Coach Weber ends her brisk instructions with, “Scott. A word.” Everyone else takes it as a cue to leave, and in seconds I’m sitting in a sea of twenty-four empty chairs.

“Nice to meet you, Coach Weber,” I state, standing and walking to the front of the room. Remaining in the empty row makes me feel like I’m back in high school, getting scolded in after-school detention for not paying attention during class.

“You too, Scott.” The words are clipped, but genuine. “Your medical records arrived yesterday,” Coach Weber continues. “You’ve got six more days of recommended rest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I confirm. I couldn’t definitively tell you what day of the week it is, but I’m completely certain there are six days until I’m cleared to resume normal play.

“We’ve got a full team scrimmage next week. You’ll be starting.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep a broad grin from flashing. I sprained my knee nine weeks ago at a spring skills clinic. Needless to say, it scared the shit out of me. Despite my aggressive playing style, I’d never had a serious soccer injury before; certainly never one that threatened my future in the sport, that jeopardized my career. Soccer has always been a constant in my life. The one thing I take seriously and prioritize. The fear of losing it, coupled with terrifying words like “possible permanent damage” and “surgery,” has kept my normally reckless nature in check these past two months. I’ve followed every instruction to the letter: icing, compression, elevation. Except for my impromptu battle of the sexes with Adler Beck yesterday, I’ve also limited any movement to physical therapist-approved exercise.

“You’ll have to sit out today. I’ve got Kluvberg’s physical therapist waiting for you. She’ll look at your knee and talk you through some additional exercises. Tomorrow’s a film and weights day. We’ll take it from there on what you can participate in.”

“Okay,” I respond. I came in expecting this, and after watching Lancaster’s team practice without me for the past two months, I’m actually glad I won’t have to sit and watch the team run today. There’s nothing worse than sitting on the sidelines.

“Head down the hall. Last door on the left,” Coach Weber instructs.

“Okay.” I head toward the exit.

“Scott?”

“Yes?” I glance back.

“Looking forward to coaching you.”

I allow myself a small smile. “Looking forward to being coached.”

I head out into the hallway. The floor is cement and the walls are painted a cream color. It’s minimalistic, aside from the massive glossy photographs printed on satin paper lining the walls. They’re all action shots of players running, lunging, or mid-kick. It’s impossible to miss that one athlete is featured twice as frequently as anyone else.

I grit my teeth as I pass the tenth photo of Adler Beck.