Page 10 of The Has-Been

I look down, knowing I’m not on that ice anymore, that my leg isn’t really split in half.

My mind betrays me, though, and as I look down, suddenly I’m no longer at Melbourne’s.

I’m in a hospital bed, staring down at my unnaturally twisted leg.

The curtains to my hospital bay fling open. A number of people in matching blue scrubs come running in, each one’s face twisting at the sight of me in the stretcher.

They quickly place towels over my open injury, trying to remove my gear as I scream in pain.

I’m surrounded. They’re holding me down in various places.

Someone grabs my arm, twisting it toward my side as I feel the sting of a bee.

“Ahhh,” I wince, happy for a distraction from my leg screaming in agonizing pain, even if it just means replacing it with another.

My head snaps over my shoulder to see a nurse pull free a needle, quickly injecting me with something.

“That should help with the pain, Liam.” The nurse comforts, taping the IV in place.

But my focus isn’t on her. No, not as they begin cutting through the layers of my gear.

“Hey,” I start, my words starting to bleed together. “Don’t cut my lucky fucking socks, I’ll need them next⁠—”

The room goes quiet. Several eyes find my own. They can’t hold the contact, though. No, they flicker over me, then look away.

I look around, over each of their faces, each one more solemn than the next.

My leg suddenly doesn’t hurt.

No. A different pain has taken over now. One I know that can never be remedied—one that is mental vs. physical.

Because I know, without any doctors or specialists telling me…there won’t be a need for my lucky socks anymore. There won’t be another game.

A breath pulls sharply through me as the television screen goes black.

My head snaps up. Finding Brennan to my left, remote control in his hand.

“I think we all know what happens after that,” he announces, several bystanders cursing him for cutting the feed. But his eyes are only locked on mine.

I break the stalemate. I fucking hate it when he looks at me this way. When anyone does. Like I’m a broken piece of glass threatening to cut an artery and bleed out right on this floor.

Brennan lays a hand over my shoulder, leading me to the bar with a tight grip—like he’s worried I’m about to sprint through the doors and never come back.

Not a bad idea, come to think of it.

While the bar might not be my first choice for escape, I’ll take it. I’m willing to go anywhere except deeper into that memory right now.

“Water—no ice,” I say as the bartender asks for our orders when we sit. And thankfully, the older woman doesn’t question me as she fills me a glass.

“Same for me,” Brennan orders.

I steal a glance at him, “You can drink, man, it’s alright.”

Brennan has his good qualities. For someone seemingly so self-absorbed, he can sometimes surprise you with his awareness.

But he sways a little on his barstool. “I appreciate you being cool with it—but I’m sooo fucked up right now. I think I’d better stick with water.” He snorts, laughing as he throws back his sobering drink.

Or, maybe he’s not being attentive…just drunk.