Or rather, the absence of her. The worry she’s still not okay. The flash of her injured wrists in my head on repeat. The image of her in my bed, not the way I imagined, which—fine, I imagine it a lot—but tied up and scared out of her mind? Not part of the fantasy.
Tied up, maybe.I shake the thought from my head, because it’s more fucked up than I care to lean into after finding her like that.
I have this unshakable feeling that there’s something she’s not telling me, and the overwhelming need to protect her from whatever it is.
She swore she was fine. Swore she’d see the trainer and have them treat her injuries, but I don’t think she did.
I can’t fathom a reason in existence for why she’d want to keep any of this a secret, because my first instinct was to report everything to an adultier adult. Campus security. Our coaches. Anyone with a clipboard. But I, unfortunately, will do anything she asks of me without many questions asked in return.
The days after blurred together. Class, practice, study, repeat. She kept her head down and didn't miss a single thing. Showed up early to lifts, crushed drills. But the elephant never left the room. She didn’t talk about what happened. Not to me, not to anyone that I know of. Just kept pushing forward like sheer force of will could erase it.
So, yeah. No mental prep for me today.
Just worry.
And now? Game time.
I’m halfway into my jersey, tugging it down over my chest, when Luca throws an arm across my shoulders. “Head on straight today?” he asks, which is code forget your shit together, or we’re going to lose.
I nod. “Fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m still your best shot at keeping the goal clean, so maybe trust that I’ll use my issues to my advantage? We don’t have time for a therapy session.”
He backs off, muttering something in Spanish that I’m pretty sure translates to “emotionally constipated dick.”
Warmups are a blur. The opposing team’s midfielders are smug and fast and already showing off.
The whistle blows. We start.
And for a little while, it’s muscle memory. The rush, the angles, the patterns. I block two clean shots in the first twenty minutes and nearly start to believe I’m back on my game.
Then I see her.
Blake. On the sidelines. She’s in her warm-ups, sleeves shoved to her elbows, a water bottle dangling loose in her hand. Her ponytail’s pulled high, strands already coming loose around her face, and she’s laughing at something one of the athletic trainers says. The sight knocks me sideways harder than any player on this field could. I should be tracking the ball. Instead, I’m tracking her. Every tilt of her head, every shift of her weight.
She's watching me.
And just like that, I’m toast.
The next shot’s a bullet from inside the box. I react late, dive too far left, and get a cleat to the ribs for my effort.
Collision. Pain. Whistle.
I roll over, coughing once, just to see if my lungs still work, and blink up at the trainer. I’m fine. Goalies don’t go down unless something’s actually wrong, and even then, we shake it off. Not like the strikers who act like they’ve been shot every time they get clipped by the toe of someone’s boot.
Not likeChase, who once limped for a week after stubbing his toe on the leg of one of the benches.
“You okay, Keller?”
“Define okay,” I grunt out.
“You’re not dying?”
“Not yet.”
They help me up. Blake’s face is pale against the backsplash that is the crowd, and it’s all I see.
