010

INJURED PRIDE

~KADE~

{Playlist suggestion: "Broken" by Lifehouse}

I stared at the wall chart Coach Marshall had taped up in the team meeting room. My name was highlighted in yellow….separate from everyone else.

Special. Isolated.

‘Kingston, K. - Modified training schedule. NO CONTACT DRILLS.’

The same words that had been there for weeks. Nothing had changed.

"Listen up," Coach barked, pacing in front of the whiteboard. "West Ridge Academy next Friday. They've got a strong defense, but we've got speed."

My teammates nodded. Denver caught my eye from across the room and gave me a sympathetic look. I ignored it. I didn't need pity.

Coach continued outlining the strategy, pointing at different players, and assigning roles and positions. Not once did he look my way.

When the meeting ended, everyone filed out. I stayed seated, staring at that yellow highlight. A brand marking me as damaged. Weak.

"He's just following doctor's orders, man," Denver said, hovering by the door. "Give it time."

"It's been three months," I said quietly. "The doctor said six to eight weeks for basic recovery."

Denver shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, but you re-injured it last month, remember? That night you tried to do suicide sprints alone?"

I did remember. The pain had been excruciating. But I'd kept going anyway, desperate to prove that a Kingston didn't break that easily.

"The showcase is in two months," I said. "Scouts from every major club will be there."

"You don't need the showcase," Denver reminded me. "You've already got offers."

"Had offers," I corrected him. "Things change when you're damaged goods."

Denver started to argue, but Coach Marshall stepped back into the room.

"Kingston," he said gruffly. "A word."

Denver clapped my shoulder and left. I steeled myself for another lecture.

Coach sat heavily in the chair across from me, his knees cracking. For a moment, I saw my future….old, bitter, reliving past glory while watching kids with healthy limbs live out dreams I'd lost.

"Dr. Chen says you've been pushing too hard in PT," Coach said, getting straight to the point. "Says you're risking permanent damage."

I kept my face blank. "Dr. Chen talks too much."

"He's trying to save your career, though God knows why when you seem determined to end it." Coach rubbed his face. "Look, I get it. I've been where you are."

"No," I said flatly. "You haven't."

Coach's eyes narrowed. "I blew out my knee in my second professional season. Lost my contract, my future. Everything."

"And now you're here," I said, gesturing around the small meeting room. "Coaching rich kids at a prep school."

The words were cruel, and I knew it. But the pain was radiating from my knee up my thigh, and seeing the flash of hurt on Coach's weathered face gave me a moment's relief.

"Yes," he said finally. "Now I'm here. And so are you." He stood up. "Until Dr. Chen clears you for team practice, you're benched. No exceptions."

I wanted to argue, to pull the Kingston card that always worked at Crawford. One call from my father and Coach would be looking for a new job.

But something stopped me.

Maybe it was knowing that Coach had made it to where I dreamed of going. Maybe it was the honesty in his eyes when he talked about his injury.

Or maybe it was the memory of Chelsea's voice in the greenhouse yesterday: "You're overcompensating. Putting too much weight on your good leg."

The same thing Dr. Chen had been telling me for weeks. The difference was when Chelsea said it, I almost believed her.

"Fine," I said, standing. "But I'm still doing individual training."

Coach looked like he wanted to argue but nodded. "Supervised only. With Chen or me present."

"Whatever." I grabbed my bag and limped out, not bothering to hide the pain when no one was watching.

---

Three hours later, I was alone in the auxiliary gym.

Coach had gone home. Chen was dealing with a sprained ankle on the women's volleyball team. The main athletic center was locked up tight.

But I had a key. One of the perks of being a Kingston.

I set up the agility ladder on the floor, popped two pain pills, and started my routine. Weaving through the rungs, focusing on keeping my weight balanced, not favoring my bad knee.

Too slow. Always too slow now.

I checked my stopwatch. Five seconds behind my pre-injury time. Might as well be five years in professional soccer.

"Not good enough," I muttered, resetting the timer.

I pushed harder, feeling the strain immediately. My knee protested with sharp jabs of pain, but I ignored it. The pain was temporary. Failure was forever.

My phone buzzed on the bench.

Probably Denver, checking if I wanted to grab dinner. Or worse, my father, wondering why I hadn't returned his calls about the summer internship at Kingston Enterprises he was determined to force on me.

I ignored it and set it up for another run.

This time I went all out, moving through the ladder like I used to…quick, confident, unstoppable. For just a moment, I felt like myself again.

