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I hear the rain before I feel it; the quiet rustling sound calms me and makes me think I'm still dreaming. I open my eyes slowly; they hardly have time to focus before misting over again with tears. What happened wasn't a dream; I tore the only person who ever meant anything to me out of my life. I want to make an excuse, to make myself feel better by saying that what I did was for the best, but the suffocating sadness refuses to abate.

I fade in and out of consciousness as the icy rain gets stronger; somehow, I find the strength to stand. I prop myself against the edge of the bleachers wall and make my way out of the stadium. Fortunately, my car is parked close to the entrance; my feet wobble uncontrollably, but I make it over to the car and get in. It feels as if I've been running for miles; my heart is beating right out of my chest and I'm panting uncontrollably. I want to just fall asleep in the car, but something pushes me to start the engine. I shake my head to try and clear the dizziness, but it doesn't seem to work too well. Any time I get some sort of mental clarity, I can think of nothing but Arden; I want him back. I want him more than I ever have before.

Every time I pine for him, I discover newer and newer layers of love that I'd taken for granted; underneath that feeling of warmth that the mere thought of him could generate is something more; it is a feeling of completeness. Before I met Arden, I was the last person to buy into the whole 'soul-mate' theory, but now I understand. Whenever I... was... with him, I never found myself wanting anything else. He was the center of my world, and for whatever reason, he had made me the center of his. I only hope that we can both move on; I don't care if I ever find anyone else, but Arden deserves to....

"Shit!"

The car is already off the road by the time I snap out of my daze. It's gathering speed down a steep, muddy incline; I try to steer it back onto the road, but the rain has eroded most of the firm soil, and I'm not getting any grip at all. The car lurches around wildly as I battle with my fading consciousness and the steering wheel. The brakes don't help much either; flooring them only causes the car to spin on its side and flip...

I watch the whole scene in slow motion. The world spins around and around, each half-turn proceeded by a head-splitting crunch as the car bounces rolls down the hill. The last thing I feel is a searing pain in the back of my skull as it makes contact with a blunt object...

***

The white light is all around me; its presence warms me to the very core. I don't know where I am, but it doesn't really matter. My whole body feels light as a feather, my mind feels even lighter; I can't think of a single unpleasant thought at the moment. This mental and physical freedom is like a breath of fresh air. As I float around this endless ether, a voice from far away reaches out to me.

"...Get the saw, we need to cut the door..."

I try to follow it, but it constantly changes direction. Just as I think I've finally found its source, the voice slips from my grasp, leaving me in the nothingness again.

"...I need thirty CCs of Hydrosine, stat..."

The voice is clearer now, I can almost reach it. Just as I move my paw towards it, a blinding pain shoots through my entire body, I pull away, but the pain doesn't stop.

I scream out.

"...Alright, close him up..."

The white light begins to fade; darkness falls all around me.

My sense of touch returns first; I can feel the soft fabric of cotton sheets.

Sound slowly begins to filter into my brain; it starts out as a dull vibration, materializing slowly into the soft murmur of voices.

"I got here as soon as I could." I recognize my father's voice, he speaks quickly in a hoarse whisper.

"He's fine, Mr. Heeley," a female voice responds. "He came out of the operating room several hours ago, his condition is stable."

"I want to see him!"

"I will go check on him, sir. If he's awake, I will admit you."

I'm not sure I want to see my father right now, but I feel horribly guilty for making him worry so much.

It's tough, but I force my eyes open.

"Mark, are you awake?" A tall fox wearing a nurse's uniform walks in.

"Yeah." My voice sounds dry and weak, I almost don't recognize it.

"Your father's here to see you." She walks out for a few moments and comes back with my dad.

"Mark!" He runs in and embraces me. The embrace is powerful but cautious; I realize then, that one of my arms is in a cast and there are several stitches running down the other. Whatever meds they have me on must not have worn off yet because I can't feel a thing.

Dad clearly wants to say more, but seeing me must be to be so overwhelming that he just sits by my bedside and cradles me in his arms.

I manage to croak out a single word. "Dad."

He looks me in the eyes and smiles weakly. "Thank God you're okay, Son."

I hold him close as I begin to drift out of consciousness; the light from the doorway illuminates his tear-filled eyes...

***

'Well, if you're so tired, maybe you should find yourself someone else!'

The phrase reverberates in my head, as I'm thrown back into consciousness.

"It's okay, Mark." For a fleeting moment, I mistake the voice for Aden's. I cling to the fading illusion as wakefulness sets in.

My eyes open slowly and I see my father. He's holding my paw, concern etched deep across his tired features.

"I'm fine, Dad." I smile and sit up slowly. He helps me out by putting my bed into a sitting position.

He looks me over, probably debating on when to begin the interrogation.

I decide for him. "I lost him, Dad."

