Blood staining the center of the court kept Sebastian's attention as Hunter hit ball after ball to his side of the net. An earlier trip had sent Sebastian face-forward into the court. He'd scraped his arm on the way, bringing blood to the surface and ruining a sizable region of the acrylic. It wouldn't come up with water or soap, just wear and tear over time.
Sebastian couldn't stop staring at the soaked-in bloody mess. He felt like he had lost some of himself on the court.
His arm throbbed, his head hurt, and he was out of breath. Sebastian blamed the late drinking from the night before for his performance, but Hunter was playing perfectly fine, if not better than ever, and Hunter had drank and smoked just as much as he had.
Sebastian turned to face the green space behind him and placed his hands on his hips before pulling his shirt to his face. He wiped sweat away and took a few heavy breaths. A few seconds later, he felt the sharp wind of a tennis ball flying by his ear and turned quickly to face Hunter.
"Fucking stop,' he called harshly. "Do you not see that I'm turned completely around?"
"You're playing like shit,' Hunter called back. "If you're hungover, you're wasting my time. I don't need to be here."
"Serve, you piece of shit,' Sebastian responded, returning to a neutral spot on the court and bending from side to side. He watched Hunter toss yet another lime green tennis ball into the air before setting it straight towards him. The two volleyed back and forth for a few minutes, the first time that morning Sebastian had managed to keep the ball moving. After a few minutes of growing dehydration, he began to see the red in the center of the court more prominently, and then, the red behind his eyes.
Sebastian knew his physical limits, but he could feel Hunter's growing agitation. He needed to stop for a few seconds, grab a bottle of water and cool down. More accurately, he probably needed to go throw up all of the cheap vodka in his system, but he wasn't going to tell Hunter that (not that the boy couldn't already tell).
Sebastian had started that morning feeling fine, the curse of any good hangover. He had woken up giddy, still drunk and ready for the day. By the time they were on the court, he had begun feeling the sins of the night prior, but he knew there was no going back. Hunter had joined him bright and early, and he couldn't deal with being accosted by the former and his father, who would inevitably hear about the morning's debacle if Sebastian canceled abruptly.
"Give me a second,' Sebastian yelled, dropping to a slower shuffle between sets.
"If we stop, I'm going home. I don't have time to play stop and go with you,' Hunter responded, sending the ball flying. Sebastian nearly missed the volley, sending the ball off the court. He sighed heavily, the smell of alcohol still faintly on his breath. He grimaced.
Hunter served again, feverishly, and Sebastian chased to the left baseline. He over extended himself, tripping over his left foot with his right and falling at half court. He didn't feel it at first, but looked down to see his ankle twisted and his foot in a position that didn't look natural. Not broken, but surely mangled. He sighed, first in frustration, and then threw his racket in anger. Hunter walked over slowly from his side of the net, either in nonchalance or out of not knowing the severity of the injury.
As he approached, his eyes widened, and he let his racket fall to the ground. He squatted a yard away from Sebastian, looking over the latter's leg and letting go of a proper whistle.
"Your dad is going to kill you."
The staff at the country club wrapped Sebastian's ankle for him and, because he was still a minor, called his parents to pick him up. Naturally, he had pleaded with them not to call his mother or father. He was almost eighteen and extremely self-sufficient, but legally, they said, he shouldn't even be at the country club without an adult present.
His father arrived after half an hour. He walked into the nursing area to find Hunter leaning on a wall, his arms crossed and his mouth turned down. Sebastian wouldn't make eye contact but sat deflated on the edge of an observation chair. Emmett shooed away the attending nurse, closing the door behind her and sitting down on the wheeled chair she had been using.
He started immediately.
"Do you want him in here,' he pointed to Hunter.
"Doesn't matter,' Sebastian responded, still not moving or making any kind of eye contact with his father. He looked at his swelling ankle with spite.
"What happened?"
"I was going for a volley on the baseline. I either put too much weight on my left or shuffled with my right too fast, I don't know. It just… it was quick."
"It was quick,' Emmett affirmed, leaning back and looking over to Hunter. He squinted his eyes.
"You sent him a ball at baseline?"
Hunter cleared his throat, "He's good. I've never seen him get injured before. I mean, I don't want to practice doubles, if we're playing a singles game."
"You're not playing a game, Hunter. You're practicing. In fact,' Emmett pushed himself up in the chair. "You're not practicing, because you would rather spend your time lurking and prowling across town with the expectation that you're going to make something of yourself without any hard work or dedication. You're not practicing. You're here to help my son. You're here to support my son. Am I wrong?"
"No."
"So, if you're here to help my son perform better, be better, then why in the full fuck are you showing your ass on the court and getting him hurt? Are you trying to get a scholarship?"
"No."
"You trying to make the team?"
"No."
"Are you trying to make a fool of him?"
"No."
"Well, that's what it looks like to me. I walk into this room, and you've got a smug grin on your face with your arms crossed, leaning against the wall. My son is on this chair with a damn-near broken ankle, and you don't have a better excuse than 'he's never been injured before'. Are you trying to sabotage him?"
"No."
