I'm Your Wreck

17- You're My Zen

Putting on the Tate University jersey ran a thrill down my spine. Another shot of adrenaline hit me when I stood on the field, facing the opposing team in their jerseys too. My game play hadn't been what it used to be. I was too afraid to go after the ball when a collision was possible, too afraid to get down and dirty. During the game, I still felt some of that hesitancy, but it was the closest to my old self that I'd felt in a while.

I scored within the first five minutes of the game and I could hear familiar voices cheering from the bleachers. All four roommates and my sister, hollering my name as I celebrated with the team.

Chris jogged passed me as the ball got reset and gave me a hard pat on the shoulder. "Nice one, Howard! That was sick."

It felt like my entire body was lit on fire in the best way imaginable. I wasn't playing as good as I had when I was on top of my game, but I hadn't felt this much like myself in so long. I'd get better. I'd get stronger and faster. My footwork would come back to me. I just had to keep at it, keep trying.

Our team won 3-1 and the energy was electric in the early November chill. I was dizzy with adrenaline, unbelieving of the game I just played. After having a panic attack at the touch of a ball a couple of months ago, I worked through that barrier and I got here.

"Don't forget! After party at my place," Chris announced in our post-game team huddle. "Invite everybody you know."

After that, we parted ways and I found Quinn by the bleachers with my friends.

"That was incredible!" she gushed, nudging my shoulder. "You had me all worried that you were going to be a benchwarmer or something but you led the motherfucking team."

"No, I didn't."

"You did," she insisted. "Dad is going to be so proud."

I didn't believe that either, but I also couldn't stomach saying it out loud. Of course, I wanted him to be proud of me and in other ways he was. But when it came to soccer? How could he be proud that I scored a goal on a club soccer team when just a couple of years ago, I was scouted for one of the best college teams in the country? It didn't even compare.

"I'm serious," she said when she read the disbelief on my face. "Call and tell him yourself tomorrow, you'll see."

"Thanks, Quinn." I forced a sweaty smile. "We should get going, there's a party at the captain's house and I need to run home and shower first. Thanks for coming out."

"Of course," she said, flashing a smile to my roommates who were standing nearby. "See you later, kiddos."

They, of course, didn't love the nickname, but she was already walking away too fast to be called out on it.

The party was loud and chaotic and excited when we got there. Every other time I was on the field, my anxiety got really bad afterward. During practices with the team and by myself, I needed some quiet cool down time after to catch my breath.

This time, I was still on my high from the win and eagerly threw myself into the throngs of the party. The team convinced me to shotgun a beer with them, everybody crowded into the kitchen with their beer cans pressed to their lips. Of course, I sucked at it but managed to finish the entire thing without spilling on my hoodie.

We shouted school chants throughout the house, dancing to whatever song that was playing through the loud speakers. Acting like we just won the world cup instead of a club soccer game.

I didn't even drink that much, sticking to a couple of beers and one shot of Fireball with the team. I wanted to enjoy this moment, to try to remember how good it felt the next time I was on the field. It wouldn't always feel this good and I needed to hold on to it.