"Who?" He knows the answer, but I humor him.

"Arden." Again, the memories flood my nervous system, making speech difficult. "I don't- I don't deserve him."

"Son, why would you say that?" The compassion in his eyes only saddens me more.

"He deserves someone who can be open; someone-" I break down. Just thinking of Arden with someone else tears away what little emotional support I have left.

"But he loves you!" He still doesn't understand.

"I know." I manage to choke out. "He shouldn't. He... he should love someone who can give him what he wants." I'm getting hysterical now; the hot flush of embarrassment creeps up the back of my neck, but I just can't help myself.

He cradles me in his arms again and gently pets my head. This whole situation takes me back some thirteen years; Mom and Dad used to fight a lot when I was younger. She would storm out of the house and leave us behind. I didn't understand what the fights were about, but it didn't stop me from crying. Dad would find me sobbing under my blankets, hold me and pet my head.

"It'll be okay, Son," he whispers to me just like he did all those years ago. Back then, I believed him; I believed that everything will turn out all right. Now, I'm not so sure. Despite all this, I begin to calm down. He continues to hold me until I stop crying.

We spend the rest of the day in relative silence; he stays by my side the entire time.

I keep expecting him to ask about the car, to scold me for driving in my condition, but the subject just doesn't come up.

"I'm sorry about the car, Dad." I can't take the silence any longer.

"The car?" He actually laughs. "Mark, I almost lost you; who cares about the car!?"

"I shouldn't have driven." I almost want to be scolded. "I just didn't know what else to do."

"You did what you did, and thank God everything turned out okay." He sighs - with sadness or relief, I can't tell. "I should have been there for you. I've pulled all my business trips for the next few months to spend more time with you."

His phone rings, temporarily halting our conversation. He picks up. "Hello? Oh, hey Warren."

He glances at me before continuing. "No, I can't tonight. Mark's in the hospital. No, no, he's fine."

"Dad, you should go meet him." I feel nothing but guilt for tying up my father to the point where he feels like he has to spend his every waking hour with me.

"Are you sure?" He surveys me with uncertain eyes.

"Yeah, I'll probably just sleep or watch some TV."

"Okay." He hesitates briefly and then picks up the phone again. "I'm back; it's fine, I can go."

They talk for a while longer before he hangs up.

"He invited me to dinner." He has a hint of a smile playing on his muzzle. Seeing that I noticed makes him look down guiltily.

He clearly doesn't want to take my mind back to relationships, but it drifts there anyway. I choke up again, but manage to force myself through it. Just because I've lost something, doesn't mean I should make everyone else feel bad about still having it.

I decide to fix things while I still can.

"Dad, I don't want you to feel like you have to hide your relationship with Warren from me."

His eyes widen slightly; he's clearly been trying to sneak this by me. "I'll get over my loss." That's probably a lie, but it seems to make him feel better.

"Son, I won't question you anymore on this, but you are strong for making the choice you made." He sighs, probably recalling his own decision from all those years ago. "Just don't let it haunt you. No matter how much you loved him, life goes on; let it. Trust me, dwelling in the past is just about the worst thing you can do."

"Thanks, Dad." We embrace once more and he gets up to leave.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning to check up on you." He waves goodbye and walks out.

Once again, I'm left alone with my thoughts.

As difficult as it may be to admit, Dad's right. I made the decision to let Arden go; in that one brief moment of clarity, I saw just how undeserving I was of him; I saw just how much I held him back. Thinking back on it, I almost wish I loved him less; if I did, I would have focused on my needs and simply ignored his pining for the freedom that I would never be able to provide for him.

"Mark, are you hungry?" The nurse brings me back to reality.

It takes me a few moments to process what she said and come up with an answer. I've had so much on my mind that the dull ache and rumbling at the pit of my stomach had gone completely unnoticed.

"Yeah, I... I guess I am"

"Good!" She smiles at me and folds a table out of the side of my bed.

A few minutes later, she returns with a plate of chicken and mashed potatoes.

I eat mechanically while she watches me.

"I overheard you talking about your boyfriend. I guess that explains the stress-induced cardiomyopathy. Your heart-"

"Ex," I cut in; it's finally dawns on me... ex.

"Yes..." She pauses, looking distinctly uncomfortable, but continues anyway. "How do you think he feels?"

"I-" I can't finish my sentence; I had a rebuttal prepared for every question she could ask... except for this one.

The one argument I had; the one thing I managed to convince myself of - my selflessness in this decision - crumbles into dust. In my attempt to be selfless, I selfishly forgot to consider how my decision might impact others.

"It's for his own good." My last standing defense. "He can do better than me."

"Does he know this?"

Damn her! Why does she have to take every defense I prepare and expose all its faults? I'm only scolding her for being right to avoid scolding myself for being wrong, of course.

