Page 64 of Almost Rotten

Pressure on my shoulder pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. When my vision clears, Coach is watching me, brows furrowed in concern.

When he squeezes my shoulder again, I flinch, though I rein in the urge to bat his hand away.

“Breathe, Tremblay,” he murmurs. Then, louder, he says, “It seems you’ve surprised us all with your visit, but we’re thrilled to have representatives from the Georgia Galaxy with us today.”

Fuckin’ A.

By some miracle, I collect myself enough to stumble through introductions.

Clark Petrello is the managing director of player development, and Nicole Bock is head of media relations and publicity for the Georgia Galaxy.

According to them, they’re on a multi-stop trip around the Midwest, checking in on recruits and prospective recruits.

Without a heads-up, I can only assume they wanted the visit to be a surprise.

While we stand around Coach’s office, I tell them about my classes, turning on the charm to the best of my ability, the smile I force big enough to make my face hurt. It’s a skill I learned from Atty—the smiling, the nodding. The follow-up questionsthat keep people talking about themselves and mercifully keep the attention off me.

If I’m lucky, it’s enough to make up for my blunder when I walked in.

They’ll be here for tonight’s game, though they have to leave after the second period to make their flight.

Apparently they’ll be back through the area next weekend and will attend both games against Northeastern. They want to take me and a plus-one out to dinner on Saturday.

This whole thing was a setup.

They called me in to see how I would react under pressure.

And I almost went dark in front of Coach and these people who have authority over my future career. I came dangerously close to slipping into a spiral. Thank fuck Coach noticed, and thank fuck his effort to pull me out was successful. Usually only Atty or Sawyer can do it.

By the time Clark and Nicole leave, I’m wrung out. My knuckles ache from keeping my hands balled into fists and my head throbs, the pressure in my left temple making me wince when I move even a little.

All the calm shrouding me in Sawyer’s bed has been replaced by calamitous anxiety. Every cell aches. My eyelids are heavy, my limbs weighted, like I could crawl back into bed and sleep another eight hours.

Staving off a panic attack will do that to a person.

“Relax,” Coach instructs, his hand on my shoulder once more. “Fucking breathe, son. They’re gone, and you did fine.”

His assurance does little to assuage my panic.

Did they notice the way I froze up? Did I say or do anything else I shouldn’t have?

When Coach finally releases his hold on me, my knees buckle. As I steady myself on the corner of his desk, he stomps over tothe open doorway, checks the hall, and closes the heavy door, shutting out the world.

Turning to me, he releases a long, exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a heads-up. They specifically asked me not to. What a fucking ruse.”

I study his face, looking for any trace of insincerity. Is this another trap? I don’t have the first clue how to respond.

“Sit down,” he insists, rounding his desk.

His expression looks sympathetic, but I’m really fucking bad at reading emotions. Especially from people I don’t know well.

I want to believe I can trust him, but the alarm bells are still blaring in my head, warning me he might not be safe.

It’s a constant battle, navigating life under the assumption that everyone and everything is working against me. It’s exhausting. Debilitating. I hate that my brain reacts so fucking poorly to surprises and unknowns.

“Was that normal?” I finally force out.

Coach barks out a humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t exactly call it normal. But it’s becoming more commonplace. Occasionally teams send out corporate personnel to check on their draft picks. It’s happened to a few of my coaching buddies at Great Lakes U and Northeastern. Though this is the first time I’ve experienced it myself.”