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His brows lower. “When y’all say fine, it means it hurts.”
“I can live with it.” I shrug.
“You should get some PT for it.”
Again. I’ve done this before. Blowing out my knee halfway through my freshman season was devastating. My stats went to shit. I was afraid someone else would come in and show me up, pushing me back to second string. Threatened with my college football career ending before it had barely begun, I threw myself into action, doing whatever I could to ensure I’d play football again as soon as possible.
I had surgery and once I was ready, started physical therapy four times a week, and I never missed a session. I worked hard to get my strength back. Trained harder. Made sure the knee was healed. That I was stronger, both physically and mentally. I’ve been going nonstop ever since, and now that it’s my senior year, my last chance to prove myself before I attempt a go at the NFL, of course my knee decides to give me trouble.
“You really think I need it?” I definitely need it, but man, my class schedule is heavy this semester. Along with practice and games and everything else that comes with my life, that won’t leave much time for socializing.
Specifically with women. Not that I’ve been “socializing” much lately anyway.
Coach nods, grabbing a notepad and scribbling something across it with a pen he snagged from his polo shirt pocket. “Definitely. I’ll make it happen, and you make sure to coordinate with your schedule, so it doesn’t interfere with your classes.”
“Okay.” I nod, hating the idea of adding one more thing to my plate.
I handle a lot of shit, day in and day out. I’m exhausted. And school has only barely begun.
“How’s class going?”
“Fine.” My tone is clipped, and he lifts his head, noting it. I’m defensive when it comes to school.
I’m not that good at certain subjects, and he knows it.
“You finally in that English class?” He raises his brows.
The one subject that gives me trouble, the class I’ve been avoiding until I can’t avoid it any longer. It’s a first-year level class that my academic counselor pushed back for me, doing me a favor, until finally, I was forced to take it this semester.
I’m not great at writing papers, spelling, reading. In fact, I suck at it. I was diagnosed with a mild case of dyslexia in elementary school, and I’ve been struggling with it ever since. My father told me he wasn’t much good at English either and needed a tutor when he was in college.
His tutor just so happened to be my mother. That’s how they met.
“Yeah. I am.”
“How’s it going?”
“I’ve only had the class twice.” I shrug, wanting to avoid this subject. “That math class I have is going to be a bitch.”
And I actually like math, so that’s saying something.
“Is it going to give you trouble?” The concern in his voice is obvious. He doesn’t want any of his seniors on the team struggling with classes. And whenever risks pop up, he wants to take care of them, including our class load.
I shake my head. “I’m good at numbers.” Comfortable with them even.
The English language though? Forget it. I can’t spell. I can’t write. Well, I can write a bunch of nonsense. I have trouble reading sometimes, and that’s just embarrassing. I make sure and take home the various playbooks every season, so I can pore over them. Memorize them. That way, no one on the team can figure out that I’m not good at this reading thing.
“If you need any help, don’t hesitate to tell me, okay? We want to keep you sharp, on all fronts.” His expression is dead serious. “This is an important time for you. We can’t fuck anything up. All eyes are on you now through the rest of the season.”
I break out into a literal sweat at his words, and the ominous meaning behind them. No big deal. I’m not intimidated or anything.
“Right.” I nod. “I’ve got this.”
My voice is firm, as is my resolve. I’ve definitely got this. I can’t slip and mess anything up.
“Good to hear.” Mattson leans back in his chair. “Get on out of here. I’m sure you have homework to do.”
“I do.” I rise to my feet, relieved to be dismissed. “See you tomorrow, Coach.”