"I don't think I can hear you,' Emmett responded, putting a finger behind his ear.
"I'm not trying to sabotage Sebastian, Uncle Emmett,' Hunter said, picking at his cuticles. He was on the verge of tears. Sebastian sat stone-cold in the center of the room, afraid to breathe. He was scared of what his father would unleash on him, but, to his own chagrin, happy that there was someone there to share the guilt.
A wave of nausea rose over him. Quietly, Sebastian leaned back on the chair, the thin crepe paper crinkling beneath him.
"I'll tell you,' Emmett began, almost anecdotally. "My brother was the first to step in front of me,' he trailed. "Go home."
Hunter took no opportunity to apologize again or make conversation. He exited the room quickly, leaving Sebastian to fend for himself against the raging patriarch of the Smythe household. He was a quiet, contemplative man. Fully bearded and staggeringly tall, he was frightening to everyone who didn't know him and horrifying to those who did. A brilliant lawyer and powerful rhetoricist, there was no getting over Emmett Smythe.
You walk beside or behind elephants, but never in front, lest you end up underneath.
"Get up."
"Dad,' Sebastian began in a groan.
"Get up!' his father yelled back before Sebastian could finish.
The anger in the room was palpable.
Praying away the sickness in his stomach, Sebastian rose again, his head heavy.
"Can you walk?"
Pathetically, Sebastian nodded at the crutches in the corner. A gift from the country club.
Emmett stood up and grabbed the crutches. He held them in his hands, figurines compared to his stature. He began to hand them back to Sebastian before throwing them at the wall, past his son's head. They made a loud, shattering noise and fell onto the ground. Sebastian winced all the while long. He wanted to cry, but had hardened himself a long time ago against the abuses of his father. His eyes would redden and water, but he hadn't cried in a long time. He replaced the sadness and frustration with anger.
Hatred.
Like he had suggested to Savannah, he did his best to go along with what his parents wanted. They were easy to appease if everything was irreproachable, but even accidents were scrutinized. Even the screaming, fire-breathing pain in his ankle was a mistake. Sebastian felt claustrophobic and always afraid.
"What did she tell you? It was all muddled over the phone."
"She said it looks like I rolled it,' Sebastian began, trying to displace the severity of the situation. He knew that his father wouldn't take the word of a simple country club nurse as law, but he continued to soften the blow. "She said it should be back to normal in about two weeks. It just… depends on how much pressure I put on it. — That's why they gave me the crutches."
"Of course,' Emmett responded sarcastically. "How are you not more careful, Sebastian?"
"Sorry."
"What are you sorry about? Risking your shot of going to an Ivy on a full scholarship or having me come up here like a fool to pick up my son who can't even get from one side of the court to the other without tripping over his shoelaces? What are you sorry about, Sebastian? Speak up."
"I didn't trip over my shoelaces."
"I didn't ask you if you tripped over your shoelaces,' Emmett responded, his voice raising again. "I said 'what are you sorry about?'"
Sebastian sighed, deflated. His head throbbed like a drum on a set meter, he stretched out his hand and watched the pulsing of his veins over his long, bony fingers. "What am I ever not sorry about?"
Emmett looked Sebastian in the eyes, hovering for a few seconds before speaking. "You walk your ass to your car, and then you walk your ass in the house. I don't want to see those crutches, do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir,' Sebastian said, locking eyes with the ground again.
Shaking his head, Emmett placed his hands in his pockets and began to walk out of the room. At the door, he stopped and turned back to his son. "You don't practice with Hunter anymore, do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"I'll find you someone new… we're going to get you a coach, private lessons. Not here though. You've definitely ruined this club for the family, you and your cousin can congratulate yourselves on that."
Still cynical and much worse for wear, Sebastian fell back onto the chair after his father exited the room. The door shut loudly, the sound echoing across the white room like an unfortunately long and grim hymn. Out of pain, then frustration and, ultimately, embarrassment, he felt the welling of hot tears in his eyes and granted a few permission to roll down his cheeks. It had been so long since he'd felt the end of his father's provisional whip, but it still stung like it did months or years ago.
Sebastian tried to be perfect, his parents had to see that. He vowed to himself that he would never let his father down again, no matter how much work that would take: practicing every day, going to every social event his mother beckoned him join, continuing to believe Savannah was the problem that all the Smythe's couldn't solve or simply continuing to pretend he was anything like the caricature Tierney and Emmett had drawn him to be. He could do all of that, but he couldn't sit in front of his father and be berated endlessly without breaking more and more and more. Emmett had the full ability to turn Sebastian into the man he never wanted to be, and if he was going to be hardened, he wanted it to be by life. Not by daddy issues.
Biting the inside of his jaw, Sebastian turned his head towards the fallen crutches. When he stood, he considered leaving them in the corner for the nurse to find and come to her own conclusions. Instead, he picked them up and walked with them to his car. Of course, from there, he hid them in his trunk. It was a sin against his father, who he had just sworn to obey, but he knew the likelihood of him making a speedy recovery significantly diminished without the use of them.
If anything, the less Emmett knew, the better. That was a variation of the Smythe mantra anyhow.
