"Hmm?"
"Shannon," I croaked out, nudging her with my hand. "Wake up."
Yawning quietly, she crept out from where she had been nestled in the crook of my arm.
"You're awake," she said, smiling down at me.
I nodded warily.
"You remember where you are?"
I nodded again.
"Do you remember the match?"
"I remember why I'm here," I croaked out, feeling dry-mouthed and hoarse. "I don’t remember why you're here."
Shannon looked at me for a long moment and then her eyes widened and she quickly scooted off the bed.
"You wanted me to stay with you," she explained in a quiet tone, clasping her hands together.
I frowned. "I did?"
I couldn't remember.
It was a haze.
Shannon nodded. "Yeah, I came to see you with Gibsie this morning – well, it was like six o’ clock in the morning so I guess you could call it last night? I don’t know –"
"How long?" I interrupted her by asking.
I was feeling too damn desperate to listen to rambling.
Shannon stared blankly at me. "Huh?"
"How long am I out?" I bit out.
She checked her watch. "It's 11:45, so close to six hours."
"No." I shook my head and expelled a frustrated growl. "How long am I out?"
She shook her head. "I don’t understand."
"How long am I out on injury!" I hissed, clenching the bedsheets as devastation checked into my heartbreak hotel.
"Johnny, it doesn't matter–"
"It matters, Shannon," I snapped, voice cracking. "It matters to me."
She just stared at me with those big eyes full of fear, and concern, and sympathy.
I couldn't deal.
Not right now.
I didn’t want her to see me break down.
I couldn’t cope with that.
"Can you pass me that, please?" I pointed to the chart hanging off the foot of my bed. "I need to see."
She worried her lip, glancing at my chart nervously. "Johnny, maybe you should wait for a doctor–"
"I need to see the fucking chart," I choked out. "I need to see for myself."
Shannon flinched and I felt worse than ever.
"Please." I exhaled a heavy sigh. "Pass me the chart."
Without another word, she handed me the clipboard.
"Thank you."
She dropped her head and sniffled.
Fuck.
Fuck!
"Can you go find my Da?" I asked, desperately trying to wrangle in my emotions.
She looked up at me all lonesome and hurt. "If that's what you want?"
I bit back a groan and nodded. "That's what I want."
"W-what about your Mam?"
"No, just my Da," I warned her. "Only my Da."
"Uh, okay," Shannon whispered, looking uncertainly towards the door.
I held my breath, desperate not to break down in front of her.
"I'll go?" she said, but it was more of a question.
I nodded stiffly, resisting the urge to beg her to stay and hold me and make promises neither of us could keep.
She couldn’t fix this for me, and I was terrified of losing more than I already had.
I knew she was fragile and I didn’t want to scare her away. If she stayed in this room, that's exactly what I was going to end up doing.
If I did that – if she saw the ugly side of me, the weakness in me – I would lose her, too.
I couldn’t lose her, too.
With a hammering heart, I watched her open the door and pause in the doorway.
"Bye Johnny," she whispered, glancing back at me one final time.
I swallowed deeply before strangling out the words, "Bye, Shannon."
I waited until the door closed behind her before ripping the covers off my body to check the damage.
Jesus Christ.
Dropping my head back on my pillow, I bit down on my fist and smothered my cry.
When my Dad walked into the room thirty minutes later, he was alone.
"Morning, Stud," he said with a smirk.
"Da," I choked out, tears streaming down my cheeks.
The minute Dad saw my expression, his smirk fell.
Placing his plastic cup on my nightstand, he sank down on the edge of my bed and pulled me into his arms.
"Johnny," he sighed. "Let it all out, son."
And it was right there that I cried like a fucking child on my father's shoulder.
"What am I looking at?" I choked out when words found me.
"Six weeks minimum," he told me with that honesty I respected him for.
"Dad, it's gone." I shook my head and resisted the urge to roar. "The summer campaign…The u20's…it's over for me!"
"Not gone," he assured me. "Slim, but not impossible."
"Slim," I strangled out, feeling my heart beat so hard I thought it might stop altogether. "Fuck."
"Don’t you forget who you are." He stood up then and helped me to sit at the edge of my bed. "You are my son," he added, lowering my feet to the floor. "And you are a fighter."
I dropped my head. "I don’t fucking feel like a fighter.”
"You've been a fighter since the day you were born," he corrected, tipping my chin back up, and forcing me to meet his blue-eyed gaze. "You've never let a thing get in the way of your goals, and you sure as hell are not going to let six weeks stop you."
"And if I don’t make it?" I choked out, voicing my biggest fear. "If I'm not fit by then?"
"Then you don’t make it," he replied simply.
I shook my head and released a pained sob. "Da, I can't cope –"
"If you do not make it this summer then you do not make it this summer," he repeated. "You are still Johnny Kavanagh. You are still an honor student. You are still a good man. And you are still my best decision."
For the millionth time in my life, I found myself looking up at the man that raised me and thinking: will I ever be as strong as you?
I watched my father as he pulled over a chair and set it down in front of me.
"Now," he said as he sat down and loosened his tie. "Let's get real, son."
Oh shit.
"Real?" I croaked out.
Dad nodded. "Say you don’t make it onto the u20's in June – "Da, I can't–"
"Hear me out," he said calmly.
Glumly, I nodded.
"Say you don’t make it in June," Dad continued to say, voicing my worst nightmare out loud. "It's devastating. Your mother and I understand. You might not think we do, but we brought you into this world, and every single, painful moment in your life that you endure, and every obstacle you stumble over, we're there, Johnny. We're right behind you, feeling everything. Your pain and frustration and fears. It's all mirrored back to us. Your achievements are ours and your heartache is ours. Because you are all we have, Johnny. Just you. That's it."
Now I felt worse than when I woke up. "Da…"
"When you're older and you have children of your own, a son of your own, you'll understand what I mean," he added, calm as ever. "But for now, you're going to have to take my word for it."
I nodded, feeling like a piece of shit and knowing full well what was coming next.
"What you did, Johnny?" Dad said. "The danger you put yourself in?" He shook his head and exhaled a shaky breath. "There are no words to comprehend how devastated we were to get that phone call last night." He leaned forward in his seat and clasped his hands together. "To know that our boy was risking his health and his future like that, and that he had been for months."
My shoulders slumped in shame. "I'm sorry, Da."
"I don’t need an apology," Dad replied without a hint of anger in his tone. "I need you to understand. To take a step back from this dream you've been chasing and realize that your life is already happening."
"I just want it so bad, Da," I confessed, biting down on my lip. "So fucking bad."
"And I want it for you," he told me. "I want you to chase your dreams, Johnny. I want you to make them come true. I want every single thing you want from life to happen for you. But I need you to do all that with a steady head." He leaned back in his chair and stared at me for a long moment before speaking again. "Even the best fall down sometimes, son. What you do next – with clear, calculated, logical thought – is what will define you."
Yeah.
I got it.
I heard him.
Exhaling a heavy sigh, I rubbed a hand over my face and asked, "So what's the plan?"
Dad smirked.