Dancing with the Varsity Bad Boy

Chapter 3

Violet's POV

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Parking up outside the house, I clamp a hand over my mouth as a muffled scream of agony is ripped from my throat.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid grl!

My hands shake, the sharp, stabbing, burning, throbbing pain in my knees, ankles, feet, wrists and fingers is excrutiating. My spine subtly throbbing along with them, the starts of a fibromylagia attack, a reaction to the arthritis pain sending eletric shocks through my body.

Stupid girl! Why the fu'ck did you push it? Why push your body so hard?

I'd spent an hour in the library and then headed to the studio classroom for us dancers to get some time in and figure out my Choreography assignment.

I'd stupidly forgotten to set my usual alarm, to make sure I stopped dancing after two hours. I'd over done it.

A fu'cking rookie mistake.

I grab my laptop bag, and hand bag and tip out the contents on the passenger seat, being careful of the laptop, but there's nothing, no morphine for me to take the edge off.

Sh'it, I'm out of pain meds!

I groan in frustration, and stuff everything back into my bags before grabbing my phone and calling my dad.

Rocking back and forth, I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap an arm around my legs, curling into a tight ball. It rings three times and finally my dad's voice comes through, warm comfort wrapping around me in a hug and the tears fall.

"Sweet pea, are you alright?" He asks, his concern evident and I already know I'll be recieving a lecture. But it doesn't stop my bottom lip from quivering, it doesn't stop the sob that builds in my chest.

"Dad," my voice breaks, a sob breaking free, tears running down my cheeks. I cry, too tired to fight it, too tired to control the raging emotions that break free of the damn and flood me, drowning everything out. All there is, is the pain.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong? What's happened, are you safe?" he asks again, his tone urgent and if he could, I know he'd crawl through the small device to hold me.

"I-I need m-my meds. I-I've run out," I stutter out, another sob breaking through.

"Oh, sweetheart, you know it'll take me a week to get it to you, Why didn't keep better track?" He asks, his tone exasperated with my lack of keeping better medication management. I've been so good for the past three years, but I've been so busy with my classes, and dance, and helping my roommates I forgot to keep track, forgot that I need this sh'it to live a semi normal life.

"I-I'm s-s-sorry," I sob again, the pain ripping through me to the point I scream through clenched teeth.

"Go grab an overnight bag sweetheart, no arguments. You're going to spend the night at the football house, I'm not having you manage this flare up alone," he orders, his tone broaching no argument and I'm far too tired to fight back, not caring that my secret will be exposed and I'll be vulnerable in a house full of men who wouldn't know how to help a person with chronic pain if a manual bit them on the ass. I knew he had asked the football team to keep an eye on me during my freshmen year, it's why they offered their big screen TV for me to watch my brothers games on. I didn't really mind, I've gotten to know a couple, other than the ass hat Mathews, and they're pretty chill dudes.

I nod, although he can't see me, tears streaming down my cheeks as I grab my bags, slowly climb out the car and hobble to the door, fumbling to unlock the door.

"Breath sweetheart, don't tense up. You can do it, take it slow, there's no rush," dad coaches me, keeping me focused on something, anything other than the pain that shoots through every movement. Another sob breaks out of me, more tears spilling down my cheeks.

I get into the house, and flick a light on. It's nearly 1:30am and the party next door seems to have come to an end, the street had been quiet.

Every step to my room is pure agony, sobs racking my chest as I push through.

"I can't do this," I cry out, unable to take another step my knees close to buckling.

"Yes, you can sweetheart, you can do this," he says, gently, his voice breaking on that last word. He hates hearing me in pain and being unable to comfort and help me.

With his voice, and gentle coaching I get to my bedroom on the ground floor, shuffling through the room, holding onto the walls to keep myself standing I gather enough clothing for a day or two, dumping it all in a duffle bag, uncaring if it's organised. Dumping my meds and everything I'll need to manage the pain in a side compartment of the duffle bag, I grab my laptop bag and sort out my backpack with tomorrows books.

"Got everything sweetheart?" Dad asks, I sniffle, hiccuping on a sob as another scream rips through me at the sudden jolt of pain up my spine.

"I-I g-g-got every-thing," I stutter out with a hiccup, and shuffle back through the house, grabbing a crutch I keep at home for such emergencies, I shoulder my duffle bag, another cry of pain escapes, my knees buckle, but thanks to the crutch I don't collapes to the floor. I write a shakey note for my friends in case they return earilier than expected and leave it where they'll find it so they'll know where to find me and why I'm there.

"Ok sweetheart, you can get to the football house, nice and slow, a step at a time, there's no rush." Dad continues to coach me, even as I sob, whimper, and scream.

"That's right sweetheart, why not sing for me? Singing helps," he says gently, and I quietly sing, my pitch wrong, and shaking but I sing.

"That's it, sing for me," he joins me as I sing, Savage Daughter by Ekaterina Shelehova, his voice breaking as I sob the words out, rather than sing them.

When I finally get to the football house, I know I'm going to look a right mess, and I'm in far too much pain to give a sh'it. Without thinking, I ring the doorbell, my dad now guiding me through singing The Game by Livington.

"Who the fu'ck is ringing the doorbell?" A familiar voice shouts behind the door. I grit my teeth, and ring the bell like a maniac, my finger now glued to the button until the stupid man opens the fu'cking door.

"Ok, Ok, for fu'cks sake!" They say and the door bursts open to expose a shirtless Jordan Mathews. I burst out in tears and hold my phone out to him. He stands there, staring at me, not moving, not helping, and the pain is getting too much.

"Young man, please take my daughter's phone and let her into your house, I'll explain everything," my dad says and that seems to jolt some sense back into the quarterback, he gently takes my phone and steps to the side, letting me shuffle in.

A blinding shock of pain explodes up my back and I buckle, a scream escaping. I scream again when my knees hit the wooden floor, my whole body shaking as fibromyalgia and arthritis go to war for dominance and their feild of battle is my body. My vision turns black, my body limp, and the last thing I'm aware of is footsteps thundering down the stairs, raised voices, and my dad's voice panicking over the phone, calling my name.

Then there's nothing and I sink into the blissful oblivion.