“What about soccer?” I asked, glancing up at my dad. He glared at Doctor Winchester. The doctor looked at him, took a deep breath, and then turned back to me.
“Thomas, it's very unlikely you will be able to play soccer again.”
My stomach lurched, expelling the little water I had consumed. Pain shot up my back as I tried to lean over to get the water out of my mouth. Both my dad and the doctor held me to one side, and a nurse came in to help as well.
I still saved Rumple.
It was still worth it.
But what did I have now? If the only thing that had mattered in my life for years was gone, where did that leave me?
Dad closed the door to the room as Doctor Winchester left to schedule various tests over the next few days. As soon as the door was closed, I could feel the entire atmosphere of the room change.
Dad stayed at the door for a moment with his hand pressed against the frame, leaning into it before letting out a long breath and turning around to look at me.
Well, glare would be more accurate.
Here it comes.
“I always thought you were an idiot,” he said darkly. “I never realized how big an idiot you really are.”
He walked slowly over to the side of my bed, and I tried to shift around, though I didn’t know where I was going to go. I could barely move at all, and I could feel a strange panic building inside of me.
I couldn’t move my legs, and I could only move my arms a little. As soon as I shifted one arm over—even a little bit—I could feel the muscle fatigue from my shoulder to my wrist.
I was trapped.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Hi
s voice was still quite low and soft, and I looked over toward the door, wondering just how far away the night nurse was from my room. “You may very well have fucked up your entire life in one stupid, pointless move.”
“Not pointless,” I heard myself whisper and immediately regretted saying it out loud.
“What was that?” he snapped. “What?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled.
“Not pointless, is that what you’re telling me?” Contempt was evident in his voice. “You almost died, Thomas! It’s going to be at least two more seasons before you can play again! For what, huh? For a piece of ass?”
Two more seasons?
“I thought the doctor said—”
“That moron doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” Dad waved a hand toward the door. “You’ll play again—you just have to stop being a pussy and get the hell out of that bed as soon as you can. No more napping, you hear me?”
I looked up at him and then down at the blanket that covered my legs. I tried to moisten my lips, but my tongue was too dry, and I started coughing again. Once I got it under control, I tried to shift my legs like I had my arms.
Nothing.
They didn’t hurt or feel strained or fatigued. I just couldn’t make them move.
“Dad,” I whispered as I looked up at him again. The panic was back. “I can’t move them, Dad. They just…don’t.”
My heart was starting to beat faster, as evidenced by the increasing tempo of the monitor off to the side. My lungs expanded and contracted over and over, and I couldn’t seem to make them slow down at all. I strained—trying to just shift my leg a little, but nothing happened at all.
Nothing.
“Dad…”