I'm Your Wreck

9- Star Fruit

I couldn't tell if the practice game with my friends was a good or horrible idea. One one hand, if it goes well, it'll ease my tension going into tryouts coming up next week. But if I choked again or did horrible, it would only worsen my anxiety when it came to the real thing.

Even though I kept telling myself that it wasn't that big of a deal because it was just a club soccer team, my hands started to shake every time I thought about it too much. I'd always been a soccer player and even in these last couple of years I hadn't thought of myself as not a player, but one that was on injured reserve. Now, I wasn't injured and I didn't have that excuse anymore. If I couldn't play now... then I simply just wasn't a soccer player in any capacity. Which is all I had ever been and ever wanted to be.

Fuck. I was about to have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the student union, packed with people at four p.m. on Thursday. Classes were dying down and people were stopping by to get an early dinner before wrapping up for the day. My classes ended hours ago, but I stopped at the gym for some weight training before going back to the union to get started on a paper for American Lit.

I sat across from the food court at a small table by the windows, trying to focus on the empty Word document on the screen but my hands were shaking too badly to type anything.

I hadn't been this anxious since the months after the injury when I first got the news and then had to go through a couple of knee surgeries. At the time, the doctor wasn't sure if it would ever be safe for me to play the sport again, or even run for long periods of time.

So I was lucky, I tried to tell myself. I was lucky that it healed well, that I had the option to get back onto the field. Even if it was just a club team that most people played on just to make friends rather than a love for the sport. It was more than I thought I would get.

Just as I was starting to search for breathing exercises on YouTube so that I could calm myself down, a shadow started to appear over my shoulder.

"Hey MacGyver," the deep rumble of a familiar voice snapped me out of it. I exited out of the browser tab just as Banks came into view, sitting a smoothie down in front of me on the table. He was wearing a black polo shirt with the neon logo of the smoothie shop. "I messed up this order, you want it? I'll have to throw it away if not."

"What's messed up about it?" I asked, glancing up at him through sweaty strands of hair that had fallen into my eyes.

"Too much mango. There's too many recipes, I keep getting them mixed up," he said with a short sigh.

"Sure, I'll take it," I decided. "Thanks."

After a moment of hesitation, he slid into the chair opposite of me and asked, "Were you just out at the field?"

"The gym," I corrected him, taking a sip of the smoothie. "How could anybody be mad about too much mango in their smoothie? It's objectively the best fruit."

His eyebrow quirked up as he leaned back in his chair. "Not in a world where star fruit exists, man."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Star fruit?"

"Have you ever had it?" Banks started tapping his fingertips along the table. "It's so good."

"I don't think I've ever even seen a star fruit in person before."

"Then you definitely don't have the jurisdiction to decide on what the best fruit is," he stated confidently.

"Okay," I laughed again. "I can at least say that mango is a very, very good fruit. I didn't realize that you were such a fruit purist."

In a very serious tone, Banks leaned forward a bit and said, "I'm just here to spread star fruit awareness. It's a thankless job, but somebody has to do it. Are you excited about this scrimmage game on Saturday?"