No. It wasn’t sympathy. It was empathy.
He understood.
He knew what it was like to lose something so suddenly, to think your life was going one way only to have it thrown another.
My throat tightened, and I peeked up, letting myself take him in. He looked cozy in his hoodie and joggers, both black and nondescript. But his sandy brown hair was disheveled like he’d had a long day, the gold strands of it dulled like it needed to be washed. His eyes were rimmed red, the scruff on his jaw merging with that on his neck. He was usually more cleaned up and put together.
I liked that he hadn’t stopped to fix any of it before coming to me.
“Tell me what happened,” he said after a moment, his hand still smoothing my back.
“Non-displaced wrist fracture and a ligament sprain,” I said, knowing I didn’t have to soften any of it for him. He was an athlete. He knew what it was like to risk your body, your health, every single day doing what you love most.
And by the way he grimaced, I knew he understood the pain of what an injury cost as an athlete, too.
“Two months?” he asked.
I nodded. “Six to eight weeks or so, depending.”
“Fuck.”
I nodded more emphatically then, because yeah…fuckwas right.
“I’m sorry I didn’t…” I shook my head, the apology dying on my tongue. “My parents were here, and then when they left I just… I don’t know. I was trying to wrap my head around it all. I was trying to accept the reality. And I couldn’t have an audience for that.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Braden said. “Trust me, I get it. It’s gut wrenching, realizing that your season is disrupted.”
“Maybe over.”
He nodded with a pained sigh, squeezing my shoulder before he removed his hand, clasping it with his other between his knees. He was still leaning in, still engaged, but my chest ached at the loss.
I immediately longed for his touch again, so much so that I thought about fake-crying just to get it back.
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But let’s try not to go there yet, okay? I know it’s hard not to. All I can say is that the body is a miraculous thing, and you won’t know where you’re at until you’re cleared to start PT. That’s when you can really start to tell.”
“And if it’s shit?”
“Then maybe it is your whole season. And we cross that bridge when we get to it.”
We. Like we were a team. Like this was as much his injury as it was mine.
I loved how he wasn’t telling me not to be sad, or telling me howstrongI was. I loved that he wasn’t sugar coating it or saying that maybe I could get back in time for playoffs.
He wasn’t trying to be a light in the dark. He was just sitting in the darkness with me.
I didn’t realize that was what I needed until he gave it to me.
“What’s been the hardest part so far?” he asked.
“Besides trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m down for two months?” I blew out a breath, sinking back in the couch. “Everything. The sad looks from my teammates when they stop by. The call from Claire to tell me who was taking my spot, but that I’m still expected to be at practices and games. She said it like it was a good thing. Likeoh, we need to make sure you know the routines because obviously you’ll be right back at it!”
Braden reached over and squeezed my knee in understanding.
That little touch did something to my belly that was very welcoming after the nausea I’d sat with for days.
“My parents were at the game,” I said, giving him a flat-lipped smile and nod when Braden’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah. I noticed them right before the routine started. They fly in to surprise me and end up being the ones who get the surprise, I guess.”
“Did it fuck you up?” he asked. “Seeing them? Do you think—”