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“You definitely have a massive hard-on for him, that’s for sure. And why wouldn’t you? The little I just witnessed was hotter than half the pornos I’ve seen.” She says, and I laugh at that. “But you also like him. I’ve seen you enough times around him to know that it’s not just sexual chemistry.”
“I can’t like him.” I tell her, “I have a boyfriend.”
She turns the ignition off and twists in her seat to face me, considering me silently for a moment before she eventually speaks. “Well maybe you shouldn’t.”
???
It’s game day and I’m officially freaking out.
I went to bed in a good headspace yesterday. I’d spent the last few days icing and elevating my ankle as directed and it felt healthy. I’d been mentally locked in, feeling both excitement and anticipation at finally playing another game.
Everything was pointing towards a good day today.
But I’d woken up and felt… off.
I had this nagging feeling in my stomach that I couldn’t shake. I knew it to be anxiety, but I couldn’t seem to convert it into motivation.
I’d also ripped one of my favorite headbands as I was putting it on and, as a superstitious person, that bad omen had rattled me.
Now I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom in front of my mirror, trying desperately to French braid my hair myself. My hands shake so badly, I can’t get it tight enough.
Bellamy is with Rogue and Nera and Six went to the stadium early to get good seats.
I’m alone and struggling to do my braid and, even though it probably seems dumb and inconsequential, that’s enough to unnerve me and throw me completely off kilter.
I realize that my confidence isn’t as rock solid as I try to pretend it is. Even though I’m a competitor and always give my best, deep down I’m afraid it’s not enough.
Not in Switzerland.
I’m afraid that the first match of the season is indicative not just of how I stack up against my more skilled opponents but also what I can expect my performance to be for the rest of the season.
I define myself in large part by how good I am at soccer so the thought of being average at best is one that’s hard to swallow.
I want to go out there and have an amazing game, but all the doubt and uncertainty are screaming in my head, drowning out every positive thought I have.
It’s even more disappointing to feel this way because I’ve spent the last few weeks building up my confidence and I hate that even after all that work I can still make myself feel this way.
I’m spiraling.
I rub my hands over my face repeatedly, trying desperately to scrub those thoughts from my brain.
“What are you doing?”
I let out a startled cry before dropping my hands. Rhys is standing in the doorway of my room, looking down at me impassively.
My heart thunders against my ribcage as I take him in.
“What are you doing here? And how’d you get in?” I ask him.
He holds up a set of keys between his thumb and index. “Bellamy sent me. She thought you might need me.” He steps into the room towards me. “I told her that obviously you’d never admit such a thing.” He says, his lips quirking upwards.
I give him a small smile, some of the tension easing out of my shoulders. He must see something in the way I smile though, because he sits on the floor next to me.
“What’s wrong, love?”
Rather than telling him nothing is wrong, I choose honesty for once.
Or partial honesty at least.
