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I stand from the couch, ready to spend the rest of my night alone in my room.
“Where are you going?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t really want to listen to this. Yes, that sucks, Ryan, but the way I look at it, you’re lucky. Sorry if I don’t understand all the basketball talk, but as my…” I wave my hand, motioning towards him. “Whatever you are, I’m just happy your brain is intact.”
“My brain doesn’t do shit for me in this game. My body does.”
Other than that statement being entirely absurd, he’s wrong. I don’t know much about the sport but from what I’ve seen, he’s always the smartest guy on the court. He anticipates every play, every move. He sees it all before it happens. His brain is the most special part of him as a player, and along the way, his body happened to catch up with that talent.
I slip past the couch, but he grabs my wrist to stop me.
“I’m sorry. I…I don’t know how to go a month without this game.”
He pulls me down towards his lap, and I take a seat across it. His hands drape over me, holding me tight as if he can’t stand the thought of me trying to leave the room again.
“Why’d you come to the hospital?” he asks softly.
“Because you were hurt.”
“Was it because Ron was there, and it would look suspicious if you weren’t?”
I jolt back slightly. “Is that what you think?”
He shrugs, looking away from me.
“I was there to see you. Believe it or not, I don’t give a shit about your boss, and I couldn’t care less who you are to anyone else. To me, you’re…well, I don’t know what you are, but you’re…important. You as a person, not the player, are important to me.”
I run my palm down the side of his face soothingly, but once again he can’t make eye contact as he fully turns towards the kitchen.
Shifting a bit, I catch his eye. They’re covered in a glossy film, making the color even more vibrant.
I’ve never seen Ryan cry besides a few tears over Stevie’s happiness. I’ve seen him reluctantly show other emotions—hurt, jealousy, concern, joy, playfulness. But I’ve never seen sadness.
He swallows down the tears. “I think you should catch a flight and meet up with the hockey team on the road. Stevie can take care of me.”
“No.”
“Indy, please,” he begs, refusing to make eye contact. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?”
I gently grasp his chin, making him meet my eyes. Tears well at the base of his lashes, but they don’t drop.
“Like what?” I press. “Human?”
“I’m not allowed to be human.”
Those tears fall, but I quickly wipe them away with my thumbs before he freaks himself out too much when he feels them on his cheeks.
“I’m not allowed to mess up. I’m not allowed to step out of line. I’m not allowed to get injured and take a month off. I’m not allowed to turn it all back on. The amount of pressure on me,”—he sucks in a sharp, shaky breath—“feels suffocating. I feel suffocated.”
His chest shakes as he tries to breathe without full-on crying. I’ve never imagined I would see him in this state, and I feel both honored and terrified to fuck it up and make him crawl right back into his emotionless shell.
“Turn what back on, Ry?”
“All of it. Wanting things I know I can’t have. Feeling things I know won’t be reciprocated. Wanting a future that has nothing to do with basketball.” Tears continue to fall from the corners of his eyes. “That’s all I have in this life, and it has to be enough for me.”
What is he talking about?
