The air in the team room was thick. Heavy with a mixture of adrenaline and excitement, this was the norm for this time of the season. Playoffs were right around the corner. Our opponents were no tougher than usual, but everyone had their sights set on the same prize: The National Championship. Even though it was my third season playing college soccer, it didn’t seem to get old. How could it? Playing Division I soccer had been a dream for as long as I could recall. But all those years of dreaming big, still didn’t prepare me for the rush it brought. Who the hell needed drugs when you had competitive sports?
I slid the shin guard against the skin of my lower leg then covered it with a sock, before adding a strip of tape around the outside to secure it in place. Nothing hurt worse than taking a cleat to the blunt bone of your leg. Okay, maybe that wasn’t true. Of course there were several more delicate regions, more specific to the male anatomy, but guys didn’t think that way. We tried not to give thought to shit like that happening. If you didn’t think about it, it couldn’t happen, right?
After repeating the process for both legs, I stepped into my cleats. Following the regiment I’d developed over the years, I slipped the ear buds in and scrolled through my playlists before finding the correct one. Superstitions might be laughed at by some people, but ask any serious athlete what they thought, and they’d tell you the same thing … you never mock or question an athlete’s beliefs. Being an athlete was as much mental as it was physical. And if something like eating the same food, wearing the same socks, or even listening to the same songs every game day, put you in the right mental state to play your best, then why the hell wouldn’t you do it?
Turning the volume up, I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. The beat soaked into my bones, adding to the charged sensation of the air around me. I rolled my shoulders and stretched the muscles as I searched for the zone to take me where I needed to be. The ideal mental zone—forgetting about the sociology paper due at the end of the week, or the stats exam I’d taken earlier that morning. I let it all slip away as I focused on the one thing I needed to for the next three hours: soccer.
My longtime friend and fellow defender, Robby, dropped his ass onto the bench next to me. He nodded before turning away. We don’t talk, there’s only intent, this was part of our process. Together, we watched the rest of the room—the other guys on the team going about their own rituals, getting ready to take on our opponents. All of it feeding into our anticipation so when Coach called us out, we were in our zone.
It wasn’t long before we got the signal to take the field. The team moved as a whole, exiting the room together, filing out and following the coaches. When I stepped out into the afternoon sun, I took a deep breath of the warm autumn air. Southern California weather in the fall was made for playing soccer. By this time of the college season, the humidity was minimal and the rain was scarce. The lack of rain was always a complaint by the locals, but I didn’t mind. Besides, the rain didn’t stop us from playing; it only made the game more exciting.
Stepping onto the grass, I pulled my ear buds out and took in the sounds around me. We went about our routine like a well-oiled machine as we warmed up. All of us there with one common goal. It didn’t matter if we liked the guy standing next to us off the field, because when we were on the field, we worked together. It was expected, especially at the level we were playing.
Jogging to the sideline, I observed the people filling the stands. Even though it was an away game for my team, we were in my hometown. So while most were just faces without names, there would be a few I knew. Call me a sap, but I loved it when my family attended my games. Always had. They brought signs, cheered the loudest, and always took me and a few guys out to eat afterwards. Since tonight’s game was in San Diego, I was certain they’d be in attendance.
It wasn’t until I found them that I smiled. Robby stepped up next to me and followed my gaze, he snorted a laugh as he took in my family. “Looks like the whole crew came tonight. What does your aunt’s sign say?”
“It says, ‘Jonathan Baxter is our …’” I said, laughing.
“Okay … leave it to your aunt to be vague like that.” Robby chuckled as he turned away. I had to admit, it was a random and incomplete sign, but then again, that was Allie. Then I saw her nudge my brothers to hold up their signs and it made more sense.
“Now it sounds better, Robby, look.” I told him, while laughing and motioning to the three signs lined up next to each other that read, Jonathan Baxter is our man, if he can’t do it, Robby can!
“Ha! That’s right,” Robby declared as he pointed up at them. I just shook my head and gave them a wave. They sat back down and I turned my focus to the task at hand.
I downed some water before taking my position on the field, ready to control the defense. Being a starter for a Division I team was an insanely huge honor in my book. If the coach thought me a strong enough player to start, then it was my duty to prove him right. I liked to think I’d done that repeatedly over the past two and a half seasons, earning my spot. I hoped today’s game further solidified that.
When the ref blew the whistle, everything outside the perimeter of the field disappeared as I focused and used the skills I’d honed over the years. Instantly, the game was in motion. Each player searched for the opportunity they needed to get through the others’ defenses. We read each other. Anticipated what would come next. We knew the game well, and it showed as the first half of the game passed with no score on the board.
During half-time, we got the routine speech from the coaching staff. Where we needed to focus our attention. How we could penetrate the defenses of the other team, and how to prevent them from penetrating ours. Quietly, we absorbed the advice, making our own mental notes on what we personally needed to do. I didn’t have to ask what each of my teammates was thinking, because I knew. Our focus single minded. Outplay, outscore, win.
