“You thought loudly.”
“Your face is loud.”
“Your entire existence is loud.”
Declan blew the whistle before I could respond.
After practice, I lasted four minutes.
Four.
I got into the locker room, stripped off gloves and helmet, sat down, and stared at my bag like it contained explosives. Guys moved around me. Someone turned music on. Someone else yelled that the aux privileges should require league approval. My hands shook a little from exertion and leftover adrenaline.
I unzipped the side pocket.
Roman appeared in front of me.
“No,” he said.
I glared up at him. “Move.”
“Shower.”
“I’m checking one thing.”
“Shower first.”
“You’re not my coach.”
“No, I’m worse. I care about you for free.”
That shut me up for half a second.
He softened, but only a little. “Give yourself ten minutes where you’re not feeding the beast.”
“The beast?”
“Your brain. It’s currently chewing on drywall.”
“That’s weirdly accurate.”
“I’ve known you a long time.”
I shoved the bag back under the stall with unnecessary force and went to shower.
The water helped. So did the routine. Shampoo. Rinse. Forget whether I’d rinsed conditioner, rinse again. Towel. Clothes. Deodorant. Backtrack for socks. Find socks in hand. Do not spiral about socks. Normal.
When I got back, Roman was gone, probably doing whatever goalies did after practice, which I assumed involved stretching and communing with darkness.
My phone waited in my bag.
I sat down.
For a second, I didn’t touch it.
The room had thinned out. Benny and Milo were arguing near the door about lunch. A trainer called someone into the hall. The music had dropped lower.
I took the phone out.
