Something about the thought makes me nauseous.
When the game ends, it’s raining, and the Legends walk off the pitch with their heads hung low.
“Alright, ladies, I’ve gotta go comfort my man with a pity blow job. I’ll catch you later,” Aanya says.
“And I’ve got a dinner to get to,” Lottie starts to walk away, turning around quickly so her pleated mini swishes with the movement, “but you’ll check on him?”
“What—no, I,” but she’s already skipped away.
I stick around anyway. Not because I want to check in on Tieran, but because I’m the owner, it’s a part of the job description, and everyone else on the leadership side has left.
Most of the team is able to walk off the pitch unscathed, heading to the locker room to clean up before heading home or out for the evening, but Tieran’s been roped into post-match interviews.
There’s a smile on his face, but for once, it looks forced. No one else seems to notice it, but it’s there, in the subtle pinch around his eyes. Something about this game in particular has really affected him, because the mask he’s always so proud of is slipping. His shoulders are rigid, and he’s picking at his skin, rubbing at the back of his neck, shifting back and forth as if he’s about to sprint far and fast.
Question after question is lobbed at him, and the easy smile has fully left his handsome face, replaced with a frown. His chest is rising and falling in a more rapid succession, and the reporters are just getting started. They’ve doubled in size, surrounding him on all sides, caging him in.
From where I’m standing, I can barely make out the words, but I hear things likelosing streak, breakup, public humiliation, embarrassment, and it's enough to make me want to rip out blades of grass on our perfectly manicured field.
Tieran stands there, weathering it all with no one to help him, no one to have his back, and I’m struck suddenly with how incredibly lonely he must feel. He’s been carrying some misplaced sense of guilt for months, and I don’t think anyone has been checking in on him.
Who’s been making sure he’s okay while he’s been making sure everyone else is? Me included.
The media has gotten worse—cameras are being shoved in his face, the questions are increasing in hostility, and Tieran looks…scared. This strong, funny, kind man looks like the walls are closing in on him, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.
That’s all it takes for my composure to snap.
I march over to the crowd on five inch Pradas and elbow my way to the middle of the hyena frenzy.
I place my palm on Tieran’s inked forearm, and I can feel a tremble vibrating through his body. Muscle rigid from the fist he’s clenching eases a little under my touch, but I can see his harsh breathing from the corner of my eye.
“Gentleman, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I need to steal him away. Ballard wants a word before everyone goes home.” It’s a lie; most everyone has left already. Still, I’ll say anything to get him out of here.
Any additional questions they fling his way are ignored as I pull him away from the vultures and toward the player tunnel.
Tieran is heavy on his feet, looking but not seeing as I guide him from the media frenzy.
We’re out of sight, but it’s done nothing to help his state. He’s still breathing too heavy, eyes clenched tightly, as if he can ward off whatever he’s seeing behind his eyelids if he tries hard enough.
I think he’s having a panic attack.
Up ahead on our left is a storage closet, and as we approach, I make a last minute decision to pull him inside. Maybe being enclosed in a small space will muffle theoutside noise or make him forget where he is long enough to get him to calm down.
Thankfully, the door is unlocked, and once we’re inside, I push him against the wall. It’s like he doesn’t even realize I’m here. His whole frame has locked up, he’s deathly quiet, his eyes are flitting back and forth, and his breathing’s rapid and shallow.
“Tieran.” I step closer to him in the dark room and place a hand on his face.
He flinches. Why does that make me want to cry?
“Tieran.” I stroke my thumb back and forth along his jaw. “I think your nervous system got overwhelmed out there, and you’re having a panic attack. Can you tell me anything you see around you?”
A therapist I was going to once told me the best way to calm yourself during an episode is to try to name anything you can see, hear, or smell to try to reorient your surroundings.
He doesn’t respond. “What about anything you can hear? Smell?”
Still, I’m met with silence and an alarmingly blank stare.
I hate this. I hate that he feels so out of body and I can’t do anything to help. I miss his smile, his banter and his inappropriate flirting. I miss hearing his laugh, knowing it was aimed at me, making me feel warm. I miss the gleam of mischief in his eye every time he looked at me, and I miss him because he’s not here right now. He’s trapped in his mind, battling a demon I can’t see or help him fight.
