This was written for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle!
The College Soccer Star
The shotgun reduces the ball to tiny black and white fragments of past tense.
It needed destroying. She believes that until she hears the thump of his crutches on the porch.
“What did you do?”
“Set you free,” she says. Her self-righteousness makes her stomach turn. Maybe she was wrong.
His eyes tell her she’s never been right. “Fuck. Just shoot me next.”
She thought Kandahar had taken him away, but it was always that ball, what it represented, what it made him. Men seeking glory never find it with women.
And, she’ll never learn to be a good crutch.