Page 80 of Caught Up In You

Fuck, I need to get hold of myself.

I need to getholdof my myself.

About fifty yards off the field, I spot the little brick park bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Wyatt, and uncap the water bottle. I take a long pull and swallow hard to get it past the boulder in my throat. “I just need to wash my hands.”

Her brows knit together. “Do you want me to come?—”

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her again, already striding away. Everything is whirling around inside me, screwing up tight. I’m scared that if I let go, I’ll spin out like a top.

And I can’t let her see that.

I stride toward the bathrooms as fast as I can without actually breaking into a run. I bypass the door and head around to the back of the building where no one can see me but the trees. I lean forward, pressing my palms to the warm brick. I drop my head.

And I breathe.

In for four.

Hold for four.

Out for four.

Hold for four.

It takes a few rounds before I’m actually able to hold any breath at all. Another couple of rounds before I feel like my heart isn’t trying to take flight. A few rounds after that before my vision clears and my ears stop ringing.

I keep breathing in the box pattern and feel the tension begin to recede a little. I breathe and count until it no longer feels like my heart is trying to Hulk out of my chest, until the world stops vibrating, until I’m sure I’m not going to throw up.

I breathe until the face of Dylan Anders and his mother’s screams recede back into the dark corners of my memory.

I haven’t had a panic attack like this in years. Not since I worked in the emergency room. I haven’t even felt the tight grip of extreme stress since Wyatt came storming into my life.

I thought everything was good.

But seeing Betsy get kicked, seeing her go down like that—it triggered all those memories.

But I breathed, I remind myself before the knot of tension can tighten again.

And I fixed it.

When I stand back up, I am exhausted, like I could take a ten-year nap. My body feels like it’s filled with wet sand, and it takes a herculean effort to walk. Every part of me wants to get into mytruck, drive straight home, crawl into bed, and stay there until tomorrow.

Instead, I pick up the water bottle and chug. I run my hands through my hair. I roll out my shoulders. I practice smiling.

And then I head back to the field.

CHAPTER 30

WYATT

Owen is doing a really good impression of someone who isn’t freaking out.

I mean, I get it. Just the memory of the sound of a foot connecting with Betsy’s head makes me shudder. It sounded like the kind of injury that should have required an ambulance and lots of stitches.

But Betsy got right to her feet, walking easily off the field. Even though she was crying, I heard her begging to go back in the game.

When Owen came back from the bathroom, he had a smile plastered on his face. He chatted amiably with people as he made his way back to his spot. Everyone seems to have forgotten that minutes ago, his nerves got the best of him.

But not me.

---