Sierra Lancaster has had an agonizingly mediocre life. She grew up in a happy home, made loyal friends, graduated college, and is now pursuing her dream of running her own bakery. Boring, right? A story like this wouldn't be one for the books. At le...
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I should not be doing this, I should not be doing this, I should not be doing this.
And yet my fingers continue to type away Satan's name in the google search bar and click on the little magnifying glass on the right. I glance around as if he can see what I'm doing under my covers in the dark and comfort of my own room. Knowing him, he probably can with his evil little powers.
I click on the first available link at the top of my search and, unsurprisingly, it's an article about how Holden blew his shoulder out and lost his chances with the NFL. It happened only a year after he was drafted and playing as a wide receiver for the Minnesota Vikings.
Holden was taking their team by storm, the new golden boy who was full of talent and potential and the promise of making it big someday. Holden was drafted straight out of college and despite being the youngest among his team, he obviously possessed a natural skill for the sport. He was wicked fast and his intuition about the ball's position on the field made him the best wide receiver in state. Within months of being drafted, his face was all over various sport tabloids and magazine issues. It didn't hurt that he was good-looking as heck. A lot of his front cover features were body-related and I can remember passing through the state of Minnesota and seeing his gloriously taut and ripped muscles on every stand. He was our hometown hero.
And then, one day when the Minnesota Vikings were up against the Chicago Bears, Holden was body-checked by a left guard and the impact to the ground was hard enough to dislocate his shoulder. That day is so vivid to me, even now. Our entire hometown was watching that game, every sport bar or regular bar playing the match. I'd secretly been watching from the kitchen and pretending like I didn't care about the game but even I couldn't stop my gasp when Holden was knocked to the ground. Even on television it looked painful. And then the camera zoomed in on Holden who was on the ground and clutching his arm with a death-grip. A teammate took his helmet off and I remember the way my throat locked up at the palpable agony on his face, skin flushed and sweaty and eyes full of unshed tears. He was rushed off the field and then the whole match went to shit. The Vikings lost the playoffs, Holden was sent into surgery for a torn ligament, and the team botched their qualifications for the super bowl.
All eyes were on Holden after that. Every media outlet closely followed his recovery as he worked with a physical therapist. It was a grueling few months before we received the news that Holden sustained a permanent shoulder instability and could never play professionally again.
Reading the article and being taken back to that moment eight years ago makes my chest twist painfully. I feel a flash of guilt that I had taken a poke at his injury the first night we met after over a decade. And then I weaseled my way into his sexy times and made a whole new commotion. I haven't been very neighbourly, have I? And all because I'm still a little bitter about my lost friendship with him? It's wrong and I make a mental note to put in more effort to be nice to him the next time I see him. He'll always be Satan to me but...I can try. Right?
