𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟷𝟾𝚝𝚑
Griffin POV
"These socks are yours too, right?"
Ira pokes her head out of the bathroom doorway and waves a white pair of Nike socks with holes in the heels. It's kind of embarrassing, but I don't like buying new socks because it takes so long for them to stretch to fit my feet perfectly. I nod.
"Yeah," I reply. "Throw them in the bag."
What is also embarrassing is having a nurse pack my own damn belongings. Never in my craziest dreams would I have assumed that I'd miss the simple chore of packing a backpack, but here we are.
I could've maybe attempted it, except I got very specific instructions from the doctor twenty minutes ago. No climbing stairs. No bending or kneeling down. No excessive movement or walking. No jumping or stretching or exercising.
Since my existence is officially boiled down to sitting my ass in a chair for the next few weeks, I had no choice but to let Ira do the mundane task for me.
These next few weeks may or may not kill me. Although I'm looking forward to the excuse to spend all day playing video games in bed, I am going to miss the predictability of the company I have access too here. The nurses that have been assigned to my case have been the only bright side to this entire shit show; and they've also been good counselors.
Not that I've really given them a a choice. Every few hours Ira or another lady would pop in and ask, How are you doing?
That question is a gateway to whatever's on my mind in that moment. As they changed my IVs I'd complain about the highlight reels I've seen from the San Diego football camp. When they'd change my bandages, I had no problems bitching about what my dad said on the phone a little bit ago. While they helped me dress for the day, I'd bad mouth my cousin. After Rose would leave from a visit, one of them would stop by to check in and I'd say through gritted teeth that I can't believe she's related to me.
Seriously, I've talked more about myself and my problems to these poor nurses over the last six days then I've ever said to one other person in my life for the past eighteen years.
"Do you want this hair conditioner, too? It's almost gone," her voice comes from inside of the bathroom.
"Nope. Toss that shit." I sigh and readjust my weight on the wheelchair that Ira helped me into a little while ago. The moment that I shift, pain rockets down my left leg. Tears well up in my eyes at the sensation. Ever since they've weaned me off pain medication yesterday, I've been in misery.
Part of me wishes that they'd treat me like a horse and fuckin' shoot me in the head. That seems like the most humane way to go about this situation.
I stare at the horrendous paintings on the far wall and hear the sound of the bottle hitting the bottom of a trash bin. At the same time, outside of the cracked door that leads to the hallway, I hear the elevator ding.
My dads voice immediately comes rushing down the hallway like a tidal wave.
"... that you're lying to me, Gessel. You've worked with Hollie for long enough and you've been in this community enough to know that us Millers don't back down. I don't give a shit that he has an artificial knee. I will do whatever it takes to get him back on the field. There's too much wasted potential sitting in that room right now!"
His tone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I grimace and grab the left wheel on the chair, then take the right one and rotate it so I'm facing away from the door.
Wasted potential. He speaks like I'm a goddamn invention that broke down. Fuck my personal and physical life that's blown up into my shreds. Instead, why not make football the priority here?
For the first time all summer, I can finally understand why Parker was so pissed a few months ago when Greyson was pushing the sport on him.
I strain to hear Dr. Gessels reply. He is too quiet, too level-headed. All I pick up is hushed whispering as they get closer to the door.
Dad reciprocates the tone. He speaks quieter now, except I pick up occasional phrases.
"... I don't give a shit about what the pictures look like... Pay what you want... Force him to go through the physical therapy... I've trained that boy to do..."
"Okay!" Ira walks out of the bathroom with the backpack thrown over her shoulder. Whatever happiness I felt for her a moment ago is zapped. If she'd shut up so that I can hear the conversation in the hall, that would be great.
"You're all set! I'm positive that I grabbed everything your sister brought a few days ago." She smiles at me as she comes around the bed, though I don't miss the way she glances towards the hallway in worry. It's a quick flash of her eyes, though I still see it. "If you get home and notice that something was forgotten, just call and I'll get it sent home with your mom."
"Sure. Thanks, Ira." I turn my head to watch as she comes over and hangs the bag on a hook on the back of the chair. I've never been good at putting the emotions on my heart into words, so I hope that my thanks says enough for all she's done over the past week.
It definitely does. Her smile widens and she shakes her head. "No need to thank me, Griffin. It's what I'm here for. Are you ready to go home?"
"Fuck no. But, also, sorta. I don't know what I want anymore." I pick at a bare thread at the bottom hem of my tshirt and watch it unravel.
Her smile immediately saddens. "Don't worry, you have plenty of time to figure it out. Life as you know it hasn't ended yet."
It maybe hasn't, but fuck, I wish that it would've.
The end of her sentence is punctuated with a knock, and the door immediately opens. Dad steps into the room. Smoke is almost ready to start pouring out of his ears. Gessel is on his heels, looking way more frazzled now than how he did half an hour ago. That will happen to a person if they spend a few minutes arguing with Greyson.
