Three days later.
Robin is in a wheelchair. He hates it. He feels like luggage.
He didn't tell anyone. He booked the flight through his agent. He packed his bag, well, the nurse packed it, and he arranged the cab. He planned to slip out of the hospital, through the terminal, and across the Atlantic like a thief in the night.
No goodbyes. Goodbyes are for people who are coming back. Robin isn't sure he is.
The automatic doors of the departures terminal slide open. The cab driver pushes him in.
And there they are.
Leaning against a pillar near the check-in desk.
Martin Langford. Aaron Doyle.
Robin sighs, his head dropping. "How did you find out?"
"I'm the manager," Martin says, stepping forward. He looks tired. He hasn't shaved. "I know everything."
"You weren't going to say bye?" Doyle asks. He's wearing sunglasses indoors. He looks hungover. "That's rude, Hollywood."
"I just wanted to leave," Robin mumbles.
Martin extends a hand. Robin looks at it. He remembers the last time Martin shook his hand—in the office, giving him the jersey. It feels like a lifetime ago.
Robin takes it. Martin's grip is firm.
"Get well," Martin says. "The number 11 is waiting for you. I'm not giving it to anyone else."
Robin nods, throat tight. "Thanks, boss."
Then Doyle steps in. He doesn't offer a hand. He leans down and wraps his arms around Robin. It's awkward, Robin is sitting, Doyle is standing, but Doyle doesn't care. He squeezes hard.
"Don't get fat," Doyle whispers. "And answer your damn phone."
Robin hesitates. Then, slowly, he pats Doyle's back.
Suddenly, a heavy weight lands on both of them. Martin. The stiff, tactical coward joins the hug. A three-man huddle in the middle of Terminal 2.
"Come back stronger," Martin says into Robin's ear.
They pull away. Robin feels exposed.
"Go on then," Doyle says, putting his sunglasses back on to hide his eyes. "Get out of here."
The driver pushes the chair. Robin doesn't look back.
The flight is a blur of painkillers and uncomfortable sleep.
He lands in the US. The air smells different here. Stale.
His father is waiting at baggage claim. He looks older. He's wearing a stained polo shirt. He sees Robin in the wheelchair, the airport assistance guy pushing him, and his face crumbles.
"Oh, Robbie," his dad says, rushing over. "Oh, my boy."
He hugs Robin. It smells like mints trying to cover up cheap bourbon.
"Look at you," his dad says, pulling back, eyes wet. "My poor soldier. What did they do to you?"
Robin clenches his jaw. Don't.
"It's okay, Dad. I'm fine."
"You're not fine! Look at that cast! It's a tragedy. A tragedy. You were flying, Robbie. I saw the goals. And now this... it's just not fair. Why does God do this to us?"
Us.
Robin grips the armrests. "Can we just go home?"
The ride home is an hour of torture. His dad talks non-stop. Pity. Sympathy. Victimhood.
"It's okay to cry, son."
"Maybe it wasn't meant to be."
"You can always go to college. Get a degree."
Every word is a nail in the coffin. His dad is already burying Robin's career. He's comfortable with failure. He knows how to mourn dreams. He wants Robin to join him in the misery.
They arrive at the house. It's small, cluttered. The ghosts of his childhood are everywhere.
His dad helps him onto the couch. "I'll make some soup. You just rest. You've been through so much."
Robin waits until he hears the clatter of pots in the kitchen.
He grabs his crutches.
He stands up. The pain flares in his leg, sharp and hot, but he ignores it. He hobbles to the door.
He needs air. He needs poison.
The bar is a dive. Dark, sticky floors, neon signs buzzing.
Robin sits in a booth in the back, his cast propped up on the bench. He's wearing a hoodie, hood up. Nobody knows who he is here. In England, he's the kid who scored a hat-trick and got snapped. Here? He's just another cripple in a bar.
"Whiskey," he tells the waitress. "Double."
She brings it. He drinks it. The burn feels good. It distracts from the throbbing in his tibia.
He orders another. And another.
He watches the TV above the bar. Baseball. Men in pajamas standing around spitting.
He thinks about the pitch. The green grass. The sound of the ball hitting the net.
Dead.
He drinks until the edges of his vision go fuzzy. Until the voice in his head telling him he's finished gets a little quieter.
2:00 AM.
He stumbles through the front door. His crutches clatter against the wall.
"Robbie?" his dad calls from the recliner, waking up. "Where were you?"
"Out," Robin slurs.
"You shouldn't be walking on that! The doctor said-"
"Go to sleep, Dad."
Robin swings himself down the hallway, into his old bedroom. It hasn't changed. Posters of Ronaldo and Messi on the walls. Trophies on the shelf.
He closes the door. He leans against it, breathing hard. The room spins.
He looks at the floor.
He drops his crutches.
He lowers himself to the carpet. It's awkward, painful. He drags his broken leg behind him like a dead weight.
He gets into position.
Push-up position.
He can't run. He can't kick. He can't walk.
But he is not dead.
He lowers his chest to the floor. One. He pushes up. Two.
His arms shake. The alcohol swirls in his blood. His leg throbs in time with his heartbeat.
Three. Four. Five.
He goes until his arms give out. Until he collapses face-first into the carpet, sweat pooling around him.
He lies there, panting, staring at the dust bunnies under his bed.
I am not him, Robin thinks, listening to his father snoring in the next room. I am not finished.
He closes his eyes.
Six.