A small smile tugged at her lips. “You’re too good at this.”
“Practice,” I said, shrugging. “I’ve got my own shit.”
“Generalized anxiety disorder, I know. I may have read about it in that article you did withSports Illustrated.”
“Ah, you’re a fan.” I absentmindedly brushed my thumb over the back of her hand. “Anxiety attacks are never predictable. They happen before games, and sometimes after them, too. The crowds, the expectations. It gets loud—even before I could hear.”
She didn’t interrupt or rush to minimize it. She just watched, her eyes steady, like she was giving me space to decide how much I wanted to share with her.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?”
I shrugged.
“Is it—” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Is it constant? Or does it come and go?”
“Constant,” I answered without missing a beat. “But most days it’s just background noise, like music playing in another room. Other days, the volume gets turned all the way up for no reason at all.”
Her brows knit together. “What does that feel like?”
I leaned back against the headrest, eyes flicking to the rain-slicked windshield. “Like my chest is too tight for my lungs. Like my thoughts are sprinting and I can’t catch up.”
“I knowthatfeeling well.”
I laughed dryly. “It’s fun having your brain convince you you’re about to die when you’re literally just standing in line for coffee, isn’t it?”
She rolled her hand over in mine and squeezed.
“Do people ever tell you to just relax?” she asked.
“Oh yeah. Big fan favorite.”
Her mouth twisted. “Truly the worst.”
“But I get it,” I told her honestly. “For the people who have never felt it, it’s hard to understand how your own body could turn on you like that. That’s why it’s so important to me to talk about it when I can, especially with the kids and families at the Junior Roasters clinics. A lot of them deal with the same stuff—social pressure, nerves, feeling like they’re not enough. If I can show them it’s okay to have bad days or teach them a couple tricks for breathing through the panic, maybe it’ll help them feel less alone.”
Bella’s eyes softened, her fingers tightening around mine. “That’s really cool, Bennett.”
I shrugged, a little embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Just showing up, which sometimes is all somebody needs.”
She was quiet for a moment, absorbing my words. Then softly, “Does it ever scare you?”
“The anxiety?”
She nodded.
“Not as much as it used to. Ten years of therapy and medication have helped. I’m pretty good about knowing my limits now.” I swallowed my pride and added, “But when it sneaks up out of nowhere? Yeah, that does scare me a little.”
That was when she looked at me like she’d made up her mind about something. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
The sincerity in her voice hit me somewhere deep—deeper than I expected. She said it like I was offering a gift, and in a way, I was.
I didn’t talk about this stuff often. Not with teammates or dates, not even with my family most of the time. But with Bella, it felt . . . safe.
“I don’t talk about it much,” I said.
Her lips curved up. “I’m glad you did. And for what it’s worth, I just got an espresso machine. You know, for the next time you feel like the coffee line is too much to handle.”
I let out a low, surprised laugh, the tension in my chest loosening another notch. “You trying to bribe me with caffeine, Arabella?”
