyes, waving her off as I hobble behind. “Yeah, yeah.”
The first booth we approach is drenched in blue. Pens, face masks, even the banner is some shade of muted navy. Definitely medical school. Which is ironic, considering half the existential crises Cleo’s been having stems from deciding shedoesn’twant to go to medical school anymore.
But I’m not about to bring that up while she flips through the pamphlet. Cleo can change her mind a thousand times if she wants. She’ll be great at whatever she ends up doing. I haven’t yet found anything Cleo Mardas is bad at.
Except maybe minding her business.
“What’s the average GPA for accepted applicants?” she asks the man behind the booth.
“3.8,” he answers with a smile.
Cleo nods, then places the pamphlet neatly back down. “Thanks.”
With that, she’s on the move again, weaving toward the next table, and I follow, though my steps lag slightly behind. There’s a limp creeping into my walk, bordering excruciation that makes me thoroughly impressed I’m even here. I give credit to the remorse from cancelling on Cleo three separate times last week because my body still hadn’t let up.
“Tomorrow” turned into “tomorrow” turned into “tomorrow”.
And even though I felt guilty, Cleo never made me feel like I should. She facetimed me while out the first night, brought me takeout the second, and refunded our movie tickets to stream it from the couch the third.
Being deliberately considered is a virtue. Especially when you’ve been denied it despite begging.
It’s something I never realized until I became disabled. This world is built for those who can help themselves, and no one else. But humanity? Friendship? That’s for everyone.