Stepping back outside, the tension on the field was palpable. Every guy was amped up more than during the first half. As defense, we were the final obstacle to take out for an opponent to score. I loved my position and I was fucking good at it. When the other team made it past the midfielders, I engaged. Anticipating his coming shot on goal, I saw my opening. With a push off the ground, I lifted my body as far in the air as I could to head the ball, managing to deflect it away from the goal seconds before colliding with the opposing player.
I struggled to right myself before landing, but when my left leg bore the full weight of my body, I knew I’d be feeling the hit in the morning. With cleats dug in to the ground, my knee locked just as I turned in an attempt to get out of the way. But I was too late. The dreaded sound every seasoned soccer player recognized the minute they heard it, filled my ears. A pop. I knew immediately what had happened as my body dropped to the ground. I silently prayed to whatever God would listen that it was the other guy’s knee that made that lethal sound … but the sudden pain that enveloped my leg told me otherwise.
“Fuck!” I growled into the warm fall air as I reached for my knee. The burning sensation spreading through it. The movement hurt it. The ground hurt it. Hell, even the damn air hurt it. Gritting my teeth, I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, ignoring the sights and sounds around me. When I felt someone touching my leg, I opened my eyes.
My vision was slightly blurry and I felt dizzy. Realizing I’d been holding my breath, I expelled it before locking eyes with the trainer hovering over me. He gave me a knowing, questioning look, but I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t want to say it. He was gonna ask me if I’d heard it. Did I hear a pop? I did, but I didn’t have to tell him that. Closing my eyes again, my head dropped to the ground as he said, “Talk to me, Baxter. What are you feeling? This doesn’t look like a leg cramp.”
No, it’s not a fucking leg cramp! Do guys actually look this pained with a muscle spasm?
“My knee …” I managed to get out before his hands circled my calf, trying to hold me still. They were nowhere near my knee, but it sure as hell felt
like they were. The intense throbbing began to morph into something else. It felt like my heart had left my chest and taken up residence in my mother-fucking-knee.
Taking a deep breath, I clenched my jaw and opened my eyes again. The trainer—along with his support staff and one of the coaches—were all leaning over me now. The minute I said I heard a pop, that would be it, I was done. Soccer was over. Forget the playoffs. Goodbye next season’s starting position. Everything I’d worked for, gone to a stupid little ligament. One tiny knee ligament had to give out, taking it all away.
“Look at me, Baxter,” the trainer demanded. So I did. His expression was serious as he continued, “You gonna tell me or make me guess? I can see you’re in a shit-ton of pain right now, and, based on your lack of information, I would think you did some damage.”
Nobody needed to know, right? I could conceal it with a request for ice and a knee brace. But then I felt him attempt to move my leg, and I barely contained the growl that crawled up my windpipe. There was no hiding this. It was done. Any idiot could see the ligament was blown. Taking a deep breath, I spoke through gritted teeth. “It popped.”
A knowing look crossed the trainer’s face as he nodded. Motioning to the people standing by, they went about the process of loading me onto to the cart to move me off the field. Division I soccer career done. I draped my arm over my face and focused on the pain in my leg instead of the one taking root in my chest. You know, the kind you felt when hopes and dreams died. I wasn’t sure which was more painful, but the physical pain was easier to grab on to. Otherwise I’d have to acknowledge, that as a junior, with a probable ACL injury … my Division I soccer career was done.
It was like watching a train wreck. The minute number eight’s leg buckled beneath him, I knew it had to be a significant injury. I’d seen enough game films of injuries to know that player was not getting up unassisted. A hush fell over the crowd as we collectively watched to see what would happen. I’d like to say my attention on the player was purely from a professional standpoint. But that’d be a big fat lie. Number eight had caught my eye the moment he smiled and waved into the stands before the game even started.
His smile was masculine perfection as it spread across his face. Even from a distance I could tell he was handsome with his sexy, athletic legs, his olive complexion, and dark brown hair. I couldn’t help but wonder what color his eyes were. At first, when he smiled and waved at the stands, I’d been struck dumb at the possibility he was waving at me. The commotion behind me proved otherwise, as I realized I was positioned directly in front of the people he was waving to.
It wasn’t like I’d waved back or anything, but that didn’t stop the blush at my mistake. Nobody but me knew he had my attention. When I’d glanced back at the group, I couldn’t help but smile at the two boys who didn’t look too happy to be holding signs.
Throughout the game, I’d overheard the family chitchatting behind me. The two players’ names listed on the signs were mentioned often and cheered for loudly. Clearly they were family. But I’d not known which player belonged to which name. At least, not until number eight went down. The name ‘Jonathan’ was breathed on a gasp behind me, and if I weren’t so engrossed in the scene down on the field, I would’ve looked back. It had to be frustrating to watch. Knowing something was wrong with your loved one, but you couldn’t do anything to help. It was frustrating enough for me as a physical therapy assistant to see my patients struggle.
As the training staff circled the player, Mari leaned in and said, “That didn’t look too good. You think he broke something?”
Without taking my eyes off the field, I shook my head. “It’s possible, but not likely. If I had to make a bet, it’s a ligament. His foot was planted as he turned. It’s a stereotypical injury for this type of athlete.”
