I stepped back, eyes tracing the lines, the circles, the things I’d marked over and over like if I stared at them long enough, something would finally click.
And that’s when my phone buzzes.
Bishop.
I hesitate before answering. “Hey,” I say finally.
There’s a pause on the other end. “You doing alright?”
My grip tightens around the phone. I stare out the window. My throat is tight when I finally speak. “I’m alright…just not sleeping lately,” I say quietly. “I’m having those dreams again.
There’s a pause. Not the awkward kind. The familiar one. “I was hoping those were done.”
“What about those sleeping pills you were taking?” Bishop asks.
“I stopped,” I say. “Didn’t like being hooked on them.”
“Yeah. I get that,” he says. “But maybe… as a last resort. Just to reset. You know?”
I don’t answer right away.
“Sleep matters, man,” he adds. “You know this better than anyone.”
“…Yeah,” I say finally. “Alright.”
“Alright,” he says. “Take a nap, call me after…okay.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead. I stand there for a moment, phone still in my hand, then set it down and walk into the bathroom.
I open the mirrored cabinet above the sink. The bottle is right where I left it. I stare at it for a moment. Then I take one.
A few minutes later, I’m on the couch, staring at the ceiling. And then?—
I close my eyes, try to slow my breathing. But the second I drift off, it happens again. The noise, the light, the stadium roar.
I saw her across the field.
I jogged over to her and stopped inches from her. “What’s your name?”
“I’m good, thanks,” she answered with a smirk. No heat. No hostility. Just a graceful dismissal that rattled harder than any linebacker.
“I’ll win this game for you,” I said. She laughed to herself, flashed a smile at me and walked away with no response.
Hit number one, and I didn’t even flinch. She wanted to play? I’d make sure she remembered me—not the game.
I must have done something right, because minutes later, one of her cheer mates jogged over and said she had a message from her. “If you want to know her name, lose.”
I’d never purposefully lost a day in my life.
My pulse spiked. “Nice try,” I responded without even thinking. “I don’t ‘lose.’ I just don’t. It’s not an option.”
She ran off, irritation and indignation burning down my fingertips, imprinting itself into my soul. And then I did it anyway.
I held the ball a second too long. Missed a throw I could’ve made blindfolded. Let a tackle happen that I could have slipped.
The crowd groaned. My teammates stared.
