“Just hang on, son.” Coach slaps my cheek.
Whatthehell? How’s that supposed to help?
“Try to breathe,” he adds. “Try to stay calm.”
Calm? Calm? I’m giving birth to an alien. It’s busting through my chest wall as we speak. “Fia. Where’s Fia?”
I don’t know why I’m more worried about her than myself. I’m the one dying. Maybe because I know she’ll be all alone if I die. She’ll end up in foster care. With strangers. It’s a total crapshoot after that. Some people are really good, but the bad ones are worse than bad.
“She’s fine, Norland,” says Coach. “Just worry about yourself, kid. Did you take anything? You juicing? Doing snow? Bingeing Ex-Lax for an upcoming photoshoot? Tell me now before the paramedics arrived, and I can help you manage the story.”
What? “No!” I grunt. “I didn’t take anything.” This boy is one hundred percent corn-fed beef. Meaning, I eat a lot of chili with corn chips. What can I say? It’s cheap and high in protein. “Promise you’ll take her. Don’t let them hurt her.”
I can almost hear the gasps, followed by murmurs from my teammates. Here’s the thing, the biggest reason I don’t get much pity from them: I’m not the only one who had it rough as a kid. Some bounced around in foster care, some were raised by single mothers who broke their backs to give them a chance at a dream, and others had a nice life on the surface, but behind closed doors? Let’s just say that bad parents come in all shapes, sizes, and income brackets.
I’m not saying that everyone on the team attended the school of Hard Knocks. Lots of guys were raised by loving parents who supported their dreams. All I’m saying is that there are enough dudes on the team who didn’t have that, so when I say, “Please don’t let them take her,” they get it.
“We got you, man. We got you,” I hear one of the guys say right before Chuck arrives with the crash kit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“A panic attack?” I stare at the ER doctor, a thin hippie woman in her forties, wondering how much weed she smoked before coming to work tonight. “I don’t panic. And it felt like my chest was ripping open.”
She places a firm hand on my shoulder. “We ran the bloodwork. We did the EKG. Every indicator of a heart attack is missing. Which means you had a panic attack. I’m going to give you a referral to a therapist who specializes in your particular situation.”
“Situation?”
“Playing sports is tough on the mind, too, Dean. You might want to start paying attention to signs of stress. It’ll only get worse if you go pro.”
If I go pro. Great vote of confidence. But I guess right now, the entire world is on the fence about me, considering how I buckled under the pressure last year. And again tonight.
I run a hand through my short hair. “I’ll be fine. I just have to work out a new situation that popped up.”
“Ah. The baby. Everyone’s talking about that.”
They are? Before I have a chance to ask what she means, an alarm is going off somewhere, followed by a “code blue” over the intercom. “The nurse will be by shortly with your discharge papers and follow-up recommendations.”
She disappears, leaving me scratching my head. I can’t believe I had a panic attack. Then again, I did feel under attack. Maybe my mind made a full-blown assault on my body. But what was it trying to tell me?
I go back to the moment that triggered me: memories of the night I fucked up last year. There were lights, cheering fans, and an overwhelming urge to flee. But why?
Fans had cheered me on before in other games, so why was that night different?
I give it some thought. Maybe because I wasn’t just another player on the field for once. I felt like they were all there to see me play.
“Jesus.” I clench my fist over my heart. Just thinking about it makes my chest tighten.
Maybe the doctor is right. I do need therapy. But whoever heard of a person being triggered by too much adoration? I can’t think of anything lamer. It’s like being too rich, too happy, or too good looking.
“Norland, how you feeling, son?” Coach walks in, holding a bag, and I immediately notice he’s alone. “I brought the clothes from your locker.”
“Thanks, but where’s Fia?”
“Don’t worry. She’s with my wife at home. You sure that baby’s yours? She’s damned cute.”
“Funny. And thank you. It was nice of you to take her.”
“If you’d called before practice and explained the situation, I could’ve helped you figure out a solution, son.”
I honestly didn’t think of that. “I thought I could figure something out on my own. Obviously, I failed.”
“Well, the team and I really admire your balls and dedication—jumping in to care for a baby you didn’t know you had.”