Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
The whistle slices through the air, and the game comes alive around me. My feet are already in motion, the turf beneath me a blur, but my focus is on the ball. It’s passed wide, the gap is there, and I see it—too much space to leave untouched.
My legs stretch, pushing me forward, my breaths coming out hard and fast. Every beat of my heart is a countdown, the crowd dissolving into static.
I catch the winger in my periphery, the urgency in their steps, but I’m quicker.
I close the distance, throw myself into the tackle, and the world narrows to the thud of impact, the clash of sweaty bodies sliding against one another.
My arms lock around them, and I drive through, powering them to the ground.
The crowd’s roar is distant, muffled by the blood rushing in my ears, but it’s over in an instant. The play’s finished. I straighten, my chest heaving, the adrenaline still alive in my veins, but I can’t help looking for her in the stands, even if it means taking my eyes off the prize.
I know there’s something going on with Adhira, and it feels like I’ve lost all sense to that notion.
I want to be wrong, but I’m convinced that I’m not seeing things, not drawing parallels between how Mum looked and felt after chemo and how Adhira looks each day I’ve lived with her.
We’re approaching the sixth anniversary of the day Mum went into remission, and I worry that’s colouring what I see, but I can’t be sure.
Surely she doesn’t have cancer; she’s so young, but she’s definitely sick.
I try to track the ball but keep finding myself searching the stands for her. She’s not where I last saw her, and seeing as I was her ride here, I don’t think she’d have run off. Adhira strikes me as a capable person, so I suppose if she’d wanted to leave, she’d have found her own way.
“Elliott!” Coach Auclair shouts from the sidelines, dragging my attention back to my job. You know, the thing that should be holding all of my attention at the moment. “Get over here!”
I jog to him, my stomach flipping. I’m fucking this up. He’s given me a second chance at having everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’m proving to be a disappointment when it really counts.
“Yes, Coach,” I pant out.
He lowers his head beside my ear. “You’re easily the most focused player on this team and a valuable asset, but you’re playing like you don’t know your head from your arse. Tell me what’s going on so we can get it sorted.”
My jaw clenches. “I—” I hesitate, unsure how much to divulge to him and wishing I could bask in his compliment.
“I’m waiting, Elliott.”
“I brought one of your daughter’s friends to the game, and”—I clear my throat—“she’s been missing from the stands for a while.”
“Which friend?” he asks.
“Adhira Shah. She and I are actually flatmates, thanks to Elise.” I shift on my feet, working hard to keep my gaze on him while resisting the urge to avoid seeing whatever emotion my admission might earn.
His brow pinches. “And do you have any reason to believe she hadn’t just got bored and left?”
How do I answer that without telling him something she might not want him to know? “She’s been throwing up a lot the last couple of days.”
“Did you get her bloody pregnant?” he asks, and my eyes grow so wide they might fall out of my head.
“Wh-what?” I stammer, sweat trickling down my temples.
“You said she’s been throwing up. Is she pregnant?”
Well, hell, I hadn’t even thought of that! I guess it’s better than where my mind had originally gone to, but my gut twists with the notion of her being pregnant with someone else’s child, for some inexplicable reason.
“N-no, Coach. I–We’ve never—”
He straightens, giving me a terse nod before saying, “Go find her. Sven will fill in while you’re gone.”
I don’t wait for further instructions, my feet dragging me up the pitch as I ignore my teammates' worried glances. I sprint through the locker rooms and out to the concessions, finding no one in line.
What if she got sick or overheated and she’s alone, feeling like absolute shite, and it’s all my bloody fault?
My pulse skyrockets at the thought. The options narrow as I check the toilets, banging on every door, and startling a mum and daughter as they leave the loo.
“Sorry!” I yell, running down the corridor, my cleats hammering against the concrete as I find my way to the last set of ladies’ toilets closest to where Adhira was seated.
The door is locked, which shouldn’t be the case, considering there are multiple stalls inside. I bang on the door, my anxiety ratcheting up as I hear the unmistakable sign of Adhira emptying her stomach, a sound I’ve grown all too familiar with as of late.
“Adhira, I know you’re in there. Open up!” I call, but of course, the only response is the sound of her retching.
I find a custodian and plead with her to open the door. She does after I explain the situation, but only after popping her head inside and ensuring my story adds up.
I slip inside, shutting the door behind me and relocking the bolt.
Her trainer-clad feet are visible beneath the door of the largest stall at the end. The retching has stopped, but her moans of pain have not, and fear grips me, tight in my throat like a pendulum.
“Adhira, can you open the door for me?” I ask softly, hoping not to spook her.
I wait a beat, hearing a groan, and I bend to peer under the stall as she struggles to push herself up, only to sink back onto her knees.
“No,” she says, her words a mix of anguish and frustration, and the sound nearly brings me to my knees. “I can’t get up,” she whispers, her voice cracking, as does my heart.
“That’s okay. Just give me a minute to figure this out.”
I weigh crawling under the partition and risking scarring myself for life—left unable to ever use a public toilet again—climbing over the top of the stall, or breaking the door down.
I elect for the latter because it’s the least likely to end with my head banged up. I’ll pay for the broken lock after the match.
“Don’t move, Adhira, I’m coming in.”
I hear her scoff. “If I could move, I wouldn’t be waiting for you to get in here.”
Ah, at least her fiery spirit is still alive and well.
“Right, coming in,” I say.
“You really don’t have to,” she grumbles, but I ignore her, slamming my shoulder against the door. It only takes one swift blow for the bolts to come undone, allowing me inside.
Dark, frizzy waves fall around her shoulders, her brows furrowed, and her complexion sallow.
She looks ten times worse than she did this morning, and it has my mind in shambles.
The sight brings me right back to all the times I held Mum’s hair when she puked after chemo, or when she couldn’t get out of bed for days and I had to get the girls to school and daycare while wrangling Nan back inside when she forgot herself.
I crouch down beside her, lowering my voice. “I know you don’t like being touched, but I’d like to hold your hair out of the way. Is that okay?”
She dips her chin. Her body is unforgiving, her cheeks bloating with the need to continue what her stomach started. I gather her hair, holding it out of the way.
We stay like that for a while until she has nothing left to release, and she slumps against the grimy blue-and-white tiled floor.
I stand, gathering paper towels, both wet and dry, then squat beside her again.
She lifts her head to look at me, dark smudges beneath her gorgeous cinnamon eyes.
I could get lost in them if she’d let me, though Mum says I’ve always had a way of romanticising everything. Maybe this is what she means.
I clean her face, patting her mouth dry.
Her shoulders tense and her brows pinch, but she doesn’t make any move to stop me, allowing me this small moment to care for her.
Whether she knows it or not, I need this more than she does.
For me, it isn’t small. It’s monumental because she’s showing me, in her own way, that she trusts me. Even if only for the moment.