The ball drifted under Ivan's racket as he swung at it, gliding down to the turf and bouncing off to the edge of The Cage. Ivan's posture and grip slackened, the excruciating pain he was in obvious to even the most uneducated bystander. He lowered his racket to the ground and kneeled down as Max walked up to the net. His opponent whispered something about stopping, and Max nodded.
"Look," Max offered, "Do you need me to get a doctor or something? I can go get the nurse now or a first aid kit if you need it."
Captain's orders
To be sure his team is in shape...
-
Pigeon Army†
- Posts: 232
- Joined: Sun Sep 02, 2018 6:17 am
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Pigeon Army. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
"No... no, I'm fine. No."
Ivan repeated it in the event that Max didn't quite get it the first time, pressing himself back up to his feet and doing everything he could to combat the pain. The fight to straighten his back was a vicious one but at least he was the victor over that, squinting his face in agony as he tried to maneuver his right shoulder back to where it should be.
"You're ready for the next meet. Good job. I need to go." With that bare-bones speech of congratulations, Ivan picked up his racket with his good hand, heading off to pick up the rest of his equipment. He didn't need anybody's charity, or anybody's help. This wasn't as bad as the first time he royally screwed up his shoulder, and as long as he paid attention to what that nurse's assistant said (Ivan repeated "Mr. Boh-me-A" in his head as rememberance), he would be fine.
((Ivan Kuznetsov, continued in Gotta Make the Grade))
Ivan repeated it in the event that Max didn't quite get it the first time, pressing himself back up to his feet and doing everything he could to combat the pain. The fight to straighten his back was a vicious one but at least he was the victor over that, squinting his face in agony as he tried to maneuver his right shoulder back to where it should be.
"You're ready for the next meet. Good job. I need to go." With that bare-bones speech of congratulations, Ivan picked up his racket with his good hand, heading off to pick up the rest of his equipment. He didn't need anybody's charity, or anybody's help. This wasn't as bad as the first time he royally screwed up his shoulder, and as long as he paid attention to what that nurse's assistant said (Ivan repeated "Mr. Boh-me-A" in his head as rememberance), he would be fine.
((Ivan Kuznetsov, continued in Gotta Make the Grade))
-
Pigeon Army†
- Posts: 232
- Joined: Sun Sep 02, 2018 6:17 am
Ivan tried to put Max at ease by saying he was alright, but his body language was certainly saying otherwise. The boy pushed himself back upright, wincing and giving little gasps as he did so. Then, with a minimum of fanfare, Ivan said to Max, "You're ready for the next meet. Good job. I need to go," before gingerly moving over to the rest of his equipment and leaving. Max watched him as he picked his way carefully around the Cage and off home, his face lined with concern for his captain. It wasn't going to do Ivan any good to keep doing what he did today, particularly given the tennis season was just picking up and they needed him in top form in a few weeks, but Max couldn't interfere, particularly as Ivan was pretty clear himself about what he could and couldn't do.
Max shrugged and walked over to his worn Wilson ball and picked it up, checking his watch as he did so.
5:37.
"Oh, hell," Max said. He had three minutes to get to the other side of the school to see his track coach about something. This'll be tight, he thought to himself as he bolted across the courts and out of the Cage, grabbed his equipment bag and sprinted off.
((Max Neill continued in A Few Administration Issues))
Max shrugged and walked over to his worn Wilson ball and picked it up, checking his watch as he did so.
5:37.
"Oh, hell," Max said. He had three minutes to get to the other side of the school to see his track coach about something. This'll be tight, he thought to himself as he bolted across the courts and out of the Cage, grabbed his equipment bag and sprinted off.
((Max Neill continued in A Few Administration Issues))
This is an archival account used by staff to port posts belonging to the handler Pigeon Army. While this handler hasn't been around in quite a while, should they return and wish to take custody of this account and/or its posts, they are welcome to do so by contacting staff.