- Aiden -
He was holding his dead arm with his opposite hand, looking pissed as hell. I could tell by the way he was walking that he’d dislocated his shoulder again.
I grabbed my table and set it up.
“Are you as sick of this as I am yet?” Tommy asked.
I turned around and patted the folding table. “I doubt it.”
He sighed and hopped up, wincing as he got situated. “Why is it always my right shoulder?”
“Cause that’s the one you always land on.”
His brow relaxed for a moment as if understanding the pain made it more tolerable.
“Relax for me,” I said, taking his arm from him.
“But I’m better with my right hand. When it comes to scoring a try, I feel more comfortable holding the ball that way.”
“Yeah, Tommy, I get that, but it wouldn’t kill you to practice more with your left.” I extended his arm out to his side.
He was obviously in pain, but he didn’t moan once.
“Ready?” I asked.
He nodded and clenched his jaw.
I pulled his arm out slowly until it popped back in place.
He put his hand on his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Hold on. I’ll get you some ice,” I said, walking over to grab a pre-packed bag from the cooler.
“When you say practice more with my left, you mean cradling the ball?”
“Well, that wouldn’t hurt,” I said, handing him the ice. “But everyone knows you always go down on your right. If you’d switched hands at the last second, you might’ve been able to reach over the line.”
His face fell.
“Not that it wasn’t a great effort, but-”
“It’s cool,” he said. “I know you’re right. I was just desperate for the points so I was afraid to risk trying something new.”
I shrugged. “You can afford to take more risks on the field though. You’re one of the few guys who have the basics down.”
He nodded. “Thanks, Aiden.”
I grabbed a spare rugby ball from next to the sideline and showed him what I meant. “See if you cradled the ball in front of you instead of so far to your right side, you could keep your options open until the last second. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah.”
“And at the very least, it would be good for your shoulder.”
“I appreciate the advice.”
“Well, don’t just appreciate it. Take it,” I said. “Cause if this keeps happening, you’re going to need surgery, and then you’ll really be pissed.”
“No shit.”
I smiled.
“You miss it?” Tommy asked, shifting the pack of ice.
“Most of it,” I said. “Not the beating your body takes, but I’ve found it’s hard to replace the thrill of competition- of going to war with the team- once you leave the game.”
“Coach says you were the best player that ever played here.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, bending down to get some painkillers out of my bag.
“He said you could’ve played for the Eagles if you hadn’t left the game.”
I put a bottle of water down next to him. “Yeah, well, Coach says a lot of things.”
“Is that what you wanted?” he asked. “To play for the country?”
I tilted my head at him. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“I guess so, but I’m afraid to admit it in case it doesn’t happen.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I said, handing him some painkillers.
He tossed them in his mouth and squirted some water in to wash them down. “What do you mean?”
“You shouldn’t be afraid to admit what you want,” I said. “You should be afraid of anything that might keep you from getting it.”
He swallowed.
“Take it from me. Your dreams can be taken away from you in an instant. As long as you’re in with a fighting chance, do whatever it takes to go after them and don’t apologize for it.”
His eyes were focused on me like he was rethinking his whole approach.
Suddenly, a loud whistle pierced the air. I looked over my shoulder and saw the team running to the middle of the field for a huddle.
Tommy hopped off the table, taking the ice pack with him. “Thanks, Aiden. For the shoulder… and the tips.”
“Come see me when you’re done out there, and I’ll give you a splint.”
“Don’t worry about it. I still have the one from last time. I’ll have one of the guys help me out in the locker room.”
“Sounds good. Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do,” he said. “Enjoy your weekend.”
I folded up the table and gathered my things, wondering how long it would hurt that the whistle to huddle up didn’t apply to me anymore.
But at least I was still close to the game. And even though there was less glory on the sidelines, I knew that the work I was doing made a huge difference to the players, and there was satisfaction in that.
I gave the assistant coach a wave and he nodded that I was free to go so I slipped my phone out of my pocket to check the time.
I had two missed calls.
I called Lucy back first.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hey you.”
“Sorry I missed your call,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I needed another rescue.”
“You still with the guy?”
“No, Fiona bailed me out with an emergency call. I’m on my way home.”
“Where are you now?” I asked. “You need a ride?”
“No, I’m on Clark and Dawson. Nearly home.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“What was the problem with this guy?” I asked, picking up my bag and heading towards the parking lot.
“There’s someone else.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. And that someone is Jesus.”
I laughed. “Oh dear.”
“I told him I didn’t want to be his number two.”
“Sounds like your date was number two.”
“Very funny.”
“Well, if you don’t need my help anymore, I gotta run. I have a missed call from Chelsea.”
“Alright. Catch you later.”
I hung up and dialed my girlfriend’s number. She answered as I was throwing my bag in the trunk.
“Chelsea Delacroix.”
I walked around to the driver’s side. “Hey. It’s me.”
“Oh, sorry. I don’t have my contacts in, and I thought it might be the people from the casting I went to earlier.”
“No problem. You called?”
“Yeah, I just wanted to remind you that I’m making dinner tonight so don’t eat on your way home.”
“Great,” I lied. “I’m starving. What are we having?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Is it something I can pronounce?”
“It’s not quinoa if that’s what you’re asking.”
Thank god. “Alright. I’ll see you in a half hour.”
I hung up the phone and got in the car, thinking I must have been the only guy in the city who wasn’t excited to hear that his girlfriend was doing the cooking.
Then again, it served me right for dating a model. Normally, it was fine. I liked dating someone whose job also required them to take care of their body. But I also had a great fondness for butter, dairy products, and the occasional anything fried in oil, all of which were ranked just behind terrorists on Chelsea’s scale of evil things to be avoided.
As a result, we often got in a fight when she cooked because I would make some not entirely flattering observation about the seasoned vegan bullshit that she made like “this tofu reminds me of how I used to chew on the strings of my hoodies as a kid” or “this quinoa looks like a pile of eye boogers,” and she would get so offended you’d think she invented tasteless food.
Of course, even when I didn’t say anything, she’d get annoyed when I got hungry an hour later and started scrounging for food in the kitchen. But what could I do? Unlike her, my stomach wasn’t the size of a Cadbury Egg.
To be honest, I was sort of hoping she would recognize the pattern and stop cooking for me since it only put stress on our relationship.
Unfortunately, it seemed her talents were limited to walking in a straight line, keeping track of money, and giving good head.