Chapter 8 #2
But truthfully, the whole thing is almost endearing to watch.
Even muscling his way through a half-baked speech, Wes is charming.
Charismatic. And when he laughs at his own mistakes, rolling his eyes in this self-deprecating sort of way, it makes me want to smile.
Cheer him on. He could recite the alphabet, mess up H through P, and still get a solid grade for delivery.
I will not be so fortunate.
“Team bonding is beneficial in sports because it boosts communication, motivation, and team productivity,” he finishes, and then groans, dropping back into the chair. “And this is why I can never be president. Too many damn speeches.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure that’s the only thing stopping you.”
He snickers and then shakes his head. “The conclusion needs work. And I’m not sold on point three. And I messed up my attention grabber.” He runs his hand through his hair, frowning down at the page in front of him. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”
“I thought you were really great for a first try,” I tell him.
He looks up at me, his expression hopeful. “Yeah? You think?”
“Yeah, you weren’t bad at all," I assure, trying not to focus too hard on the fact that he seems to value my opinion. It’s been ages since someone did that.
"Once you memorize it, you’ll be in a decent spot.
I would just be conscious of your ums. And don’t wince every time you make a mistake.
Sometimes I didn’t even realize until you gave it away with your body language. ”
I’m awarded with a warm smile I did nothing to deserve. All I did was tell him the truth. “Thanks, Ives. I’m glad we’re doing this. I’d be a wreck all on my own.”
“I doubt that’s true,” I mutter, my face growing hot at the sincerity in his voice.
“It is. I just feel comfortable around you, you know?” I shrug, trying not to read too much into his words. Wes appears comfortable around every person he meets. “You ready to give it a shot?”
Now it’s my turn to wince. “Sure.”
My hands are already shaky when I grab my outline off the table, and I try to remember all the bullshit Markham told us in class. Think positively. Visualize success. Remember to breathe.
My legs wobble the second I get to my feet.
It’s just Wes. It’s just one person.
“You got this,” Wes assures. “Take your time. Screw up all you want.”
I shift on my feet, looking down at my bullet points.
I force myself to remain calm. Blowing out a breath, I glance back up at Wes, but instead of seeing his encouraging face, I picture a classroom full of judgmental smirks.
I picture thirty eyes trained on my face, scrutinizing not only the words out of my mouth, but everything about me. My hair. My clothes. My face. My body.
My grip tightens on the paper as the words blur together. My vision tunnels, blood rushing to my face because I don’t want their eyes. I don’t want anyone’s eyes.
I just want to be left alone.
“I—I—I—”
Panic kicks in, and I can’t get the fucking words out. My face crumples, and I whirl to face the wall, ashamed of my stutter spiral. Of my red cheeks and my splotchy neck. Tears prick my eyes, and I curse myself for believing I could do this.
I can’t fucking do this.
I fixate on a crack in the wall until it blurs, wishing I could melt into the carpet.
I. Am. Mortified.
“Ivy,” Wes says softly. I hear him stand up behind me, but I don’t turn around. “Ivy, you’re shaking.”
My throat thickens, and I swallow, trying not to cry. I don’t trust myself to speak at a normal volume, but I whisper, barely audible, “I should have dropped.”
The room starts to warp as the tears spill over. Not even my humiliation at crying in front of Wes can stop me, not when I feel so defeated. Not when I hate myself for being this way.
“Hardly anyone knows this,” Wes begins, his voice soft and gentle behind me, “but I threw up before every game. Every single one. The nerves…well, they got to me. The anxiety was overwhelming, even when I was playing in high school.” I sniffle a little, but my shoulders start to relax as I focus on what he’s telling me.
“I thought that the more experience I got and the more games I played, the better I’d feel, but it never happened. I was always a mess.”
My gaze trained on the ground, I turn around to face him, wiping at my eyes.
I stare first at his shoes, then his jeans, then his shirt.
It takes longer than usual for me to make my way up to his eyes, but when I do, they’re studying me with compassion I don’t deserve and understanding I didn’t expect. “You were?”
He nods. “Uh huh. I was a huge mess. So, I understand being so nervous about something that your body literally turns on you. Not that I’m saying that’s what’s happening to you—I can’t know for sure what you’re feeling, obviously—but I understand being frustrated.
I understand being terrified more than you can probably guess. ”
Swallowing, I search his eyes for some solution I’m missing. Some end-all cure. “How did you deal with it? The nerves?”
“Well, after I threw up,” he wrinkles his nose, “I’d focus on my breathing.
I’d listen to music sometimes, something comforting.
Familiar. And when I went out on the field, I’d scan the crowd for my family.
There was always one of them at my games, and they were usually in the same seats in the stadium.
It grounded me, you know? Brought me down to earth.
Once the game started, everything clicked, but until then it was a constant struggle to keep my head right. ”
“I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper.
“You can. And you will. You just need to figure out your own pre-game ritual, and once you’re out on the field, you can look at me. I’ll ground you. I promise. I won’t leave you hanging, okay?”
Worrying my lip between my teeth, I think over his words. My eyes search his, surprised at the sincerity in them. Finally, I nod. “Okay.”
“But we’re not doing anything about any of that right now,” he says abruptly.
I blink at him in confusion. “We’re not?”
“Nope. We’re getting ice cream.”
I blink again. “We are?”
“Hell yeah, we are. You need a pick-me-up.”
“But…it’s the middle of winter.”
He arches an eyebrow. “So?”
“It’s freezing out.”
“So?”
“What about the speeches?”
He waves off my question. “We’ll practice later.”
I frown down at my paper before meeting his eyes again. They’re alight with excitement at the prospect of ice cream, and I realize I can’t be the one to snuff out the joy. I’m also not about to protest taking a break, not after that train wreck. “Okay. Ice cream. Sure.”
“Trust me on this,” he implores.
I don’t know why, but I do. Trust him, I mean.
And I can’t decide if I should be worried about that.