Like the Kade Kingston whose name had been on recruiting lists since he was fourteen, not the broken version living on pain meds and false hope.

Then something popped.

The sensation was small but unmistakable. A slight shift inside my knee, followed by fire racing up my leg. I stumbled, catching myself on the wall.

"No," I hissed. "No, no, no."

I tried to straighten my leg. The pain intensified, stealing my breath. I lowered myself to the floor, teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.

This wasn't normal pain. This was wrong.

I needed to call someone. Denver. Coach. Even Dr. Chen.

But that would mean admitting I'd been training alone. It would mean another lecture, another delay, another round of pitying looks and whispers about how Kade Kingston was never going to be the same.

I'd crawl to my car first.

I tried to stand, putting all my weight on my good leg. For a second I thought it might work—then my knee buckled completely, sending me crashing to the floor.

The pain was blinding. Black spots danced in my vision as I lay there, breathing through clenched teeth.

For the first time since the initial injury, real fear gripped me. What if I'd done permanent damage? What if this was it—the end of everything I'd worked for?

I closed my eyes, swallowing the unfamiliar burn of tears. A Kingston didn't cry. A Kingston didn't show weakness.

But right now, I wasn't sure what I was besides broken.

Time passed. Minutes? Hours? The gym lights were harsh overhead. My leg throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I tried again to stand, to crawl, to do anything besides lie there helpless.

My body refused to cooperate.

Then I heard it….the soft click of the side door opening. Footsteps. The rattle of a cleaning cart.

Chelsea.

I wanted to disappear, to sink through the floor, to be anywhere but here.

Anywhere but lying helpless where she could see me. After her blunt assessment in the greenhouse yesterday, after my cold dismissal of her help, the humiliation was unbearable.

The footsteps stopped. "Kade?"

I didn't answer, hoping somehow she might not notice the six-foot-two athlete sprawled across the floor of an otherwise empty gym.

No such luck. Her footsteps quickened, and suddenly she was kneeling beside me, her face concerned but unsurprised.

"What happened?" she asked, her eyes immediately going to my knee, which was now visibly swollen even through my training pants.

"Nothing," I managed. "Just resting."

She gave me a flat look. "On the floor. In obvious pain."

"I'm fine." I tried again to get up, to prove my point.

The pain nearly made me black out. I fell back, breathing hard.

Chelsea said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes. I waited for the lecture, the ‘I-told-you-so’ that I so richly deserved. Instead, she reached out hesitantly, her hand cool against my forehead.

"You're burning up," she said quietly. "How long have you been pushing through the pain?"

I tried to think of a sarcastic answer, some cutting remark that would put distance between us. But the genuine concern in her eyes disarmed me.

This wasn't the hostile girl from the diner or even the guarded one from the greenhouse. This was someone else—someone who looked at my pain and didn't see weakness.

Pride told me to wave her away, to crawl to the locker room if necessary. But when Chelsea knelt beside me, her cool hand on my forehead, something in me surrendered.

"I can't get up," I admitted, the words burning my throat.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The confession hung in the air between us….more revealing than she could understand.

I'd never said those words before. Not when I broke my arm at seven. Not when I got a concussion during the championship finals last year. Never.

Kingston didn't admit defeat. They certainly didn't ask for help.

Chelsea's eyes softened, just slightly. Not with pity, but with something else. Understanding, maybe.

"I know," she said simply, reaching for her phone. "I'm calling Dr. Chen."

I caught her wrist. "Don't."

Her gaze was steady. "Would you rather I call an ambulance? Or your father?"

The mention of my father made me flinch. If he found out about this, all his threats about ending my soccer "hobby" would finally come true.

"Not my father," I said hoarsely. "Please."

Something flickered across her face—surprise at the plea, maybe. She nodded slowly.

"Dr. Chen then," she said firmly. "He won't report this if we ask him not to."

The "we" didn't escape my notice. Somehow, in this moment of complete humiliation, Chelsea Lynch had become my ally.

I couldn't understand why she wasn't mocking me, why she wasn't walking away like I deserved.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked, echoing the question from the greenhouse. But this time, there was no anger in it. Just genuine confusion.

Chelsea was quiet for a moment, her hands busy checking my pulse.

"Because," she said finally, "right now you're not a Kingston. You're just someone in pain."

Our eyes met, and for the first time, I felt like she was seeing me. Not my name my family or my status.

Just me—broken, vulnerable, and terrified of losing the one thing that made me worth something.

As she dialed Dr. Chen's number, I closed my eyes, surrendering to the help I'd spent my whole life believing I'd never need.