Page 74 of The Play Maker

He’s still watching me as he lifts one hand to brush the back of his hair, his hoodie riding up just a bit, revealing the waistband of his sweats and a sliver of tan skin beneath.

I quickly avert my eyes, trying to focus on the screen. I shouldn’t be thinking of him like this, or looking at him, but god, he’s pretty to look at.

“So… the midterms are in two weeks,” I say, trying to change the subject before I do something dumb like stare at him again. “Are you ready?”

Austin huffs out a short laugh. “I mean… with you tutoring me, I hope so. It’s making more sense than it did before.”

I smile a little. “That’s because you’re not stupid, despite what you say, or think. You just have your own way of doing things, and that’s fine. You’re getting it, Austin. I can see it.”

He shakes his head, exhaling as he sits up straight. “I just… I need to pass. It’s not optional.”

My brows pull together. “I know. But you’re?—”

“No. You don’t get it,” he cuts me off. His jaw tightens, and his throat moves like he’s swallowing a lump. “Ineedto pass. I’m on a scholarship, and if I don’t—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Hockey’s my whole life. It’s all I’ve got.”

His knee bounces. He swipes his palm over his face, like he’s trying to push the thoughts away but they’re crawling under his skin anyway.

He swallows again, hard, then his breathing quickens, shallow. “If I lose it…” His voice cracks.

He stops talking, jerking onto his feet so fast I flinch.

“Austin?”

He won’t look at me. His steps are quick and uneven as he paces across my dorm, rubbing his chest.

“I think I—I need to go to the nurse or something. I can’t—my chest?—”

His voice is strained, shaky.Panicking, I realize.

I swing my legs over the bed, already crossing the room to him. “Hey. Austin.”

He backs up, hand to his chest, his breath shallow.

“Austin.” I grab his hands. They’re clammy. Shaking. I step closer until we’re chest to chest, until I’m right in front of him and he can’t look away. “Hey. Look at me.”

He blinks, his eyes glossy and unfocused, like he’s slipping away somewhere just beyond reach.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me.”

I press one hand gently to his chest, right over his heart, and lift the other to cradle his jaw, nudging his gaze back to mine.

“In,” I say, drawing in a slow breath. “Out.”

His breath catches, then stumbles out, then comes again, slower this time.

“That’s it,” I murmur. “Just like that. In. Out.”

I feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath my palm, the steady thump of his heartbeat, the tight tension in his shoulders starting to loosen, bit by bit, with each exhale.

“Focus on me,” I tell him. “Focus on your breathing.”

His breathing eases a little. His hands find my waist, gripping like he needs the anchor. I let him, even as my own heart kicks into overdrive.

“You’re okay,” I tell him, tracing the rough scrape of stubble under my fingers. “I promise.”

His hand tightens around my waist, his eyes locked on mine as his breath steadies.

“Thank you,” he exhales.