“Ah. Ever the wise one, Obi-Lee.” Mari mocked me. “So, do they cancel the rest of the game now that someone is hurt?”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I said, “Seriously Mari, sometimes you shock me with how much of a girl you are.”
“What? I think it’s a valid question. He obviously can’t play anymore, right?” she asked, clearly curious and confused at the same time. Considering this was probably the most she’d ever fixated her attention on a field during a game, I should understand that she lacked basic knowledge of every sport. But when you take into account that we’d been living together since sophomore year, I’d really hoped she’d picked up a thing or two from all the sporting events she’d attended with me. Answering her question, I pointed to the benches across the field where the players all stood, also watching what was happening to their teammate.
“See those benches … those guys are on the team, too. Once they take the injured player off the field, the coach will make necessary adjustments to his player placements, and the game will continue.”
“Oh,” she grumbled, seeming dissatisfied with my answer. A moment later she added, “I think that’s kind of rude. Doesn’t he mean anything to them? They can just pick up and continue as if he didn’t matter.” Huffing a laugh, I just smiled and continued to watch as the training staff motioned to the sideline.
I reassured her with a pat on the leg, “Don’t you worry about it. I guarantee the injured player wants his team to go on without him and win the game.”
Mari smiled. “True. It’s like they have to win the game for him now.”
I didn’t fight the smile as I agreed with my best friend. “Right.”
When they began to move the injured player off the field, I nodded to myself. I figured he wasn’t going to be walking off on his own two feet. As they assisted the player onto the back of the cart to transport him, a few of his teammates surrounded him. He had shielded his face with his arm, but when his friend, who I assumed was Robby—based on the signage behind me—came up, he extended his arm. The two guys exchanged a fist bump before they pointed at each other as the cart drove him off the field. I found myself entranced as I watched. I couldn’t help thinking that whatever his injury was, I hoped he had a great physical therapist to get him back on the field. Because I really wanted to watch him play again.
Once he was fully off the field, I heard the people behind me begin to leave. One of the women in the group was giving instructions to others about who was going with whom. When one of the men spoke up, saying, “They got it, Gillian. Let’s go check on your boy.” The sweetness of his reassurance made me smile.
When the whistle blew again down on the field, I watched with excitement as the visiting team attacked with renewed vigor. Clearly they were more pumped up than before. For thirty minutes, they repeatedly pounded the home team’s defense until one of the players finally managed to get a ball past the goalie with less than a minute left on the clock. The crowd cheered, and I found myself clapping loudly with them. Sitting back down, I just happened to glance at the group I was with. Judging by their glowering stares, they weren’t happy for my newfound support for the visitors.
“What? It was a really good goal,” I said, shrugging. It really was. “I can root for both teams.”
Mari giggled and bumped my shoulder with hers. “Is that the same as playing for both teams?”
Then she snorted as she tried to conceal her laughter. But when my coworker next to her began to laugh, too, it was all over. Shaking my head as we stood, we said goodbye to my coworkers, and Mari walked in front of me as we climbed the stairs. “If you’re already laughing like a lunatic and you haven’t had anything to drink yet, I’m worried what the night might bring,” I confessed.
“I’m a little worried about what the night might bring knowing you root for both teams and you’re probably staring at my ass right now.”
Unable to help myself, I smacked her on the ass. When she squealed and turned toward me, I smirked as she rubbed the area I’d struck. In as sultry a voice as I could produce, I said, “And what a fantastic ass it is. I’d definitely play for both teams if you were up to bat.”
Mari loo
ked surprised at my words. Then her shoulders dropped, and she let out a sigh. “Stop that! I know I started it, but you really know how to make it look like you’re totally into me. It’s kinda creepy since neither of us swing that way.”
“Like you said, you started it,” I said with humor as we made our way through the crowd and down to the parking garage. Mari waved off my response, and we walked quietly to the car.
“Hey, Mari?”
“Yeah?”
“You know I’d totally switch teams for you, right?”
Mari snorted and said, “Of course you would, sweetie. It’s one of the reasons I love you so much.”
She winked, and we both climbed in the car. Our next destination was for beer and pizza with the girls. As we drove, I let my thoughts wander back to the injured player. Number eight … Jonathan.
The physical therapist in me was itching to get my hands on information about his injury. The girl in me was itching to get my hands on information about him, as a guy.
It really was too bad I didn’t date jocks.
I was being moved into the team room when I heard my mom talking to someone nearby. Following her voice, I looked to the doorway. She had her phone out and was tapping wildly at it while discussing something with the trainer. I knew she was already trying to line up someone to take care of my knee. It was what she did. I was on my own to make my decisions, but when it came down to the medical stuff, I handed over the reins. Being a nurse for almost twenty years, she had some great connections.
Turning my head back, I focused my stare on the holes in the ceiling tiles. My left knee was completely surround by ice packs, and the numbness was helping dull the internal pain. Once the training staff had me situated, they left me alone. Alone with my thoughts and frustration. What a fucked up way to go out, I thought.
Assumptions Page 2
