“You don’t have the start tonight, remember?” he asks,frown deepening. “You don’t have to be nervous. You’re sitting the bench.”
I shake my head, but keep my mouth closed. Nate loves being the center of attention—he doesn’t care at all that there are thousands of pairs of eyes on him during a game. In fact, he thrives under the scrutiny. He plays better under pressure. He could never understand that even sitting the bench, the fact that I’m dressed out and the crowd is yelling and there’s a slim possibility of me having to play is enough to make me sick with nerves. With each game I feel worse and worse—everyone’s expectations pressing down on me as they watch and hope for another SCU team as good as the one Max Kuemper and Carter Morgan were a part of.
I hate this. I hate this so much.
“I’m going to be sick,” I repeat, standing up and taking a shaky step toward the bathroom.
I’m not familiar with this team’s locker room setup, and I don’t have time to go looking for a private bathroom or even take any of my gear off. Unless I want to puke in front of my teammates, I just need to get out of this room.
Vas frowns as I walk past, feeling unbalanced in my bulky goalie gear. Spots are dancing at the corners of my eyes when I make it into the bathroom. I gasp, tugging on the neck of my jersey and realizing there is no way I’ll be able to comfortably bend myself over a toilet with these fucking pads on.
A sound from behind has me turning around, thinking that Nate followed me in here. It’s not my friend but Desmond, trash can in hand as though he snatched it up from the locker room on his way. Now, I feel like I’m in danger of pukingandcrying. Why him, of all fucking people?
“I’m sorry,” I manage to get out, gasping and pulling on my jersey again. My heart is beatingsofast—skin clammyand head aching. I know I’ll feel better if I can just fucking throw up. Iknowit.
Desmond hands the trash can to me, pushing it against my chest guard until I wrap my arms around it. It’s small enough that I can hold it, and not have to try to get down on my hands and knees or bend over the toilet.
“Do you need to take this off?” he asks me, putting a hand on the back of my head and gently tipping my face down. “The sweater?”
“No,” I mumble, stomach roiling and face burning with shame. I pray for Nate to come in here and save me.
“Try not to be sick,” Desmond instructs, hand still cool on the back of my clammy neck. “Try to go through those breathing exercises we’ve been working on, okay?”
Closing my eyes, I attempt to do what he says. I try to ignore the rumble of the fans in the stadium, and the excitement from my teammates. I try to ignore the way my skin feels too tight, and my stomach feels like it’s inside of a blender. Mostly, I try to ignore the fact that Desmond still has his hand on my neck, and can probably feel how sweaty and disgusting my skin is.
“Do you want to sit down?” he asks. I shake my head, face still tipped low over the trash can even though I don’t think I’m going to be sick any longer. I can’t think of anything that would make this situation more embarrassing than actually vomiting in front of him.
“I’m okay,” I mumble into the trash can, sort of hoping that he’ll leave and I can die of embarrassment in peace. Of course, because I am just not that lucky, Desmond remains right where he is.
“Are you ill?” he asks. I don’t answer, so he follows up with another gently spoken question, “Nervous?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m not evenplayingtonight, and?—”
“Mick? You okay? We’re getting ready to head out for warm-ups,” Nate calls into the bathroom. I inhale sharply, taking a step away from the door as though there is any place in here I could hide. He’s going to come in here and get concerned and nothing makes me feel shittier than being a burden. I wanted him only moments ago, but now I don’t want to worry him.
“He’s right, mate. Head on out, and we’ll be right behind you,” Desmond calls back, voice calm. I look up at him over the rim of the trash can, face on fire when his eyes meet mine. He doesn’t look mad. After a pause, he adds, “You get sick a lot before games?”
“No. Just…just the last couple.” I pause. “Well…pretty much every game this season.”
“Okay.” He takes the trash can from me, placing it down on the floor, before going over to the sink and wetting a paper towel. Gratefully, I take it from him when he hands it to me, wiping my face. Crossing his arms, he leans back against the sink and regards me, eyes solemn.
“I know I shouldn’t be throwing up,” I tell him, because I do. I know why they monitor our diets, and weight so closely; why they want us to carb load, and up our water intake on game days. I know why it’s important. “But I just…I feel sobadright before a game, and?—”
“—throwing up feels good,” Desmond finishes quietly, unfolding one arm to rub a hand down the front of his face. “All right. We have to get out there, but how about you come do some washing this weekend and we’ll have a chat, yeah? Just me and you.”
“I won’t do it anymore,” I promise desperately, trying toget out of what will likely be a mortifying conversation. He just shakes his head.
“We’ll talk this weekend, okay?”
Miserably, I nod and follow him from the bathroom. He walks with me down the tunnel, not touching me but a solid presence nonetheless. The glaring fluorescent lights reflect off the smooth surface of the ice, bright even before we reach the end of the chute. I avoid Coach Mackenzie’s gaze as I take a step onto the ice, pulling my helmet over my burning face.
“Micky Mouse,” Nate says, skating up and colliding hard into my side before throwing his arm over my shoulders. He yanks our heads together, making me laugh. “You good? What happened?”
“I’m fine. Just nervous. Sorry.” I’m grateful for the way he’s pressed to my side, because it keeps me from having to turn my head and see his face.
“I tried to follow you, but Desmond told me to sit my ass back down.”
I laugh again. Thank God for Nate. “He didn’t say it like that.”
