Page 36 of Break Point

I shake my head adamantly.

“No, it’s not. It’s no stress at all.”

That’s not entirely true, but things finally seem sorted out. My checking account has a positive balance, albeit only in double digits, but my bills are paid. And more money is coming, so I’m not even worried about next month like I usually am. My grades are fine. In fact, my classes are a breeze this semester. And I don’t exactly hate having Bryson Moss around. Sure, the attention has been an adjustment, but I’ve dealt with the spotlight before. Usually that focus is trained on my game, though, rather than my weight, my hair, my skin, the way I dress. There has been a lot of that over the last couple weeks.

Okay, maybe it is taking a toll.

“I’m going to start Adrianne at number one for the tournament later this month.” Coach’s words reach me through an invisible tunnel, and I shake my head a tick, hoping I misheard her. She holds up a palm before I can talk. She’s used to my argumentative spirit. Some might call it defensive. She’s called it defensive. I prefer to think of myself as strong willed.

“It’s temporary. You’ll be back in the spot for the next one, I’m sure. You need the break from the pressure—”

“I love the pressure,” I bite back.

Her mouth snaps shut as her shoulders rise with a deep breath. I’m sure her eyes are narrowed behind those lenses.

“Jaden, trust me. I’m looking after you. I know what you’re capable of, and I promise I’m not giving up on you. I’m telling you to step back for one meaningless tournament and turn down the noise in your head so you can get back to listening to your instincts. Okay?”

She pulls her glasses down the bridge of her nose just enough to peer at me over the dark-blue frames. I can tell by the way her pupils have fixed on me that the only right answer is yes. I nod.

“Pack it in for the day. Come out swinging hard tomorrow.” Her hand lands on my shoulder, and the weight of it nails me to the earth. Somehow, I stay on my feet, though, and keep my eyes dry for the thirty seconds it takes me to pack up my gear and head toward the locker room for a good cry.

I’m sure Taryn will call me the minute practice is done, and she’ll be well meaning with every word. She’ll call Adrianne a bitch, even though she’s not, and she’ll prop up my fragile ego with all the superlatives that normally fuel me. She’s a good friend. My best friend. But I think it’s going to take me more than half an hour to come down from this hurt. I’m letting myself down, and that’s the worst disappointment of all.

I type Taryn a message as I pass through the locker room, bypassing changing out of my sweat-drenched practice clothes and instead trudging straight to our apartment.

Me: I don’t want to talk about it tonight. I’m fine. Pick up some Lucky Charms.

I hit send and hope that the small ask will satisfy my friend’s desire to emotionally support me. I don’t eat a ton of sweets, but cereal has always been a magic salve to my problems. I’m not sure if purple horseshoes and green clovers are going to fix this one, though. The game is it for me. It’s the reason I’m here, why I’m fighting so hard to stay. Yeah, I’ve worked my way into a partial scholarship, but living here, eating, studying—existing? It’s expensive. It’s why I’m letting the social sphere pick at my bones and tell me I’m not good enough for a cocky football player who, up until this month, I swore I’d hate for all of eternity. I can handle the world’s mean girls as long as my feet are racing along the baseline and competing. But it’s never been about being someone’s backup. Nobody dreams of being number two. I’m not a two seed. I’m simply not. So what the fuck is wrong with me?

The sniffling is nonstop by the time I push through our apartment door, and I give in to the sobs as soon as I twist the bolt to lock the world out behind me. My shoulder blades slide down the door as I sink to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest and hugging them. Hot tears splat on my kneecaps, and I don’t bother to wipe away their trails on my cheeks. I let the burn of them cut into my skin, forming valleys for my anger and self-loathing. I give myself ten minutes for it all—I blubber, and my chest quivers with overreactionary pangs as if I lost a loved one. I resent being human and letting it all break me until my head starts to hurt, then I get up and march into my bathroom for some Tylenol.

The next thing I know, I’m on the floor in front of a cabinet, and I have no idea how I got here or how long it’s been.

Am I hurt?

I manage to stretch an arm over my head, splaying my fingers out to see if they work. Did I land on my hand? Did I slip? My brain feels like it’s racing, and I can’t seem to focus on much in this room. I’m not sure if this is the kitchen or a bathroom. Is this my bathroom?

I roll to my side, the effort making my head throb like the hard beats of a marching band’s bass drum. My hand moves to my forehead, and I press my fingertips into my skin, trying to find the source of this sudden headache along the front of my skull. Maybe this is a migraine. I got them when I was a kid. The light would hurt my eyes, kind of like it is now.

I blink slowly, and the sky-blue fuzz of the bathroom rug in front of my sink finally sharpens into focus. I was in my bathroom. Tylenol.

I work my way up to a sitting position and scan the room. The Tylenol container is on the counter, and the cap is . . . somewhere. I’m not sure if I took a pill or not. I don’t remember pulling the cap off at all. I roll on my hip and bend a leg, bracing my weight with a hand on the counter as I pull myself up to stand. Rather than taking extra pills, I put the uncapped bottle back into the medicine cabinet, then cling to the doorjamb and hallway walls as I make my way to my bedroom.

After easing myself into my bed, I rummage in my hip pocket, feeling for my phone. I slide it along my body until I’m able to cradle it against my pillow and my eyes focus enough to read the time. It’s only been minutes since I left practice. I’d swear it’s been hours.

My phone buzzes in my loose grip, and it takes me a few tries to swipe my finger the right direction with enough force to open my text alert.

Bryson: Amelia is buying dinner at Slices. She wants to plan out the week and see what we might want to post. And there’s the homecoming thing? Do you know? Just head this way after practice. We’ll wait for you.

I read his message again, searching my brain for clues about dinner tonight. Was this already planned? I’m certain it wasn’t. And what does homecoming mean? They have homecoming at college?

My eyes squint as I try to focus long enough to type something back. I think I overdid it at practice. Maybe it was the hard cry. I’m sure I’m dehydrated. I haven’t been taking care of myself like I should, and it showed today. I’m too focused on what I’m wearing, the way my hair is tied up, how “chunky” my legs are, apparently, and the dozens of other physical dings people seem to dislike about me on social media.

And now all I can think about is the result.

Number two.

Me: I can’t.