"He's in love." I wonder just how true this statement is in its present tense. "He doesn't know any better. He'll realize I was right when he finds someone else."

"Does he want to find someone else?"

"How the hell should I know?!" I don't know whether it's the physical or the emotional part of yelling that hurts more at this point.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles and starts walking away.

"No, no. I shouldn't have raised my voice." She may be a complete stranger, but she cares - a trait that separates her from most of my closest friends. "I just- I don't know how he feels."

I tell her about our fight at the track. Reliving those painful moments hurts a little less each time. She listens quietly and attentively; I do my best to keep my emotions out of the story, but fail miserably. By the time I finish, I'm in tears again.

"He said he was tired of hiding," I sob. "I realized then that I just can't keep up with him. I'm as tired of hiding as he is; the only difference is: he doesn't have to hide."

I tell her about my life, about how Chris has put things into perspective before it was too late.

"I've known Chris my entire life; we've always looked out for each other."

"How does he know all these things?" She tilts her muzzle slightly. "He seems to know an awful lot about your future. I mean, I know you've known him longer than Arden, but what makes you believe him over your... ex-boyfriend?"

"Chris has told me some things Arden said... he wants to make me come out, whatever it takes." I remember those words again; it's so unlike Arden to say them, but the accusation he made against Chris just screams desperation.

"Yes, and Chris seems to be doing whatever it takes to make you stay in the closet."

I never really thought about it this way, but it's true. Chris claims that he only wants me to be happy... but so does Arden. How far would Chris go to keep me in the closet? Further than Arden? I know that Arden doesn't have any other motives; does Chris?

"I'm sorry I've brought up so many questions, Mark." She looks at me momentarily and then shifts her gaze back to the floor.

"No, it's okay. You've made me think about a lot of things. Thank you."

"My pleasure." She smiles. "Now go on, eat your dinner before it gets cold."

I follow her advice and dig in.

The chicken is a bit dry, and the mashed potatoes could use more gravy. I find myself comparing the meal to one of Mrs. Halinen's creations and sigh. She and Mr. Halinen have been like parents to me these past few months; I just hope they can forgive me for what I've done.

The nurse sees that I'm lost in thought again. "I'll leave you alone," she says, heading for the door.

"Wait. I don't even know your name."

"Oh, I'm so sorry." She turns around. "My name's Sally."

"Thanks for all your help, Sally." I hated her quite a few times during our conversation, but in the end, she's helped quite a bit.

"Don't mention it." She smiles a bit more broadly than before. "If you want to talk some more, just let me know."

I nod. "I will."

She walks out and closes the door.

So this is it, then; the vivification of my internal struggle is complete. There's the side of me that wants to be out to everyone, the side that wants to slink back into the closet, and the side that tries to find balance. Something about finding that third piece of the puzzle makes me breathe a little easier; it lessens the strain from the constant tugging of the other two and gives me an unbiased perspective on both. Although, since I've already made my decision, it really doesn't matter.

My stomach growls again, reminding me of just how hungry I am.

I pick up the fork and attack the chicken, putting my thoughts on hold.

Once I'm done eating, I put the plate to the side, fold the tray-table and lay back in bed.

For the first time since I realized my arm was in a cast, I take stock of my injuries.

I run my unbroken paw along the numerous scars on my torso, wincing in pain when I touch one of the ribs. I can't quite tell if it's broken or not, but it sure hurts like it.

My self-examination leads me to the one question I haven't asked myself yet: how will this affect soccer?

As I run my paw further down my body, I begin to wish that I hadn't. My leg is in a cast; I check it numerous times, even lifting the sheets so I can see it with my own eyes.

The irony of my situation makes me chuckle; the chuckle slowly builds to a laugh. I gave up everything to pursue soccer; and now, I'll be out of practice for at least a month, maybe more. It's as if fate is mocking me for my decision. I guess I really have gambled and lost; how fitting.

"Mark, is everything okay?" Sally walks in. She must have heard the laughter.

"Just loving the irony," I say, pointing to my broken leg. "How long 'til this comes off?"

"Six to eight weeks." She's still slightly cautious.

"Don't worry, Sally, I'm not going crazy or anything."

She doesn't look too convinced, so I change the subject. "How long 'til they release me from the hospital?"

"We'll keep you here for a few more days to monitor your concussion, and then you'll be free to go."

"So, what are the chances of me getting the cast off early?" I'm not hoping for a miracle, but there's no harm in trying.

"Slim." She walks over to the bed and examines my medical chart. "Your leg is broken in two places; six weeks is the bare minimum for injuries like this."

"Great," I mutter to myself, "I'll be completely out of shape by the time I get back on the field."

"Well, there is one way for you to keep in shape..."

At this point, I'll go for anything. "And what's that?"

She shrugs. "You could try swimming..."

My laughter drowns out the rest of her sentence.