I Wish You The Best

8 - Mason

My Dad's here.

The feeling of the scratchy hospital blanket is the only reminder that I'm awake. My mind is completely numb as is my body.

Out for the rest of the season.

The rest of the goddamn season. We were just two games away from the playoffs, the third seed in our conference. We were so fucking close. And now? I can't even lift my fucking arm. I need surgery and am out for at least three months.

It was hard not to go to a dark place at that moment. It was hard to concentrate on anything else besides the feeling of being tackled and feeling a tear. It was a gut-wrenching reminder that we're not invincible on that field no matter how much we feel like we are. I had seen teammates get bussed off the turf more times than I'd like, never picturing it'd be me.

But now it was.

"How are you feeling Mason?" Dr. Callahan was the specialty doctor for our team and had been on every injury case this season. He looked as sullen as I felt, both of us knowing what this means.

"What do you think?" I snap.

"Mason. Act like a grown-up." My father's voice cuts in and I grip the edge of the bed.

"Why are you even here? Huh?" I turn to him, my arm hooked up to the machines behind my bed restricting my access to turn my body fully. I ignore the sharp pain in my shoulder and the sling on my arm to look him dead in the eye.

"I don't want you here." I spit.

The doctor looks between my dad and me before stepping around to block my view from where my sad excuse of a father sits on the plastic chair.

"Okay, Mason. I can't begin to understand the emotions you're feeling right now but I can't have yelling and strain on your arm. We need to talk about the next steps and act fast." He slides a spare chair over. "Now, do you understand where we stand?"

He looks down at his clipboard and I lean back into the bed closing my eyes.

I'd rather be anywhere but here right now. Anywhere in the world.

"Yes," I say clenching my teeth together.

"Good. We will move forward with surgery on the shoulder." I shut my eyes as he says the words. Maybe if I don't watch him say it, it won't be real. But the pain every time I move is a reminder of exactly what is real and what isn't.

The Doc leaves the room, a solemn look on his face. I turn to my father who just looks down at his phone, typing away. He's got his usual business suit on and wears the same look on his face as always. The same monotonous and expressionless face. I wonder if he ever smiles.

Not to me.

"Marie is on her way now. I'll call your mother." He looks up and I turn away.

"Don't you even dare! Don't call her." I'd rather talk to this embarrassing excuse of a parent than one that decided I wasn't worth it.

"She is still your mother Mason. You need to grow up." I laugh at his pathetic statement and run my good hand over my face. My limbs feel heavier than normal and my thoughts are scrambled. The pain medications doing their job of numbing everything. Almost everything.

"Rich coming from you." I snap.

I know I'm acting like a grown baby. I know I'm being an asshole, but nothing feels right anymore. We were playing the best we ever had this season. Only lost three games and winning the rest.

Coach Hanson was not known for taking more risks than he could handle. He had built the New England Warriors from the ground up, picking his players selectively and decisively. He made no mistakes and took no unnecessary gambles.