Brad wasn't happy. Well, right now he was. But overall he was far from happy. His tumble down the stairs might've ended his soccer career. Career, Brad thought to himself, can it be called a career when you've never make a dime from it? Never even made it to the collegiate level. Whatever, he thought. Brad was taking this night for himself. Some chips, some dip, some Dr. Pepper and some of these wonderful pills he'd been given by the doctors.
What is Percocet?, he thought as he hobbled over to the couch. Brad had no idea but regardless — it was awesome. If he had to be on crutches with a soccer-less future looming ahead, they made it bearable. He wasn't even angry at his dad right now. Although, admittedly, it really wasn't his dad's fault. It was sort-of both of their faults — maybe even more his fault. Regarding that last idea, Brad wasn't ready to fully admit it — yet. He had more important things on his mind, such as: How good are good potato chips? His mom had gotten him Cape Cod chips from the good grocery store. Cape Cod sounds cool, Brad thought, as he got serious with a dark russet.
"Let's see what's on TV," Brad said out loud. Nobody else was home. Randy was in Costa Rica being a hippie. Mark was god knows where being a reformed mall goth. His parents were out to dinner with friends. And Uncle Marty and the girls were staying the weekend up Aunt Nancy's brothers cottage somewhere in the Upper Peninsula. Are they ever getting divorced?, Brad thought as he dive-bombed a chip into some onion dip. Not Brad's problem.
The injured soccer star flipped through the channels: USA, TBS, A&E. Nothing good was on. Hold up! HBO. Nothing. Damn!, he thought. He turned the TV off. The house was quiet. How good would some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups be right now? Before Brad could answer his own rhetorical question there was a knock on the glass door next to the dining table. Well, more of a bang than a knock. Well, actually, more of a loud bang rather than a knock.