Making people squirm with just a stare down was a specialty of mine. I liked how the uncomfortable feeling spread through them till they looked away. Mostly, I liked that words weren't needed to prove who had better mental strength.

But this barely adult punk was making me doubt my own abilities. I almost had a full decade on him, and statistically, it should've taken him less than a minute to cave. Statistically, he also shouldn't have lost a leg after his accident. So clearly, statistics was useless when it came to his life story.

Our staring contest would've lasted for hours had Tasha not smacked him upside the head. She jerked her chin in my direction as though telling him he owed me an explanation.

Oh, he owed me alright. More than just an explanation.

Jaylin sighed and tore his eyes away from me, mumbling a whatever.

The leather creaked as I shifted back in my seat, tapping the end of my pen on my desk. "Mind telling me what you were doing at the bottom of the pool? After closing?"

The bastard had the audacity to shrug. "Wanted to swim."

"While strapped to your wheelchair?"

He shrugged again.

"With rocks in your pockets?"

"I like collecting rocks."

I didn't bother to withhold my scoff. "Really?"

A slow, wicked smirk grew on his lips. "Shaming my hobbies?"

I gritted my teeth and forced a smile. "I would never." Then, after schooling my features back to normal, "Any other hobbies I should be aware of? Like trying to drown yourself after we locked the premises?"

It was his turn to glare at me. "I wasn't trying anything."

"Oh yeah? You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't give a fuck what you believe." He turned his glare to his lap. "And I don't try things. I do them."

Before I started my tirade, Tasha beat me to it. She shoved the side of his face and began hurling punches, slaps and shoves at him till Jaylin yelled, "What is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with you?" Tasha yelled back. "It's been two fucking months and all you've done is mope and crib and act like a fucking coward at every turn. So what, you lost your leg? Big fucking deal! Get the fuck over it. You haven't lost your life. You have a family that supports you, you have the facilities to help you get better, you still have the rest of your fucking body to help you heal and yet all you want to do is choose the cowardly way instead of working towards becoming better." She shoved him one more time. "Get a fucking grip. I'm sick and tired of seeing you like this."

I watched wide eyed as she huffed and sat back in her seat, crossing her arms.

No one spoke a word, and the charged atmosphere slowly dissipated as more time passed.

"Then don't," Jaylin whispered.

"Huh?" Tasha stared at him.

"You can leave any time. I won't stop you." He continued to talk without looking up. "Why are you even here? I don't need you to play the role of the woeful girlfriend. I don't need anything. I don't even have anything."

"Don't have any — What are you on about?" Tasha grabbed Jaylin's jaw and forced him to meet her stare.

"I'm a fucking cripple!" He yelled and smacked her hand away. "I have no future prospects, no ambitions, no leg, as you can very well see." His palm smacked the side of his stump in disdain. "So stop playing hero and go away. I don't need you. I don't need this fucking therapy, and I certainly don't need you." He pointed at me. "Now—"

"Let me end this shitshow right here." I scooted forward on the rolly chair and planted my arms on my desk. No future prospects? Where have I heard that before? "Don't know about Tasha, but you need therapy if you want that pain to go away. And you certainly need me if you want to walk again."

Jaylin rolled his eyes and accompanying that was a nice, little condescending scoff. "Yeah, right."

"Just you wait, Taylors. In another month, you'll get your prosthetic. And by the time I'm done with you, forget about walking. You'll be hiking, sprinting, mountain-climbing, fucking sky-diving for all I care. That, I can promise you."

I watched as Jaylin's eyes turned misty before he blinked the tears away. "And basketball? Can I play basketball again?"

"With time, you will."

He shook his head. "The NBA. Can I play in the NBA?"

I remained silent. He knew the answer to that very well.

He sniffled and rubbed his eyes. "Then what is the point of the rest?"

"The point is that you now have an entire array to choose from. Can't join the NBA? Big whoop. Lots of athletes with two functioning legs also don't get drafted. Where do you find them later? At the bottom of a pool? No. They move on. They find better uses of themselves."

