The hot water trickled out of the foggy metal faucet creating a pool of steaming soapy water. As the water touches my skin, goose bumps form up and down my arms. My legs ache and my shoulders are tense. Tomorrow all that hard work and conditioning will finally prove useful. My mind begins to race about all the exciting events this week. The softball game against Andrews should be any easy win, and the closing weekend of the musical will be interesting. The razor hugs my skin with a soothing lavender scent. I always shave my legs before every meet. I like the way the smooth skin feels. As I step out of the now murky water, I grab the off white colored towel from the cabinet, and dry off my legs. As my hands move down my calf, I feel a patch of hair that I must have missed earlier. Even though it bothers me, I’m too tired to go back and fix it. So I finish drying off with the towel and I wrap it around myself. After I change into my sleepwear, I try to dose off, trying hard not to think about the horror movie I’d watched last night. So I tried to think of that book I finished instead. What was the name of it? Gone? No, something safer. Safe house maybe? No, that’s closer, but not right. Then the night set in, and I fell asleep. The next day flies by in a blur of math equations and musical numbers. Then everything slows down, and we are on a grass field surrounded by a ring of black rubber. We sit on the ground, stretching our muscles. My hands run down my right leg as I lean forward. I feel that small patch of hair on my knee. I frown, and my forehead wrinkles. “Line up.” A close voices commands. The heat beats down on us as we begin to be dynamic, or so they call it. Sweat starts to bead around the corners of my eyebrows. “High knees!” a voice booms. We take off, one knee after the other. Left, right, left right, left, crack. There’s a long pause before anyone notices. The pause is followed by short spurts of laughter. The tears begin to form. I sit up, and look for the source of the cracking sound. My eyes find my right foot instantly, but the thing next to it is unrecognizable. In an effort to avoid the pretzeled mesh of flesh and bone, they take my shoe off. A piercing shriek makes its way from the pit of my stomach, to the lips of my mouth. The laughing abruptly ends, and all eyes are on the crooked mess. “Don’t move a muscle.” A member of the coaching staff orders. “From the looks of it, there aren’t any left to move.” My taller teammate giggles nervously. Daggers from all directions pierce his vision. His head falls, and his hands go inside the pockets of his name brand hoodie. In an effort to lift me and my mangled foot off the ground, two arms fold under and fill the gaps beneath my underarms. I feel the weight of my own body almost double. Within a few seconds we are all wobbling our way to the cheap and rusted metal bench. I feel the chill of the metal meeting the skin of my bare legs. In that moment my mind left the commotion happening on the ground in front of me. I noticed something I hadn’t before now, the little league baseball game being played on the other side of the field. I remembered how much I’m looking forward to the softball game this Friday. My faced turned to stone. Shit, shit, shit. My eyes darted down to my ankle. No, this can’t be happening. Then I remember the musical on Saturday. No, this was my first big chance to make a good impression. To prove I could stand the pressure of the stage and the field. And now I’ve thrown all that away on what? A dynamic attempt to prevent pulling a muscle? I refuse to accept this. I try to stand up, and I collapse under the pain. As my bottom lands back on the bench, the confused eyes from my fellow teammates are answered with my wails. “No! This isn’t fair!” I shrieked, unintentionally sounding like a spoiled brat. After realizing I had sounded like I didn’t get the pony I wanted for my tenth birthday, I shut up. As the hour passes, and the pain worsens, word reaches me that the athletic trainer is no longer on campus. My head drops, and I can’t help but notice all the imperfections in front of me: the uneven white lines on the gold and black football field, the chips in the asphalt on the surrounding track, the patch of hair on my right knee, and that foot. That horrible looking mess of a foot. I thought of all the things I could have done to prevent this. I could have chosen to lie out of dynamic warm-up, or just been more careful with my steps. But at this point there was nothing that I could fix. Nothing left to do. Nothing but shave that patch of hair on my right knee.