My cheeks aresore from the smile I’ve had plastered across my face for the last two hours, and my head throbs from the rowdiness of the team as we drive east back toward London. No one seems fazed by tonight’s loss. There was general disappointment while walking off the pitch, but everyone seems to have let it go. So, I had to let it go too—or, at least, I pretended to.
Keep up morale. No one wants to see the captain moping over a lost game. I have to smile, strategize for improvement, and make sure they know we can do this. And I do believetheycan; I just don’t know ifIcan, and that’s the problem.
All the feelings of inadequacy were only exacerbated when Coach Ballard pulled me aside after tonight’s match.
“I gave you time, Stone. You told me you were doing better at the start of the season—that I had nothing to worry about. But the last few matches have left me with nothing but a clenched arsehole.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” My head drops in embarrassment.
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want to win a bloody match.” Spit flies from his mouth. “Do you still want a spot on the National Team?”
“You know I do.”
“Then get your shite together, Stone. I say this with as much fondness as I can muster for you—find a way toget over this…meltdown you’re having, or you can kiss your chance at the Olympics goodbye.”
I’ve wanted to throw up since. Everyone around me is having a good time, planning which pub they’re going to once we get back to the city. Davies is rambling about how many numbers he’s going to get, how manybirdshe’ll take home. The men are laughing—happy in the face of another loss—and I’m crawling out of my fucking skin.
Do they not care as much as I do? Do they not feel like all of London is waiting for them back at the city limits with pitchforks and lit torches? Or are they just not worried because they all know I’m the one fucking up, not them?
Mum sent an encouraging message to our family group chat in an effort to make me feel better. Lottie responded with a silly photo, and Dad didn’t respond at all. The silence told me enough. He’s disappointed. Why wouldn’t he be?
I spend the next half hour with my hood up, watching highlight reels online of every wrong move I made. Maybe if I torture myself with my failings, it’ll allow me to see how I can improve.
Every day, I get increasingly more frustrated that I haven’t gotten out of my own fucking head. My mind constantly oscillates between our team’s rank, my inability to play the game I was fucking born to play, letting my guys down, not qualifying for the National Team, and being terrified I’m going to disappoint my family if I can’t get my shite together.
The only time my mind decides to rest on its ultra marathon around my brain is when Jade’s around. I can’t quite place what it is yet, but when she’s near, I feel like I can breathe again. Which is confusing, because as the person who signs my paychecks, you would think she’d be who was scrutinizing me the most. From that first one-on-one meeting, it was clear she genuinely cares about each person on the team—not just for the sole purpose of howthey will perform, but who we are, who we could become. She saw potential where others would see problems.
And hell if there isn’t something refreshing about that.
A notification rolls over the sports recap video playing on my phone, and it’s as if I’ve conjured her out of my fantasies.
Hellfire
How are you doing?
Tieran
Was I so bad that you felt the need to check on me?
Just wanted to make sure I got an invite to the pity party you’re probably throwing right now.
So you can leave it without saying goodbye again?
It’s likely.
I’m wounded.
Seriously, where’s your head at?
I’m fine.
Liar.
I debate it for a second, telling her the truth, but I don’t want her to lose whatever misplaced faith she seems to have in me when it’s the only thing keeping my head above water.
Tieran
Do you text all your players to make sure they’re okay?
