I'm off my game. My passes are sloppy. My shots are weak. I can't focus on the plays.
Coach blows her whistle and skates over. "Webb, a word."
I follow her to the bench while the rest of the team continues drills.
"What's going on with you?" she asks bluntly.
"Nothing, Coach."
"Don't bullshit me. Did you get taken over by a pod person?”
“A what?” I ask with confusion.
“Your head's not in the game." She crosses her arms. "Is this about that photo I've been hearing about?"
Of course, she's heard about it. Everyone's heard about it.
"It's personal."
"Personal affects performance, and right now, your performance is suffering." Her voice softens slightly. "Look, I'm not going to pry into your relationship drama. But you're the captain of this team. The girls look up to you. If you're struggling, it affects everyone."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"I don't want your apology. I want you to get your head together." She gestures back to the ice. "Take the rest of the practice off. Go clear your head. Come back tomorrow ready to work."
I nod, fighting back tears as I skate to the locker room.
This is just getting better and better.
Class is torture.
I sit in the back of my forensic pathology lecture, taking notes I won't remember. The professor is talking about blood spatter analysis, but I can't focus.
My mind keeps drifting back to that photo.
To all the little moments I dismissed.
To all the times I told myself I was being crazy.
"Ms. Webb?"
I look up and find the professor staring directly at me.Shit. Did she ask a question?
She did, and she asks again. And she may as well be speaking to me in Mandarin.
Several students turn to look at me. Sutton Webb, the straight-A student who always knows the answers, is drawing a blank.
"Perhaps you should review the material. See me after class."
I nod, my face burning.
After class, I try to slip out quickly, but the professor calls me back.
It’s already been a rough day, and it’s not even noon yet.
"Sutton, is everything all right?"
"I'm fine. Just tired."
