Falling for the Goalie and Other Dangerous Sports

Chapter 25 - Derek

It was a rough day.

As I sat helplessly, panting, sweating, near to the point of collapsing, I cursed Maddy for the hundredth time. No one else was here. No one except me, and Coach Dublin.

"C'mon, you've got at least another 1000 meters then you can go. If you stop it'll be a mile."

By some unknown godly force, I began running/jogging again, chest constricting painfully. 1000 meters was at least to the road and back, if not more.

Maddy had told Coach Dublin I skip out on running every practice. Coach Dublin was absolutely furious. She kept going on about how lucky I was she wasn't going to suspend me again, and how lazy and careless it was and how it would've been easier to just do the running, on and on and on. I was dreading the punishment the whole spiel, and she didn't disappoint. I came to the field at 5:00 am on Friday and ran 5 miles to make up for it, but even then that's maybe a fourth of the running I've skipped out on. And so, I recall my story in wrenching detail and in aching pain.

I got to the road and began to turn back, until I couldn't breath at all. I gasped violently and stopped for a minute, thankful I was out of Dublin's eye. I haven't ever felt exhaustion, I realized. Nonetheless, I trudged on, fueled with anger over Maddy.

I didn't know what to think. I didn't know if I should be depressed, angry, happy, heartbroken, but yet I was all those things. I was an emotional abstract piece of art. God I was stupid. Really stupid, really mean, and really rude. Most of all, I was sorry. I was unfathomably sorry. All I want to do right now is sleep, not just because this running is going to be the death of me, but because I don't know or maybe just don't want to face the world right now. Empty would be a good way to describe it. Empty and numb.

I had finally arrived back to the field where Coach Dublin sat at the pavilion on her phone. This annoyed the absolute shit out of me.

"Ok. You're done running, grab your stuff." Coach said, still on that stupid iPhone of hers. Gladly, I obeyed her orders and headed to the farthest corner of the pavillion to wait for my mom. She stopped me yet again. "Whoa, I said done running. You and me gotta talk."

I have never felt such frustration in my entire life than in that moment. I tried not to get rude or mean or throw my bag down, but I sure did feel like kicking something. Who cares how tired I was.

"You have to start cooperating with Maddy."

She stopped her sentence there and waited for a response.

"I..can't. I just can't, her and I, Maddy and I...can't." I replied, exasperated and empty.

"This team does not revolve around you. This isn't about you playing varsity next year or winning the Bridesdale tournament. If you plan on it, you have to have the rest of your teammates by your side. Especially your center defender."

"I can't help it if she won't listen to me on corner kicks. Twice, maybe even three times it's been her fault she let a goal in."

"I will work that out with her myself. If you don't start cooperating I will not put you in, under any circumstance. Understood?"

I got up to leave. "Understood."

I walked off, not waiting for some sort of courtesy response. Mom drove off and didn't ask questions which was nice.

Listen, I didn't want to be bad person. I didn't want to hate the world that day, I didn't want to be rude. But something snapped inside me. I decided I was a bad person, I was just as bad as any other jock at our school. I wasn't unique, I wasn't this descriptive prodigy Maddy made me believe, for that small sun ray of a moment. I had tried so desperately to cling on to that small gossamer of good inside of me, the string that separated my temper and frustration from colliding every minute. What happened? What happened, what happened, what happened to me.

At home I sat and watched TV, I went to my room, I paced, I slept, I did everything and anything to drain myself, which was easy from running so much so early in the morning.

After pacing for a whole 40 minutes, yes I watched the time, I tore open the drawer of my desk and pulled out a sheet of notebook paper. I sat down and roughly grabbed a pen.

Dear Maddy,

I hate you for what you did. I got up at 5 this morning and ran five miles. I've been suspended for games because of you. I've beaten myself up time and time again for crawling back, every single time with a deeper wound. It's pathetic, ridiculously pathetic what I've become.

It's hard to put what I want to say into words. Mostly because you refuse to talk to me, but just feeling overwhelmed. Max is gone, so it's just Mom and I. I don't know where my father is. All I do is mope uselessly around, as unstable as a tightrope walker. That what it feels like. I'm caught in the middle of a tightrope, thousands of feet of empty air below me. I'm not allowed to turn back, it'd be useless. And I'm holding that ridiculously long stick, and the wind's blowing, people are yelling, and fear rises up from the screams below.

It's hard to put what I want to say into words. I can't control these stupid mixed emotions that keep coming and going. I won't tell you I'm miserable. I'm miserable at best. A better term would be: empty. And I'm afraid if I talk to you, you'll slice that stupid tightrope with nothing but a flick of the wrist, not a flinch, you wouldn't even glance back, would you. I'm scared, depressed, angry, frustrated, numb, disappointed, sad, regretful.

It's hard to put what I want to say into words. I'm not going to try and plead not guilty about kissing Scarlett, about you getting the wrong idea and about how sorry I am, I can't do that because I know you won't believe it. I know you, Maddy. I know what you eat when you're sad, I know that you've always wanted to play the violin, I know you're a bad swimmer, I know you scraped your knee when you were six and still have a rock stuck in your skin, I know where you go when you just want to think. I know how you hold your arm when you get nervous, I know how you half smile because you hate your teeth, I know you hate eye contact, I know you blush easily, and that you hate the brush of my hand on your skin now. And it's frustrating because all those little details are like the leaves of bright, vibrant red against the yellow oand orange when the trees start to die in the fall.

It's hard to put what I want to say into words. Through all this, I truly still care about you. A lot. A lot, a lot, a lot, an, an insane amount. And I'm sorry. Even though you won't take any of my words. I'm just hoping maybe when you slice through that tightrope, you'll find it stronger than you think.

It's hard to put what I want to say into words.

Hand sore and my penmanship like a two-year-olds, I couldn't bring myself to sign the finished letter. I tore it shreds and flung the remains in my trash can.