I don’t want to have something in common with her. I want her to be quiet. “All the time.”
She tells me a long-winded story about her boyfriend Ben playing with Marek and how she had a crush on him as a kid, yadda yadda. I remember Marek telling me she’s dating the team captain, Ben Antonov.
In the second period, I try to focus on Marek to distract myself from the noise and Mabel’s gabbing. I don’t think she even notices that I’m not responding to her. My headache gets worse, though, and when I rub my temples, she says, “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah! Fine. Just a bit of a headache.”
“Oh. Do you need something? I know Marek has Advil here.” She jumps up. “I lived here for a couple of months after I broke up with my last boyfriend. Asshole,” she mutters under her breath. “I’ll get you some.” She hurries off and returns with a small plastic bottle.
“I don’t like taking stuff,” I say. But I open the bottle and pop one of the pills, washing it down with water.
“Sometimes you just need to,” she says gently. “It’s better than suffering.”
She has no idea what suffering is.
In the third period, I lose track of the game, thinking back to the concert, remembering being on the stage singing my heart out, the love I felt from the crowd, and then the crashing noise and the screams. I close my eyes. Why do I let myself relive this shit? It’s like I want to hurt.
“Yeaaaaaah!” Mabel leaps up and thrusts her arms in the air.
I jump and let out a little scream of fright, then cower in on myself. My heart springs into battle mode with a wild beat.
Mabel rounds and stares at me. “What? Oh my God. Did I scare you?”
Trembling, I can’t even speak.
“Oh, Nikki.” She sits next to me where the popcorn bowl was and takes my hands, squeezing them. “I’m so sorry. I was excited. Marek just scored and we’re in the lead again!”
I stare at her. I don’t care about the game. It’s agame. I care about the heart attack I seem to be having. I pull in a shaky breath and try to nod. I pull my hands from hers and shift away from her, blinking rapidly, fighting the urge to jump up and run. “Fuck,” I breathe.
“What? What is it?” Her eyes dart over my face.
She seems so distressed I almost feel bad about doing this to her. But I’m kind of struggling to breathe, a quaking deep beneath my ribs. “Sorry,” I mutter, bending my head to my knees. “Just…”
Her hand rubs my back. I flinch and shrug it off.
I loved it when Marek touched me soothingly. I don’t want to be touched right now.
“What can I do?” she asks, an agitated note in her voice.
I roll my forehead side to side on my knees.
For a moment the only sound in the room is the hockey game, the play-by-play guy calling what’s happening on the ice. The roar of the crowd intensifies and then the horn sounds to end the game. “And the Storm win with a score of four-three tonight,” the announcer says. “Thanks to a game-winning goal by Marek Smits. We’ll talk to him in just a moment.”
Marek.
I want him here.
Oh, God.
I’m sweating. But I’m breathing. My heart isn’t exploding in my chest. I swallow thickly and then my water bottle appears in front of my eyes. I take it from Mabel, sit up, and drink deeply.
I let out a long, windy sigh. “Sorry,” I tell her. I swallow again. “This shit keeps happening.”
“I’m so sorry I triggered something.” She pushes her hands through her long wavy hair, her gaze bouncing around the room, eyelashes fluttering. “I’m so sorry.”
“I think I need to go lie down,” I mumble. “I’ll just… go to my room.”
She springs up. “Let me help you.”
