Page 12 of Arrogant Puck
“Did you eat?” she asks. “I ordered Chinese. There’s extra.”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
She nods like she expected that answer, then disappears down the hall. A few minutes later I hear her bedroom door shut and the low thump of music through the wall.
Silence again.
I exhale and let my shoulders drop.
Still getting used to that—having a door that closes, a couch to sink into, a place where I’m not sharing a wall with six other interns or listening to someone else’s bad breakup through paper-thin drywall.
My room’s barely unpacked. The mattress is on the floor, boxes against the wall, and the closet still smells like someone else’s cologne. I tug my hoodie over my head and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the closet mirror.
Hair tied back. Bags under my eyes. T-shirt from my undergrad. I look like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Because I haven’t.
I moved in three nights ago, and I’ve been chasing quiet ever since.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my hands over my face.
It’s not that the job is hard—yet. It’s the pressure. The second-guessing. The feeling that one misstep and they’ll all know I am much more fucked up than I pretend to be.
I was happy to move, but now that happiness is slipping. The threats from my ex are at the forefront of my mind on a loop I don’t know how to escape.
It’s like that night lives rent-free in my head, and being around athletic men is starting to get to me.
But I don’t want to think about that right now.
Instead, I open my laptop and pull up the player wellness logs.
Player #12 – limited shoulder rotation, post-op
Player #36 – high ankle instability, responsive to tape
Player #91 – forward, compensation pattern on right side. Refuses evaluation.
That last one sticks in my head longer than it should.
Slater Castellano.
That’s him. #91
Talent, sure. But trouble, too. Discipline issues. Fines. Warnings.
Thank God he’s walking past me like I don’t exist. I need to be background noise.
Keep a low profile and stay out of these athlete’s way.
I can’t have a replay of what happened at San Diego.
I shower fast and pull on leggings and a tank top. My skin’s dry—too much recycled air, not enough sunlight—and I make a mental note to pick up better lotion.
By the time I’m in the kitchen, Emma’s back out, perched on a stool scrolling through her phone.
“Want tea?” she asks.
I nod. “Thanks.”
She pours me a cup from the electric kettle and slides it across the counter.
