The tension coiled through my muscles eases, the boulders weighing me down falling away with the relief of the win and the knowledge that Adhira is still here and not puking her guts out on a bathroom floor.
And then she jumps to her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth and shouting my name. She waves her arms over her head, wearing the most intensely breathtaking smile I've ever seen, and it's like it cures me of an ailment I didn’t even know I’d been living with. I feel free and light and so goddamnworthy. It's a feeling unlike any other. And I bloody thrive off it.
Rafael claps me on the shoulder, and I barely manage to tear my gaze from Adhira.
“You did bloody phenomenal, mate!” Trey shouts through the roar of the crowd, ruffling my hair as he jogs by. I'm overwhelmed with praise and hugs from my teammates, each show of their affection solidifying my place on this team.
“Elliott, can I have a minute?” Coach Auclair asks, calling me over the same way he did on Wednesday, and my hackles rise. I feelgoodabout my performance. I don’t want anything he says to change that.
“Of course, Coach,” I say, jogging over to the sidelines. He greets me with a massive smile spread across his tanned, weathered cheeks.
He grips me tightly by the shoulders, wringing my body out with his strong hands. “I don’t know what was going on earlier today, but you absolutely killed it out there. Your mother is going to be unbelievably proud,” he says, beaming.
My smile must falter because he drops his hands to his sides, his expression morphing into a concerned scowl. “Is everything alright?”
I clear my throat, scratching at my sweaty neck. If he were anyone else, I wouldn’t tell him this. I'd brush it off as nerves. But it's Coach Auclair, and I know he'll understand better than most. “My mum called to let me know she had a breast biopsy the other day, and we’re still waiting on the results. Her GP is pretty confident it’s benign, but it’s been hard to clear my head since then.”
He sucks in a breath, and suddenly, his arms are wrapped around my body, pulling me in for a hug. I let out an airy laugh, though it’s hard to breathe with his grip so tight.
“You did damn well today, Elijah. You pulled yourself together, and that’s something to celebrate.” He releases me, and I drag in a few pulls of the humid air. “Now go wash your sweaty arse and do something fun.”
“Yes, Coach,” I answer, prepared to do just that when he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Please keep me posted about your mum’s results, if she doesn’t mind, okay?” he asks, his earnest blue eyes boring into me.
“I will. Thank you, Coach. For everything.”
I owe this man my entire career, and I’m determined not to let him down.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Seated in the quiet car,with nothing but the hum of the small engine and the low melody playing through the speakers, I should feel comfortable. But I’ve been trying to find the right words to tell Elise what’s going on, to let her in the way I know she wants me to, and the reality is that telling someone you love this kind of news is unbearable.
My breathing is borderline tachypnoeic, so I decide that sharing this when it feels like I’m dying and Elise is behind the wheel of a motor vehicle is not the right time. Besides, it’s a wonder how she even managed to get her licence. She’s a horrendous driver, and I’m a fool for agreeing to this. I don’t want to die in a car accident before I have the chance to kick cancer’s arse.
We should’ve taken the bloody bus.
Usually, I’m more than thrilled to sit in comfortable silence, but lately, we’ve been doing a lot of talking aboutme,and I need her to know I care about her life, too, even if I’m rubbish at showing it.
“How are you and Rafael doing?” I ask, chewing on my bottom lip as I stare out the dew-covered window overlooking the grey cityscape.
“We’re great.” I can hear the smile in her voice, my shoulders relaxing. “Still working out the logistics of the premier leagues and Olympic team tryouts, but we’re sorting through it. And grief counselling has been going well for both of us.” Her voice remains level as she flips her indicator, slowing to an incomplete stop before turning.
I hum, satisfied with her response. She’s doing well, has support, and is taking care of herself. At least when I tell her about my diagnosis, she’ll have that to ground her.
“I’m glad you convinced him to give it a shot,” I say, refusing to look her way.
“Me too. We’ve been talking about genetic testing for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes,” she says, her voice growing hoarse as if she’s just eaten an entire sleeve of biscuits without a single sip of water.
I look down at my lap, picking at my cuticles. “And how are you feeling about that?”
“I think it’s time. I’m going to work with a genetic counsellor first before I make the decision, but I’d rather know and have options than not find out until it’s too late or live the rest of my life in fear.”
“And if you don’t have it, hopefully that’ll give you peace of mind too,” I say, the words straining to crawl out of my throat.
I can’t tell her. Not now. Maybe not ever, but certainlynot now.
