Page 12 of Golden Goal

Or if I never recover?

Suddenly it feels like a million degrees in here. I inhale, trying to calm my heart that’s now racing, but a lump feels like it’s lodged in the back of my throat. I shift in my seat, trying to relax, but I can’t.

“Everything okay?” Sebastian whispers.

All I can do is nod as I fight to take a deep breath, feeling like an elephant is sitting on my chest.

“Holt?” he asks, putting a hand on my arm, but I shake him off as Coach ends the meeting.

I stand and somehow make it out into the hallway, bumping into someone coming the other way.

“Abbott?” Dr. Jansen continues talking, but I can’t make out what she’s saying in my panic-induced haze. “Holt.” She puts a hand on my arm, and I finally look at her.

She inhales sharply when I meet her gaze. “Are you okay?”

I want to tell her I’m fine, but I can’t. Frankly I’m tired of pretending I am. I shake my head. She grabs my hand and pulls me into an empty conference room, where she directs me into a chair before sitting next to me.

“I think you’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me?” She takes a breath, and I close my eyes, doing what she says.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, just breathing. Every time I inhale, I get a whiff of something sweet and floral. Lilacs or jasmine, I think, and I realize it’s her.

It’s Dr. Jansen.

I like how she smells. I probably shouldn’t—she’s my physical therapist. My doctor. I need to keep things professional, but does that mean I can’t appreciate how she smells? Nothing wrong with it if I keep it to myself.

The perfume Kat used to wear always gave me a headache. She even changed it a few times, and they each had the same effect on me. I thought I was allergic to perfume. Turns out I was probably allergic to her.

“You feeling better?” Dr. Jansen finally asks after a few minutes.

I take a couple more deep breaths and realize I do indeed feel better.

“Yeah.” I stare down at the floor suddenly, very aware of what she witnessed. I haven’t had a panic attack in years. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Rebecca,” she murmurs, almost too quietly for me to hear. I meet her chocolate-colored eyes. “No reason for all the formality right now, Abbott.” She huffs out a laugh.

My lips quirk up in a small grin. “Holt, Rebecca. Not Abbott.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think twice about them. “And thank you,” I whisper, staring at the table in front of me.

“Do you get panic attacks often?”

“It’s been years. Since high school. I don’t know what set it off.” Lies.

“Major stress can cause them. Like the news that you might not play for a few weeks.”

I swallow. “That’s probably it.”

“We can go to my office to discuss your treatment plan if you’re ready.”

I run a hand through my hair, thankfully no longer feeling like an elephant is sitting on my chest or a golf ball is lodged in the back of my throat.

“Sure.”

She leads me out of the room and down the now quiet hallway. I’m sure I have a million text messages from the guys wondering why I disappeared so quickly after the meeting, but right now I don’t have it in me to explain it to them. Because unlike Dr. Jansen—Rebecca—who didn’t ask for an explanation, and took it at face value that my panic attack was because of the news I would be out for a few games, they wouldn’t. They’d want to know what was really going on.

They’d ask a million questions. I’d be forced to admit that not only am I struggling with my game, but I’m injured and can’t play. And my relationship failed months ago, and I’ve been lying to them.

All things I just don’t want to talk about right now.

Chapter six