Forging Chaos

Sometimes you have to lose everything to win what matters most.

 I had it all–speed, skill, and a one-way ticket to the pros. But one bad hit shattered my career and left me with a busted leg, a bruised ego, and no clue what comes next.

Enter Thora, my no-nonsense research partner who’s too smart, too fierce, and too beautiful for a washed-up guy like me. She’s got a sharp mind, big dreams, and zero patience for my pity party. Plus, she sees straight through my game face to all the broken parts of me, and instead of running away she challenges me to do better.

But just when I’m starting to believe I could have a second chance–with life and with her–she drops a bombshell: she’s leaving. Heading halfway across the world to chase her own dreams.

I’ve lost one future already, but there’s no way I’ll lose this one, too. Thora’s heart is the only prize that matters, and I am ready to go all in.

I wake up in a haze, my vision blurry and unfocused. Not sure why, but there are some harsh fluorescent lights above me. Something smells like chemicals. Antiseptic. 

I know where I am. I was hoping it was a dream.

A nightmare.

Last thing I knew, I was flying down the football field, defense bouncing off me like hailstones. Until one of them didn’t and I went down like I’d been struck by lightning.

Reality crashes down like thunder: I’m in a hospital bed.

Panic rises in my chest as I try to piece together what happened. Fog swirls in my mind and I’m disconnected from my body. I attempt to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shoots through my ankle, forcing me back down with a groan. The memory hits me like a freight train - the game, the tackle, the sickening pop as I went down.

Did I at least score the touchdown?

The thought flits past, and I almost laugh at how ridiculous it seems now. Here I am, laid up in a hospital bed, and I'm worried about whether I got the ball over the line in a freaking scrimmage that doesn’t mean anything. But that's who I am - or who I was. Odin Stag, star running back. The guy whose entire future hinged on his ability to dodge tackles and sprint down a field.

I just yeeted my Achilles, and I know what that means.

So what am I now? A patient. A statistic. Another athlete whose dreams just fizzled out like a passing storm.

I'm pulled from my spiral of self-pity by the sound of the door opening. My mom walks in, her eyes red-rimmed. Dad's right behind her, his usual happy expression cracking around the edges. I can see the worry etched into the lines of his face, the fear he's trying so hard to hide.

"Hey, kiddo,” Dad says, his voice gruff with emotion. "How're you feeling?"

I paste on my best grin, determined not to let them see how scared I really am. "Like I just went ten rounds with a freight train," I quip. "But you should see the other guy."

Mom lets out a watery chuckle, perching on the edge of my bed. She married a hockey player. Ty Stag—a Pittsburgh legend. None of this should be new to her, but I guess it’s different when it’s your kid laid up like this. 

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a real injury before.

Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "Oh, sweetie," she murmurs. "We were so worried."

Before I can respond, the door swings open again, and a doctor strides in, all business. He knows my dad, because of course he does, and they shoot the shit until the doc seems to remember I’m here. He launches into an explanation of my injury, throwing around terms like "complete rupture" and "surgical intervention." I try to follow along, but my mind keeps catching on phrases like "extended recovery time" and "physical therapy."

What does this mean for my future? For the draft next year? For everything I've worked so hard to achieve?

My parents pepper the doctor with questions I can't bring myself to ask. How long until I can walk? Run? Play again? Each answer feels like another nail in the coffin of my dreams.

As the doctor leaves, an uncomfortable silence settles over the room. Things must really be bad if Dad isn’t making a dumb joke about deodorant or trying to grab Mom’s butt.

"Well," Dad says finally, forcing a smile, "at least this gives you some time to focus on class, right? Might even boost that GPA of yours."

I know he's trying to help, to find some positive in all this, but it just makes me feel worse. Right now their presence feels suffocating. I'm torn between wanting their comfort and needing space to process this on my own.

I’m surprised my entire extended family isn’t here right now. But I remember that they were all here before the surgery, and Dad sent them home when I went under the knife. I don’t want to see the entire extended Stag crew right now. I don’t want to see anyone.

First I need to figure out who I am now.

I’m not going to be a professional athlete. I might not even be able to be an Uber driver. And I know damn well my family will want me to look on some bright side or keep my spirits high or whatever rainbow bullshit.Each time I get woken up, my drug-addled brain drifts to the realities of what’s going on with my body: agony, yes, but also … deterioration. A torn Achilles is very much an Achilles heel. A career-ending injury. That’s just math. 

And I’ve spent my entire life planning on a pro sports career, raised by an Olympic rowing mother and a pro hockey playing father. All my brothers are gearing up to follow in Dad’s footsteps. Where does that leave me? Even after I recover from this nightmare physically, I’m not going to be the same person I was before. 

I was my Norse god namesake … wielding lightning or some shit. Now I’m a has-been in an entire family of superstars. 

“Odin?” Mom places her hand on my arm and I meet her eye.

I clear my throat and ask her to take me to the bathroom, just to have something to do. Mom presses her lips into a line. “Honey, you’re not supposed to get out of bed just yet. They have you…well, you don’t need to.”

I squint and look over my left shoulder at a catheter bag full of piss. I laugh. I can’t even control my own bladder right now. I am totally, utterly at the mercy of these machines and these experts. And I guess I haven’t been making any of my own choices for years. I eat what coach tells me to. I lift what another coach tells me to lift. I follow the rigid path toward the pros because that’s my legacy. That’s the plan. 

But not anymore. 

I sigh and reach for the clicker the nurse told me about, with my morphine drip. I click until the monitors start to beep and I fall asleep listening to my parents in hyperactive planning mode with a zillion different specialists huddled around my bed.