Page 12 of Five Things I See in You

The panic attack hits me that same night, at home, in the dark. There’s no game, no locker room, nobody watching. None of the things I thought were triggering the attacks.

I wake up at four thirty with my whole body shaking. The slab on my chest. Air coming through a tiny hole. I know the feeling by heart now, but that doesn’t make it easier; if anything it makes it worse because I know how bad it gets. I sit on the floor, hug my knees, try to breathe, and wait for it to end.

It takes longer than I’d like, but it always passes.

Because what I didn’t tell Jordan or Tessa is that the one in the showers wasn’t the first. I’ve had others. I’ve been having them since I was a teenager. Almost all of them alone, the nights before games. Sometimes also on game day, after going over the match with my father. On those days, I’d lock myself in my room, say I was going to read, and little by little I learned how to keep anyone from noticing, the same way you learn everything. With practice.

The ones now are more intense.

On Friday there’s another bottle of water in my locker. The second one. No note, like the first. Zoe Méndez walks past with her cleats in her hand, winks at me, and doesn’t say anything.

On this team, it seems like people take care of you without saying a word, except Iris, who never shuts up.

I put it in my bag and move on.

I call Dr. Osei as soon as I get out of the shower.

***

The new sports psychologist’s office is in Fremont, on the second floor, above a bike shop. Before going in, I walk around the block twice, slowly, looking for the motivation I need to do it, because I’ve been seeing sports psychologists since I was thirteen.

“Where are you from?” she asks, to break the ice, I guess, since it’s written in the report.

“Guildford. Surrey.”

“I studied in Edinburgh. Four years. It rained less than here, though not by much.”

A small laugh escapes me, and that’s already pretty unusual for me when I’m with a psychologist. We talk about Scotland, about the wind and the food in Edinburgh.

“And what brings you to my office?” she asks when she sees I’m more relaxed.

“A panic attack,” I confess. “Before one of the games.”

I lie a little. I don’t add that I also get them even when I don’t have a game, or that they didn’t start this month. But if she’s good at her job, she’ll figure it out soon. For now, I give the bare minimum. I never give more than I’m asked; it’s a habit I’ve had since I started going to these appointments.

She asks me to tell her about the locker room. Jordan has passed her the bare facts: the date and what happened, nothing more. I tell her like I’m narrating a soccer match.

“And before that day?” she finally asks. “Had it happened to you before?”

I nod slowly, although I guess she was already expecting my answer.

“And on the field? How’s the season going?”

“Not bad, so far we’ve won every game, but there’s a lot of the season left.”

Then she asks about my family. I tell her about my mother, who lives in Kent with her second husband, and how we call each other on her birthday, at Christmas, and not much else.

“And your father?”

That’s where I run out of words for a little longer.

“My father is the academy director at the club I used to play for, in England. He started taking me to games when I was four, and when I was five I started training with him.”

I give her the short version, the one I’ve rehearsed. Only when she presses do I tell her about the postgame analyses of my matches in the car. Or that he kept a notebook for every season, one for my brother and one for me. That he has an extraordinary eye for the game, and that’s the worst part, because it’s hard to argue with him.

“And when did you start being afraid of his comments?” she asks suddenly.

The question leaves me speechless. It goes straight to the place I wasn’t planning to reach today, not even this month. Maybe never.