He lowers his head beside my ear. “You’re easily the most focused player on this team and a valuable asset, but you’re playing like you don’t know your head from your arse. Tell me what’s going on so we can get it sorted.”
My jaw clenches. “I—” I hesitate, unsure how much to divulge to him and wishing I could bask in his compliment.
“I’m waiting, Elliott.”
“I brought one of your daughter’s friends to the game, and”—I clear my throat—“she’s been missing from the stands for a while.”
“Which friend?” he asks.
“Adhira Shah. She and I are actually flatmates, thanks to Elise.” I shift on my feet, working hard to keep my gaze on him while resisting the urge to avoid seeing whatever emotion my admission might earn.
His brow pinches. “And do you have any reason to believe she hadn’t just got bored and left?”
How do I answer that without telling him something she might not want him to know? “She’s been throwing up a lot the last couple of days.”
“Did you get her bloody pregnant?” he asks, and my eyes grow so wide they might fall out of my head.
“Wh-what?” I stammer, sweat trickling down my temples.
“You said she’s been throwing up. Is she pregnant?”
Well, hell, I hadn’t even thought of that! I guess it’s better than where my mind had originally gone to, but my gut twists with the notion of her being pregnant with someone else’s child, for some inexplicable reason.
“N-no, Coach. I–We’ve never?—”
He straightens, giving me a terse nod before saying, “Go find her. Sven will fill in while you’re gone.”
I don’t wait for further instructions, my feet dragging me up the pitch as I ignore my teammates' worried glances. I sprint through the locker rooms and out to the concessions, finding no one in line.
What if she got sick or overheated and she’s alone, feeling like absolute shite, and it’s all my bloody fault?
My pulse skyrockets at the thought. The options narrow as I check the toilets, banging on every door, and startling a mum and daughter as they leave the loo. “Sorry!” I yell, running downthe corridor, my cleats hammering against the concrete as I find my way to the last set of ladies’ toilets closest to where Adhira was seated.
The door is locked, which shouldn’t be the case, considering there are multiple stalls inside. I bang on the door, my anxiety ratcheting up as I hear the unmistakable sign of Adhira emptying her stomach, a sound I’ve grown all too familiar with as of late.
“Adhira, I know you’re in there. Open up!” I call, but of course, the only response is the sound of her retching.
I find a custodian and plead with her to open the door. She does after I explain the situation, but only after popping her head inside and ensuring my story adds up.
I slip inside, shutting the door behind me and relocking the bolt.
Her trainer-clad feet are visible beneath the door of the largest stall at the end. The retching has stopped, but her moans of pain have not, and fear grips me, tight in my throat like a pendulum.
“Adhira, can you open the door for me?” I ask softly, hoping not to spook her.
I wait a beat, hearing a groan, and I bend to peer under the stall as she struggles to push herself up, only to sink back onto her knees.
“No,” she says, her words a mix of anguish and frustration, and the sound nearly brings me to my knees. “I can’t get up,” she whispers, her voice cracking, as does my heart.
“That’s okay. Just give me a minute to figure this out.”
I weigh crawling under the partition and risking scarring myself for life—left unable to ever use a public toilet again—climbing over the top of the stall, or breaking the door down.
I elect for the latter because it’s the least likely to end with my head banged up. I’ll pay for the broken lock after the match.
“Don’t move, Adhira, I’m coming in.”
I hear her scoff. “If I couldmove,I wouldn’t be waiting for you to get in here.”
