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I’m not sure how long I stay doubled over the toilet. Once the puking stops, I press my sweaty forehead against my forearm, forcing myself to take a deep breath, which isn’t the best option since the wave of nausea hits me all over again. Only this time, there is nothing else left in my stomach.
The faucet starts in the distance. I listen to the water run, trying to focus on it instead of the stench of the puke around me.
“You’re a piece of work. You know that?” Spencer mutters before a cold towel hits me on the head.
I grab the towel and wipe my face, the cool cloth feeling good against my skin.
“Couldn’t you have waited to be at practice before puking? We won’t get this funk out of the bathroom for days.”
Shit.
“What time is it?” I ask, already pushing to my feet.
Spencer looks at his wrist. “Five-ten, why?”
“Because Coach said he wants us at the facilities early.”
* * *
“Lookwho finally decided to show up!” Sullivan snickers as all heads turn toward me, including the positively murderous glares from my coach and best friend—by now, probably my ex-best friend.
Great. Just great.
I open my mouth, ready to apologize, but Coach is faster. “You weren’t so quick when you needed to read the Shark’s line earlier, Sullivan.”
The sharp words erase Sullivan’s smile instantly, his face going beet red even in the dark room. All the murmuring dies down immediately.
“Coach,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Get your ass in your seat, Wentworth.” Coach turns around and erases the play from the board. “You’re already late. You don’t have to make us lose more precious time we could spend dissecting our next opponent’s offensive line and the best way to breach it.”
With a nod, I look around, trying my best to avoid Nixon’s probing stare, which is impossible since the only open seat is the one next to him.
My usual seat, but still.
Fuck. My. Life.
Our gazes meet, and I can see the vein in his forehead throb, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the table as he glares at me.
“For every second you spend delaying, we’ll add one more round of bleacher drills,” Coach says, not even bothering to grace me with his attention.
A collective groan spreads through the room.
“One is not enough? Let’s make it two, shall we?” He turns around. His arms crossed over his chest, and he taps his foot as he takes the team in, his eyes finally settling on mine. “Thirty-six, Wentworth.”
Shit.
Quickly, I make my way to my seat. My duffle bag falls from my shoulder with a loudthudthat has me flinching. Although I took some Advil before coming here, my head is still throbbing like a bitch from all the alcohol I drank over the weekend.
“Okay, now that that’s settled…” Coach points the remote at the screen, and the play resumes.
For the next hour, we stay in the little room, going over the plays, analyzing them to the smallest of details as we form a plan of attack for our next game.
Stopping the video, Coach flicks on the light. I squint as a piercing pain goes through my skull at the sudden brightness.
“Suit up,” Coach says, collecting his papers. “I expect you out on the field in ten minutes.”
Chairs scrape against the hardwood as people start to get up and exit the room. I follow suit, my body protesting the movement.