Jaylin didn't say a word while Tasha smiled brightly with an I told you so expression smugly situated on her face.

"Since we've got that out of the way, I expect you back here at five pm sharp on Monday."

"Yes, sir," Tasha said. Jaylin just grunted. He didn't really have a choice. He'd be wheeled here against his will, anyway.

"Now, get out of my office before I get you locked up in a psych ward."

With them gone and dealt with—sort of—my working day officially came to a close. Finally. My feet were killing me, my back hurt, my eyes burned, and I had to wonder whether it was karma out to get me after spending all these years calling my old man old man.

Now, look who's the geriatric.

I opened my art page on the desktop and found that I had quite a few inquiries in my inbox. Something to busy myself with later. Perhaps before I participated in my second staring contest for the evening, if wanted some real progress.

I pulled my leg up and rested my cheek on my knee, idly scrolling up and down my inbox. I don't try things. I do them. If that fucker ever tried ending his life again, I'd save him and personally kill him myself. I'd almost had another heart attack just the previous night when Tasha called me saying Jaylin had nearly drowned. And then I'd almost barreled headfirst into a truck with how fast I was trying to get to them.

Jesus. I pinched my eyes shut. What was the point of all those surgeries when twenty-year-olds were out to shorten my lifespan?

With all the talk about having nothing and giving nothing, it reminded me of someone. A very specific someone.

"Wonder what he's up to these days."

The last time I looked him up, there were rumours about a transfer. Again. The life of a free agent, I supposed. Or the life of a player who couldn't wait to drop the gloves to kiss someone... with his fists.

A quick search confirmed that he was indeed transferred, and would you look at that, there was a rumour about another transfer.

"Are you trying to play for every single team in the NHL?"

And right below the rumoured transfer headlines was a nice 4K picture of him in the sin bin sporting a rugged black eye. The question I had was whether that shiner was from that game or a previous one. With Christopher Beckett, you could never really tell. He had a fascination with using his fists to prove a point.

But, really, what did it say about a sportsman if he couldn't keep his calm?

In cricket, he'd be banned from the sport for life. In hockey, on the other hand, it raked in more viewers, apparently. Maybe the league encouraged this behaviour.

More power to them then. What did I really know, anyway? I was just an ordinary physiotherapist at one end of the world, trying to make ends meet in any way I could.

I turned off the system, grabbed my bag, helmet and keys, and exited my office in desperate need of some alone time.

At the reception, I waved at Marisol. "Night night."

"Drive safe, Neil."

And that was hopefully the last of human contact for the next two days.

At home, freshly showered, I chewed on the end of a hand towel as I began my second stare down of the evening.

The lone bottle of whiskey on my counter seemed to mimic my stance of crossed arms and crossed ankles, daring me to provide my counter-arguments.

I still hadn't finished my last commissioned piece. Granted, it was a big one. My biggest till date and it was currently sitting on my living room floor. It was a psychedelic sketch of Vancouver's skyline post sunset. I was close to halfway done with the colouring. This piece didn't come as naturally as my other pieces. There were too many memories that resurfaced, too many emotions that flowed through my veins and bled into the colours on the paper. Bertaboy21 better be satisfied with it. Although, seeing how much he was ready to pay for it, I might allow him some room for critique. It wasn't everyday I saw that much green for just a sketch.

But I had the rest of the weekend to complete it. After all that drowning drama, I could use some drowning myself. Only, I'd like to find myself at the bottom of a bottle.

At the bottom of a grave, if you're not careful.

Ah, I had the teeny problem of my heart giving out that I conveniently ignored to take into consideration.

My phone buzzed, and I had half a mind to ignore till I saw Brij's name across the screen. Alright, he would be my last dose of human contact before I burrowed myself in my cave.

"Yo. What are you up to?"

I stared at the bottle some more. "Relaxing. Got home from work about an hour ago."

"So, you're free, right? Wanna hang out?"