"Are you ready to go, kid?" Dad asks as he walks over. Ira barely jumps out of the way in time, before he can mow her over.
"Good morning to you, too. Yeah I slept great last night but I still feel like shit. How was your morning?" I snap at him. There's no room for sarcasm in my voice. Just anger.
Dad sighs and grabs the handles on the chair, turning it so violently that a new throbbing sensation races down my healing leg. "Don't start this shit with me now, Griffin. Ira, is that everything?"
Ira clasps her hands behind her back, her shoulders taunt as she watches the scene unfold. Her brown eyes are laced with concern. "Yes, he's all packed. Also, I put his medications and antibiotics in the zipper pocket on the left side. The instructions are on the labels, however I did want —"
"Okay. We've got it handled. I'm sure Hollie knows what to do, too." Dad begins to push the chair forward. The wheels clack over the tile. I brace my feet against the footrests. I can't look at Gessel as we pass. "Thanks again guys. See you next week at physical therapy."
"Alright," Gessel says and watches as dad guides the chair down the hallway.
I stay silent, keeping my gaze locked on the elevator. My heart jackrabbits wildly in my chest, like a caged animal. I feel like I need to jump up and walk myself out to the car, otherwise I'll blow up. I can't stand relying on others to take care of me, much less my own father.
Running a hand back through my hair, I clench my jaw when he pulls the wheelchair to an abrupt stop and punches the down button on the front of the elevator.
"You were with me when Gessel showed us those xrays, dad. You heard everything that he said about the leg and the knee. Why do you keep pushing the fucking sport so much?" I ask. Venom sneaks back into my tone.
"Because I refuse to give up. I— we— have worked way too hard to except that this is your new reality. You can become normal again, Griffin." Dad slams his finger into the button again. Not even a moment later, the elevator dings and the door slides open.
My knuckles turn white in my lap as he drags the wheelchairs backwards into the elevator. It dings again and the door shuts. "So, what? I'm not fuckin' normal now?"
Dad sighs and scratches behind his neck. I can't see him physically, since he's standing behind my chair, although I can see his distorted reflection in the polished stainless steel of the elevator door. He has aged ten years in the last week.
"That's not what I said and you know it."
"No. I don't know it. That's what it sounded like to me. Why can't you accept that this is it?" I wave a hand over my body, mindlessly motioning. The bracelet on my wrist slides around. "Nothing has changed except your perception of me."
"Do not put words in my mouth." The door opens again and dad forces the chair forward. "You don't know everything about everyone."
The lady behind the front desk waves at us as we go out the automatic front doors. Neither of us acknowledge her as we argue.
"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. I know that you're fuckin' pissed off that I ruined your second chance of fame—"
"Griffin."
"—You hate me because I ruined your plans of weaseling back into the NFL. You're sick of teaching freshmen how to throw a ball, and you're sick of talking Parker back onto the field every week—"
"Griffin Reed Miller," he hisses. "That is enough."
"You didn't say that I'm wrong, though. That's your entire issue, isn't it? You couldn't care less about how I feel or if I'm doing okay with my new disability. The only thing you ever care about is your goddamn ego! I hope that Parker drops off of the face of the earth so that you're left with nothing, you insane bitch."
The words roll off of my tongue like vomit. It's easy to talk shit when I can't see his face, although it might be easier if I could see his eyes. I want to see him flinch and squirm. It's easier to find the soft, sensitive areas to dig the knife into when I know what areas matter the most.
I must've done a fairly good job taunting him blindly though, because he slams the wheelchair to a stop outside of his truck.
Dad rounds my side, his eyes blazing. A vein is prominent on the side of his neck. He squats down to point a finger at me. "I know that you're hurt, son, but there is no need to rub it off on everyone around you. I am not happy right now and I do not feel like talking about this."
I snort. "Wow. This is probably the first time that you've never wanted to talk about football."
"This isn't about fucking football." He grabs the passenger truck door and yanks it open. "Come on. Let's go."
"Isn't it? Come on, don't make a liar out of me. I'm suffering enough." I jam the lock down on the wheelchair and brace my hands on the armrests, forcing myself onto my good leg. The weight of the heavy cast throws off my center of balance and I sway. For one moment, I brace weight on my left leg and bile builds in my throat in response to the furious pain. It's so harsh and so raw that my vision swims.
Dad steps forward, extending his arm for me to take.
I ignore him and hobble past.
If there's one thing I've come to know over the years, it's that pain fuels me rather than tearing me down.
**
Although this chapter is short, there are ones coming up to make up for the lack of excitement!!
I was itching to get something published since I've been MIA over the past week, so I hope you all accept this for now.
We are officially halfway through the story & I'm excited for the rest of it that's coming up... 🤫