“All right,” I say finally. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, son,” Coach says. “I’m just trying to make sure you still have an arm to play with after this season.”
I nod back at him, already feeling myself start to spiral, just wanting to get the fuck out of here before I embarrass myself. Coach dismisses me after that, and I ignore the questions of my teammates when I step out of his office, heading straight for the showers instead.
Don’t break down.
There will be plenty of time for that later.
My room is a fuckingdisaster.
I’ve pulled everything out of my closet and from underneath my bed—all in the name of finding some inane item I’ve gotten into my head that I need right this second. I get like this when I’m stressed, and I know that later I’ll regret this little manic episode, but my conversation with Coach has been playing on a loop in my head. Knowing that I’ll be giving up ice time because of my stupid arm is killing me, and the more I think about it, the more desperate I feel.
I pick up a shoe and throw it at my bedroom door, making a frustrated sound as I slink down on the floor at the foot of my bed. I tug at my hair and rest my forehead against my knees, trying to calm down. I have my meds for this; there’s a low-dose beta-blocker sitting on my bedside table for emergencies, to slow my heart rate when I get like this, but even just taking the short walk to get it seems too hard right now.
I jolt when a knock sounds at my door, sitting up straight when I hear Abby’s voice asking, “Everything all right in there?”
Fuck.
I didn’t think she’d be home for a little while longer.
“Everything is fine,” I call back.
“What was that banging noise?”
“Nothing. I tripped.”
“Are you decent?”
“Rarely,” I quip back.
“Are youclothed?” she amends.
I glance down at my sweats and my sleeveless T-shirt. “Yes.”
“Then I’m coming in.”
“No, wait, don’t—”
Too late; my door opens, and then she’s just standing there, her eyes rounding as she takes in the mess that is my room. “What happened in here?”
“I was just looking for something.”
“Was it a black hole? Because it looks like you found it.”
“Hilarious,” I mutter.
“I heard a banging sound,” she tells me. “Did you really trip? Are you okay?”
I try for a smirk. “You just wanted to peek in my bedroom.”
“Oh, sure.” She eyes the mess. “Real happening spot in here.”
She looks at me then,reallylooks at me, and I feel smaller under her scrutiny. Her piercing gray eyes seem to look past the mess and straight through the heart of my little anxious episode, her lips turning down into a frown.
“Did something happen today?”
My pulse trips as I remember the conversation from earlier, my tongue suddenly feeling too thick, and all my anxiety seems to fall on her all at once.
