We Are Infinite

e i g h t

k a d e  /  e i g h t

I blow up at the guys the next day during soccer practice, and Coach Hudson calls me aside to ask me about it. I rake my fingers through my hair, looking at the ground as I struggle to come up with an excuse. Coach taps his foot on the ground, waiting, and finally goes for a different tactic.

"Look, Ryder, I'm not stupid. You've been hella distracted this week, and we can't have that. We need you at your best next week, you hear me?" He sighs, and I almost roll my eyes, but stop myself in time. "Listen. I told you, if you need someone to talk to, I'm here. This isn't some dumb offer, and I'm not a therapist, but you gotta get stuff off your shoulder."

I take a deep breath, holding my tongue back from saying stuff I know I will come to regret. I'm just exhausted, and I know it's beginning to show, but honest to God, I couldn't take it. The guys on the team were discussing the girls on the cheerleading squad, and no matter how much I tried calling them over to begin practice, they didn't listen. When I finally did get them to drag themselves over, their heads weren't in the game, and that got me mad.

"Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again. They just weren't focused, and that . . . Made me blow up. Sorry. And . . . I'm fine."

Coach Hudson nods, back to business. "Sure then. I'll speak to them in the locker room after school, okay? Just . . . Keep yourself free of distractions now, Ryder. That's the last thing you need."

"Sure." I mutter, avoiding the thoughts at the back of my mind, the ones of late night conversations that turned deeper as the clock slid into midnight. I ignore the 'distraction' that's weighing on my mind like a ton of bricks, choosing instead to focus on my feet as I walk back onto the turf, back to soccer practice.

. . .

An hour later, I'm slugging back a bottle of cold water, feeling the sweat slide down my body. It's been a grueling hour, and I haven't been able to let my thoughts wander, having to keep my head in the game. Practice worked out pretty well in the end, with the boys determination back on track, and I'd had to focus on the ball at my feet instead of . . . Other things.

The heart on my sleeve, for example. Or the last conversation I'd had with Dad. The yelling, the slamming doors, the broken mirror in my bathroom. The tape wrapped around my fingers. Going to the gym, throwing punches at the boxing bag hanging from the ceiling. The slightest pangs of the beginning of what one may call attachment as I spoke to Mia Lynch last night, for hours on end.

God knows what will happen now. I can't get attached to someone I've never met, but what about someone who's story is a little similar to mine?

Attachment leads to hurt, and sometimes you've got to leave before you get left.

. . .

felt the depth in this chapter? i sure did.
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