"No. Where's Bethany?" Before he could answer, I continued, "Finally gathered her senses and left you, has she? More power to her."

"First of all, no one sensible will ever leave me. I'm a catch and the world knows it. She's out with her friends. Secondly, come over. You're free, I'm free, let's head out somewhere."

"I'm exhausted, so no, I'm not coming out."

That only served as a somewhat twisted invitation that I never intended to send out. "Then, I'll come over."

"No. I had a patient try and die on me. I'm so done for the night."

Silence followed, and I had to double check if the line was still on.

"Alright," Brij said. "No explanation needed whatsoever. Everything makes total sense. Nice."

I sighed. "I got this kid last week. Accident about two months ago. Completely shattered tibia. Doc had to make a quick call, and amputation was the route."

Brij hissed from the other end. "Jeez, was there a chance for reconstruction?"

See, these were the questions no one wanted answered. There could've very well been. We'd never know now."Does it matter?"

"So, this kid... Tried to off himself?"

"Yeah. NBA prospect..." More silence. Brij and I saw cases like these almost on the daily. Didn't mean a little bit of our hearts didn't chip away each time. "Kid somehow broke into the pool at the facility and tried to drown himself. Strapped himself to his wheelchair and everything. His girlfriend sounded the alarm and hauled him up herself before he could've done any lasting damage." I huffed. "He was pissed. Probably thought the third time's the charm."

"Three times? Fuck. Why isn't he locked in yet?"

"Maybe because none of us have actually called it in." I rubbed at my face, exhausted from second guessing all my decisions. "I don't think he actually wants to kill himself. If he did, he'd have succeeded by now." Jaylin was nothing if not tenacious. Like he said, he doesn't try. "He's just scared, and all the pity surrounding him is not helping."

Brij laughed. "Lucky for him, that's the one thing he definitely won't get from you. Sadistic bastard."

Yeah, coddling was not my style.

"Anyway, I called to remind you of the potluck tomorrow. You forgot, didn't you?"

My palm instinctively reached up to slam into my face. Fuck. "No. I remember." Yes, I forgot.

"Good. You're bringing desert. The theme is Spring Fling, so plan accordingly. Don't just dump Ben & Jerry's into a fancy Tupperware. I'll send it back and make you redo it."

And there went my burrowing plans for the near future. "I'll make lemon bars."

"Oh, that's nice. With butter cream frosting, please."

Over my dead body. "Good night, Brij."

I switched off my phone for added measure and flung it on the counter beside the whiskey.

Potluck? The fuck? The last time I went to a potluck was when I was a teenager and my parents had dragged my sister and me to one of those mandatory community bonding get togethers where everyone played nice by exchanging back handed compliments. Oh, did you get a new paint job for your car? It looks wonderful, also why is it always parked in my spot? Potlucks were like adult playdates. Synchronised, orchestrated and carried out to perfection. Where was the spontaneity, the rush, the thrill of making plans on the go?

That all disappeared when everyone around me started pairing up. Why bother with spontaneity when there was domestic bliss to be enjoyed? Arya and his violinist were buying property together now. If that didn't scream we're in this together whether we like it or not, nothing else would. Brij had Bethany, Jessica was pregnant with baby number two, Syama, after all his moping, finally got a man of his own now, Clarissa got hitched just a couple of months back and the wedding day drama was still simmering.

The world moved on, just like it always did, but someone had clamped my wheels and I was forced to remain rooted. I was in a good place. Really. I had a good job, good pay, a good apartment. My savings were decent, and even my health had finally settled—apart from the sudden flare-ups, but even those were in between long intervals—which was truly a blessing. I shouldn't have to have stare downs with a fucking bottle every night.

I gave a cursory glance to the strewn pencils around the half-done Vancouver skylight. With half the weekend occupied, I needed to make some progress on it tonight if I wanted to meet the deadline. My head hung back as the dark, silent apartment reinforced my crippling loneliness.

I grabbed the bottle and moved towards my room. Who said you needed a partner to enjoy domestic bliss?