“What the hell are you doing?” someone snapped in the huddle.
I didn’t have an answer. This wasn’t a distraction. It was a choice—and it terrified me. I would never do that to my team.My character wouldn’t allow it. Yet there I was, softening, sabotaging myself for a girl whose name I didn’t even know.
It was the first time I would lose for her—but it wouldn’t be the last.
“She changed her mind.” The cheerleader approached again, out of breath. “Now, if you really care, you will win this game for her.”
The words came out in slow motion.
I blinked.
Suddenly, I wasn’t on the field anymore.
I was at theSeattle County Fair.
The air smelled like sugar and grease and hot asphalt. Neon lights flickered overhead. Game booths stretched out on either side of me, bottles lined in perfect rows, plastic rings stacked too neatly, stuffed animals hanging.
A man stood behind the counter.
A carny.
He was chewing on a toothpick, watching me like he’d been waiting a long time. “If you really care,” he said, sliding a ball toward me, “you’ll win this for her.”
Dark clouds bled across the sky.
“Do you really care, Nathan?”
Lightning struck.
I jolt awake.
The sheets are twisted around my legs, the pillow damp beneath my head. My heart’s racing like I’ve been running for miles.
For a second, I can’t tell if I’m still in the dream. The field. The crowd. The noise. It’s all still there, right behind my eyes.
I sit up, wipe the back of my neck, and try to breathe. The thick air is heavy with everything I don’t say out loud. The clock reads 3:09 a.m.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, rubbing a hand over my face. My knuckles ache when I flex my fingers. Still split. Still sore.
I walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. My hands aren’t shaking, but everything in me feels tight.
I drink. Set the glass down. Then, I pick it up and throw it.
It explodes against the wall. Water and shards scatter across the floor. The sound echoes in the apartment and then dies. I just stand there, staring at the mess, breathing hard.
This is what I am now. No sleep. Short temper. Broken things. Back on sleeping pills.
I don’t even let myself finish the thought. My jaw tightens. I’m not okay.
The idea shows up like a bad joke.
Therapy.
I almost laugh.
I’ve never been that guy who needed to talk things out. Never needed a stranger to tell me how to live.
I look down at the glass on the floor. At my hand. At the quiet wreckage of my kitchen.
