Page 86 of Challenge
“You’re my son. I’m your father. How can you possibly think that I won’t have a say regarding this?”
“You’re my father? That’s a laugh.” I grab a hand towel and wipe my forehead.
“What on earth—”
“You’re my manager. That’s why you’re talking to me. Not because of fatherly concern.”
He harrumphs. “I seem to remember raising you. That doesn’t entitle me to being labeled your father?”
“I think you can thank Vi for some of that.”
“Damnit, Camden, I’ll drag you to that hospital myself if I have to.”
“Great, I look forward to it,” I bark.
“Did that meeting with Arsenal really mean nothing to you? Good God, it’s what we’ve all dreamed of for ages.”
“No, it’s what you’ve dreamed of for us. I don’t know what the hell I want anymore.”
“Camden, you’re just scared. An injury can mess with your mind. Stay focused, Son.”
“I’m tired of everyone telling me what to do!” I roar into the mobile, tipping over the edge completely. “I’m not letting you all back me into a corner. I have my own bloody mind and no one is pushing me around anymore. It’s over. I’m not having the surgery on Monday. End of.”
His heavy sigh is trembling with barely contained anger. I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose in disappointment. In a flat voice, he says, “You’re making a mistake.”
“At least it’s mine.” I push END on the screen and yank my earbuds out before I chuck my mobile to the corner of the room.
I bend over to snatch up the whiteboard marker off the floor and scrawl out yet another pun on the mirrored wall of our gym. It fits well with the other puns I’ve been writing as they continue to slither into my brain unwelcomed:
Those who get too big for their britches will be exposed in the end.
Every calendar’s days are numbered.
Marathon runners with bad footwear suffer the agony of defeat.
I can’t seem to stop punning, no matter how hard I try. Or how embarrassing it might be. Tanner and I usually write inspirational quotes on the mirror to help us stay focused during our home workouts. Writing depressing puns doesn’t seem to have the same effect. I read my latest one another time:
To write with a broken pencil is pointless.
I can thank my dad for the inspiration behind that one. What I’m seeing in the mirror these days doesn’t impress me. I glare at myself, poking the six-pack on my stomach. I used to take pride in looking this way. I used to marvel at the results years of hard work and training afforded my body and my lifestyle.
But right now, I just don’t give a shit.
I grab a large exercise ball and sit on it, bouncing to get my bearings. It’s been three days since I decided not to have the surgery. I’m surprised my dad waited this long. He probably hoped someone else would talk me out of my decision. Vi is convinced this is all happening because of a broken heart, which is ridiculous because the only thing Indie Porter gave me was a much needed wake-up call.
For someone so inexperienced with men, she knows how to blow a guy off rather triumphantly. After dancing with her the other night, everything felt different. If I could get it in my head that I wanted Indie more than I wanted football, my priorities were obviously fucked. So I’m done letting everybody take what they want from me. I’m done being a bloody show pony for football, for the hospital, and for Indie. I’m so fucking done.
Plus, if I don’t have the surgery, I don’t have to deal with any of it.
Especially Indie.
Shaking my head, I lean back to do some crunches and attempt to drown out my thoughts. Just as I get started, I hear a voice down the hallway that makes me freeze mid-crunch.
“Look, I can text him and tell him I’m here and then this conversation will be over, or you can make this easier by letting me in to talk to him. You buzzed me up here, so I don’t know why you’re wasting my time.”
“How do I know you’re not going to inject some Jedi mind tricks in him like the other night?” Tanner’s voice sounds defiant like a child.
“I didn’t mess with his mind!”
