Page 125 of Keep Me Never
I get set, the ball is snapped, and I take off, running full speed, executing my route flawlessly, but their defense is quick. I’m double-teamed, and I can’t shake them. Mase drops back, and I lift my hands, but at the last second, he shifts, and he throws the ball away, sending it out of bounds.
Panting, I put my hands on my hips, the final second of the second quarter gone.
My chest shakes as I pull a breath, my eyes slamming closed.
Everything is fine. There’s still half a game left.
A sudden sharp ache jolts along my temple, and I wince, but ignore it, jogging with my teammates.
Everything is fuckingfine.
Or it is until I’m stopped outside the locker room, my coach’s hand on my chest.
He looks to me, to my good hand and back, and I know I’m caught.
That he’s seen.
That he knows.
There will be no avoiding it now.
“Tell me the symptoms.”
“Coach—”
“Do not fuck with me right now, Harper,” he hisses, shuffling closer. “Tell me.”
I swallow, nodding. “Headache, sometimes my limbs feel a little numb, but not too bad.”
“And?” he snaps.
“My…my hands being weird sometimes and my neck…” I shake my hand, hurrying to add, “But I’m okay. It’s not all the time. It’s just random and?—”
“I won’t send you straight from here to avoid a scene, but the second we get back to campus, you’re going to the ER. Do you understand me?”
I swallow, forcing myself to nod. “Yes, Coach.”
“I don’t have to tell you you’re done tonight, do I?”
Dread, cold and hard, seeps into my veins, because I think we both know that the wordtonightisn’t needed. I can see it in his eyes, in the concern under the anger. The pity under the frustration.
“No, Coach.”
We lost.
We lost and I didn’t touch a single ball tonight.
Never have I ever felt more aggravated on the field in my life. They were ready for me: locked me out and tied me up all fucking night. Every play, I had two fuckers chasing me down.
I don’t know if I was too slow or they were too fast or I was in my head and they were mediocre at best, painting me as the same for everyone watching.
I shake my head, rubbing my towel along my neck and tugging my hoodie on before dropping onto the bench to tie my sneakers.
I hear them the second they enter, circling like vultures and out for blood—my blood apparently, as not one, not two, but three reporters come straight this way, ignoring the practiced smile Mason throws on, expecting the questions to be pointed at him right off the bat as the QB and captain.
But of course, that would make my night far too easy though and the universe never lets me off the damn hook. If Coach hadn’t reamed my ass already tonight, I would slip out now, but I can’t, so I grit my teeth and bear it as they shove microphones in my face, firing off questions so fast I can’t keep up.
I barely remind myself not to spiral.
