Chapter 47
Ethan
Wild how fast your world can be turned upside down.
It shouldn’t be a surprise to me, not really.
My life has been batted back and forth like a pinata since the accident, but I really think this might be the thing that breaks me.
It’s a real downer to find out all that’s inside me is pain and regret instead of candy.
When I go down onto my hands and knees, splaying my fingers against the damp pitch to ground myself, Assad rushes over with Michael close behind. Mia is gone. Mia isn’t coming back.
‘I’m not going to lie to you.’ Assad crouches at the side of me, his boots covered in strands of wet grass and dirt. ‘That looked less than pleasant.’
‘If that’s British for fucking brutal, then yeah.’
‘Chin up, at least she didn’t slap you.’
I wish she had. Maybe then I’d know for sure our conversation really happened, because right now I’m struggling to hold on to reality. Bre must have contacted Mia after I called, it’s the only possibility.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Michael squats down in front of me and I wish I could say his empathetic frown makes me feel better, but it doesn’t. As soon as Mia tells Alice and Jenna what I’ve done, he’ll never speak to me again.
‘No,’ I say, the urge to dry heave passing as I realize I’ve been crying this whole time and didn’t notice. Wow, the manliness of me. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Just as well, I’m no good at this touchy-feely shit anyway.’
We share a weak smile as I find my feet, Michael’s hand on my back to steady me, but I’d rather fall down. Maybe get a concussion and lose my memory. There’s nothing here I want to remember.
‘What was she going on about? Something about an accident?’ Assad looks worried. ‘Not that we were listening—’
He places an awkward hand on my shoulder and it’s almost enough to bring me to tears again, which is deeply tragic. I gulp in a deep breath, but it only makes me feel nauseous.
‘There was an accident,’ I start to say, choosing my words carefully. ‘Back home, in the summer but … it’s a fucking mess.’
‘It might help if you talk about it,’ he offers. ‘You can talk to us, you know, we’re your teammates.’
‘And your friends,’ Michael adds. ‘Outside my wheelhouse but I hear a problem shared is a problem halved or some such bollocks.’
‘You find that works?’
He shrugs. ‘Wouldn’t know. I said I’ve heard it, not that I’ve experienced it. My family is very much for a stiff upper lip and all that but I’m willing to give it a go.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ I mumble. ‘I can’t. It’s complicated.’
‘Right,’ Assad says. ‘Shit.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘Shit.’
There’s a quiet moment among the three of us, nothing more to be said.
The wind picks up, whipping across the pitch with a threat of even more rain in the sky.
All I want to do is sink to the ground and let it pour.
When Assad claps his hands together, I almost mistake it for thunder, but that’s just wishful thinking.
I would so happily get struck by lightning right now.
‘I know what we need,’ he declares. ‘A drink. Members?’
Michael gives him a warning look. ‘For fuck’s sake, Assad, it’s not even half ten.’
‘I have class,’ I say, a deranged laugh burbling out at the end of the sentence. ‘I have a health psychology tutorial at eleven-thirty.’
‘If I were you, I’d miss this one,’ Michael suggests. ‘Generally a good idea to get your head straight before you walk into a research psychologist’s office.’
The wind spits rain into my face, sharp and cold and angry. He’s right, but I’ve got nowhere else to go. Mia will be at Members from twelve so I can’t go there and the thought of going back to my room, knowing what we did there, knowing she’s on the other side of the wall. I’ll lose my mind.
‘I just … I don’t want to go back to my room,’ I tell them, my voice breaking. ‘Mia will be there and …’
‘You can stay with me,’ Assad offers immediately. ‘I’ve got a double and my roommate’s visiting his girlfriend in Manchester for a couple of days. He won’t mind.’
‘You sure?’
He shrugs like it’s nothing.
‘Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.’
‘Thanks. Thank you.’
‘No big deal, you’d do the same for me.’
My head hangs down as the two of them steer me off the pitch and back towards the locker room.
By the time we get inside, all three of us look as miserable as I feel.
Almost. Because Michael and Assad could be soaked to the bone and ten miles from home with nothing on their feet and a track of burning coals in front of them and still not feel as shitty as I do.
And the reason it feels so fucking bad?
I did it to myself. There’s no one else to blame for any of this but me.