Arsenal Women

group therapy [beth and daan]

sorry katie

Daan's pov:

Left foot... left foot... left foot...

Instead of switching my feet, I hopped on my left one, holding on to the crutches for dear life.

I was making a whole lot of noise despite the "ultra noiseless, soft, innovative (insert a bunch of other bullshit qualities here)" crutches that I had paid a fortune for.

"For a faster recovery," were my doctor's exact words when he had recommended me those two pieces of shiny plastic that did the same exact job as the cheaper ones elsewhere. He had thought I was clueless enough not to notice his last name on the labels.

Even though it was a clear scam and he recommended them only because it was his company, I still bought them. Anything for a faster recovery, right? Especially when you are a professional athlete and need to be back on the pitch as soon as possible.

I was going down the cold hall that smelled of medicine—the familiar chemical smell that doesn't seem to ever lose its intensity. It creeps into your nose and stays there until you forget about it, but reappears as soon as you remember what it felt like.

When I reached the door that had a "Atlete Group Therapy" sign on it, I was greeted by Juliane, the nice older lady, who looked like she knew nothing about sports.

We sat in a circle.

Well... I don't think I can be qualified to say "we," since I had seen the faces of, umm, zero people in total.

I didn't feel like looking at anyone's faces, let alone have them look at mine. I did not want to be there. I was forced to go to that group therapy thing to meet new people, who were going through the same things I was.

The therapy started with a boring introduction, that took place only because that's how similar things always start and not because it was truly necessary. One simply can't remember all those names at once. Not that I wanted to anyway.

Once it was done, people started talking and sharing stuff. I had my had down and before I knew it, I was zoned out.

Instead of listening to their voices, I found myself observing their shoes—connected pairs, creating a nearly-perfect circle in the middle of the old, humid room.

I looked at them long enough to perceive them as individual characters, separated from the bodies they were glued to.

Some pairs were connected, some were spread apart, some were put on each other, some were crossed...

All sneakers. All white. All basic.

There was nothing unique in any of those shoes. Nothing unique about those people. For the first time in a few weeks, I was glad I had that boot on my right foot that set me apart from the boring bunch.