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I push through the doors and the team follows behind me. There’s a decent crowd here today. I can’t see faces yet because the lights are dimmed, but I can tell the seats are full. And I can hear them.
Maybe he came?
We pass the stands on our first lap and I try to focus on the family section, looking for anything familiar to stand out. His jeans, or his hair. Maybe he’ll have a hat on. Any man in his early fifties who looks like me. I’m not able to spot him on the first trip, so I try again on the second. This time, the lights are on bright, and I get a better handle on the attendance. Our stands are nearly full, even on the balcony. And it’s when I glance up as I finish my jog that I see Cutter standing on the front bleacher upstairs with his hands cupped around his mouth as he shouts what I imagine is, “Let’s go, Laney!”
I can tell that he knows I’m staring at him by the way his hands drop to his side for a few sways side-to-side. He starts to clap then looks to either side of him and forces students in attendance today to join in. They’re stomping and clapping and obnoxious the way I’ve only seen our student section behave for basketball. It feels incredible, and also, it’s tearing me up inside.
I drop my gaze as we circle up in the middle of the court to stretch. I scan the bleachers at my level, focusing on the middle, down the net—where my dad likes to sit. Nothing.
“Hey, you ready?” Kiera brushes into me, a ball tucked under her arm.
I nod.
“Yeah, let’s put on a show.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” she says, a hop in her step as she moves to the setter position for warmups. She tosses the ballto me and I hit it on the floor a few times with a healthy slap. I can see I’m hitting it hard yet somehow, I don’t feel it. It’s like my hand is foreign, not a part of me. I suddenly feel as if I’m watching from the bench, outside of myself.
I toss the ball to Kiera for a quick set and somehow put the ball down hard in the far right corner. She screams, “Yeah!” It sounds as though it’s piping through a tunnel.
I jog to the back line and stretch my legs more, pulling my feet up behind me as I scan the bleachers again. He isn’t here. Of course he isn’t here. Why would he be here?
Stupid girl.
I drop my right foot from my stretch and I can’t feel it hit the ground. Bouncing a few times, I tell myself everything is fine. I shake my head and head back to the court to take another swing. Another quick. This time I send it to the left corner, pounding the line.
I’m floating and everything feels slow.
Chelsea passes me a ball as I jog back to get in line for another hit and I dribble as I run. The gym feels smaller all of a sudden. And hotter. I glance to my left, scanning for familiar faces.Afamiliar face.
Breathing through my nose, I zip my focus back to Kiera. She’s waving a hand at me to take another. She’s yelling something. I can’t hear her. I’m hot yet cold. I’m?—
I come to pretty quickly.The first sound to break through my ears is the squeaking shoes rushing at me along the floor. Kiera’s on her knees at my side, and someone else is holding my head up.
“Laney, can you hear me?” That’s Coach. I recognize her.
I roll my head and squeeze my eyes shut then pop them wide to try and focus. Everything feels extremely bright, but I find herface to my other side. She has a washcloth on my head, and she’s pressing it to my skin, dabbing.
“You might be dehydrated. Let Tracey check you out.”
Tracey’s our trainer. I’m not dehydrated, but I don’t know how to get those words out yet. And since I’m the one lying on the floor, I doubt my opinion holds much weight right now.
“Laney, Laney!” That’s my mom’s voice.
My mom?
Shit, I’m still knocked out and dreaming. My mom is standing by my coach and working her way down to me, getting on her knees. Her bright pink purse slides from her arm and she tosses it to the side before moving her hand behind my head. She looks scared.
This is real.
“I’m okay,” I croak, bending my knees and flattening my feet on the floor. I can’t see far behind the immediate circle around me but I can tell people are kneeling. It’s warmups and people are kneeling for an injury timeout.Oh my God, this is embarrassing!
“I’m fine, I swear,” I repeat, bullying my way through the hands that are trying to keep me on my back so I can sit up. There’s a water bottle squirting into my mouth the second I do. I drink, though most of it splatters around my lips and teeth. I push it away.
“Let me do it,” I demand, holding out my palm. I take the bottle and drink. When I look up into concerned faces, I drink more. I’m not thirsty. I fucking panicked. Because . . . my dad isn’t here. And Cutter is. And maybe I’m fucking up everything.
“Has she done this before?” Coach asks my mom.
Our eyes meet and my mom says “no” even though I have. Maybe twice. It’s been a while, but both times were in high school and after my dad blew me off.
