“Jared?” Dad’s timbre voice drifts from the other end. I haven’t heard his voice since that day in the hotel bathroom. It feels like an iron fist wraps around my heart, squeezing tightly. I can’t breathe. “Jared, are you there?” Uncertainty clings to his voice, no trace of the usual sharpness.
I stumble back against the bed and drop down, staring at the phone in disbelief.Dad, it says on the display.
As I try to process, I’m thrust back to all the times I asked Mom and Janelle about him. Part of me never wanted to see him again, but it also hurt when he never showed. Like he was done with me. I try to focus on my breathing, but it’s like thereisn’t enough air in the room. I don’t know what he wants, but whatever it is, I can’t do this right now. Not tonight. Maybe never. The encounter with Wes has left me emotionally raw. I end the call and lie down. I count to five on the inhale, then hold my breath for two seconds before I exhale, counting to five again. I continue until my heart settles and my lungs are less tight. Dad doesn’t call back, and I try not to analyze how I feel about that.
I climb under the covers and think about the drawing Mia and Mason sent me. Happy thoughts. Smiling faces. A huge sun, taking up most of a blue sky. White, fluffy clouds. A red ball in the air. Green grass and daisies.We miss you, Uncle Jared.
“Nice of you to join us, Coach Cordier.” The athletics director, Miguel Cordoba, looks at me pointedly when I try to sneak into the meeting room.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I drop into an empty chair at the far end of the long conference table. I’m only five minutes late, but this is the first meeting of the semester between the Track and Field Team and the Sports Medicine Department.
I slept for shit last night, and woke up a sweaty mess a little after four, rock hard with the image of Wes invading my mind. I tried to rub one out, forcing myself not to think about him, but I couldn’t get off. Since I couldn’t go back to sleep, I headed to the gym on the ground floor and ran, my feet pounding against the treadmill until I almost puked up my guts.
Wes is sitting several chairs away from me, and when our eyes meet across the room, his jaw tightens, and he quickly looks away, focusing intently on a large screen with aPowerPointpresentation open.
“Now that we’re all here,” Miguel begins, “let’s start with the first point on today’s agenda. Coach Anyango, will you give us a rundown of how you are planning on implementing the new guidelines from the…”
I zone out, my gaze drifting from Miguel to Wes, who’s bent over an open laptop, tapping away. Just like me, he’s wearing a green polo with the University of Oregon logo on it, and I hate how good it makes him look. The muscles of his arms flex as he types away, a focused frown between his eyebrows. From time to time, he brushes a rogue strand of hair out of his face, and the barely there movement is enough to make me feel hot all over, even though the A/C is blasting from the ceiling. What the hell is going on with me?
“Thank you, Coach Anyango. It seems your team is well prepared to make the required adjustments. Any questions?” Miguel looks around the room. My mind is blank. I haven’t got the faintest idea what they were talking about. I stare at the presentation on the screen like it holds the answer somehow.
“Yes, Mr. Ellison?”
I jump when Miguel says Wes’ last name, and nearly knock over the bottle of water in front of me.
“I think we need to address the recent concerns raised by an orthopedic doctor inThe Sports Science Reviewin terms of mental health and well-being among athletes in light of the new guidelines. Mental and physical health go hand in hand, and I think we need to become better at identifying and helping at-risk groups of young athletes.”
Miguel nods, then rubs his chin. “This is indeed something we need to bear in mind, Mr. Ellison. Mental health touches every way that we interact with our young athletes. Their mental well-being has a significant impact on a broad range of health and performance outcomes.” Miguel smiles, appreciationbuilding in his eyes. “I’m happy to hear that this is something the Sports Medicine Department is focusing on.”
Wes smiles widely at the praise, and for some reason, I feel like wiping it right off. He’s so annoyingly…perfect. He’s not only good-looking but also smart. The way the words just rolled off his tongue. A tongue that was in my mouth the other night.Fuck.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is in the air, and Miguel says my name. “Yes, Coach Cordier?”
All eyes are on me. I lick my lips, unsure of what to say. It’s not that I don’t agree with Wes, I do. I just don’t like the guy. He annoys the shit out of me. I don’t like the way he’s made me lose control twice and how hard he got me.
I clear my throat and stare directly at Wes, who’s still smiling. “I think it’s important that we don’t base our practices on just one source.”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” Wes interjects, but I ignore him. I read the article too.The Sports Science Reviewis, after all, leading in its field.
I deliberately drop the name of the doctor who wrote the article. “Although the concerns raised by Doctor Wozniacki are indeed valid, I think we should wait for the results of the nationwide study next year before we implement any long-term measures. The study compares findings by both orthopedic doctors, physical therapists, and mental health professionals, which draws on international research too.” There. That ought to shut him up.
Wes narrows his eyes on me, the smile now frozen on his lips. I yank my eyes away from his mouth when the memory of how he felt against me invades my thoughts. Not here. Not now. I tip my chin at Wes challengingly.
“So our students should just put their mental health issues on hold while we wait for a study that’ll most likely confirmevery concern raised in the article? That the occurrence of depression and suicide among athletes is concerningly high nationwide?” Wes shoots back at me, his voice steady as a beat.
“Of course not. But we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions based on a narrow study. We can’t just assume that depression and suicide are caused by issues relating to—”
“I’m not assuming anything!” Wes snaps. “It’s scientifically based data, not just from the US but internationally as well.”
I clench my fists under the table. I feel like wringing Wes’ neck. I open my mouth, then close it again. I search for something to say, but I can’t think of anything. Everyone in the room is looking at Wes and me like we both just grew a second head.
Wes lifts an eyebrow at me, a small smirk playing along his lips. Before I can come up with a comeback that sounds remotely mature and professional, Miguel claps his hands together.
“Gentlemen, I’m loving the enthusiasm! It’s good to know that our students are surrounded by such dedicated and well-informed staff. Especiallynewmembers. But we have other points on the agenda, so we’ll leave this for now and revisit it at our next meeting.”
The rest of the meeting goes by in a blur, the sound of Wes’ voice echoing in my head. I hate that he cares so fucking much. I hate how someone like Wes could’ve perhaps made a difference to someone like me back then.
When the meeting ends, I storm off. I don’t want to face Wes, but he’s everywhere: at work, at home, at the bars. The only type of interaction I’m going to have with Wes from now on will be professional. That’s it.
