19. Solomon
NINETEEN
SOLOMON
I know I should be embarrassed, but I just don’t have the energy to feel shame right now.
Is it objectively ridiculous that a grown man needs mac and cheese and a LEGO set to break him out of a meltdown?
Definitely. But I’m so freaking tired. The kind of tired that makes it hard to even stand up straight.
It’s how I always feel after one of these episodes—exhausted right down to my bones.
And I just want her to stay.
The only emotion that’s been able to get past my barriers for the last twenty-four hours is guilt. I’ve been treating Cecelia like shit, and she doesn’t deserve it. It’s bad enough that I shut down on her and ignored her all day. I let what I was dealing with affect my work, and that affects her.
I didn’t even examine her knee before the game. That shit is unforgivable. When I saw the swelling after she left the field, I wanted to throw up.
My fault.
So I should definitely man up and apologize for being a crappy trainer and a worse friend.
I should try to find some way to explain about what happened with Sybil last night and how it affected my behavior today.
I should tell her that it’s always going to be this way, that I’m always going to be this way, and she should cut me off immediately if she doesn’t want to deal with my shit over and over again.
But if I told her all that. she’d probably leave. And I really, really don’t want her to leave.
Instead, I sit next to her at the desk, me in the desk chair, Cecelia sprawled in the armchair she dragged over from the corner.
She makes us both two containers of microwave mac and cheese (“Just to start,” she says) and I pour Sprite into the tiny plastic water cups hotels like this always provide.
And my hands don’t even shake—probably because I can actually feel my fingers now.
Weird. That’s usually the last thing to go back to normal.
“Why don’t you have any ice?” she asks. At first, I think she means an ice pack for her knee, and the voice in my brain immediately does that rapid fire thing where it tells me she’s actually just here to treat her injury and I’m an idiot if I think it’s anything more personal.
I shove the voice down when I see her peering into the empty ice bucket. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I didn’t think I needed it.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “The first thing I do when I get to a hotel is fill up my ice bucket. What if you want water?”
“I’ll get it from the tap?”
“But it won’t be cold.” She taps the bucket. “Hence the need for ice.”
“Aren’t ice machines notoriously filthy?”
She glowers at me. “That’s an urban legend.”
“No, I’m pretty sure—”
She holds up a hand. “Sol, I’m gonna stop you right there.
I have spent a disproportionate amount of my life in hotel rooms and will likely continue to do so as long as I’m playing soccer and half my family tours the country to perform music.
A nice cold drink with ice is one of the true enjoyments of life. Do not take that away from me.”
I shake my head, smiling at her.
Holy shit, I’m smiling. Like, the muscles in my face are actually moving enough for me to be able to do that. Less than twenty-four hours after seeing my mother and I’m already smiling.
Interacting with either of my parents usually sends me spiraling for days.
I try to keep my focus on Cecelia and not thoughts of my parents. “Would you like me to go get you some ice?”
She sighs, flopping back into her arm chair. “No, it’s fine,” she says in a long-suffering voice. “I can deal with lukewarm Sprite.”
“The challenges you face,” I say drily, and am rewarded with one of those bright smiles that always make my heart trip.
We eat mostly in silence. I’m not quite feeling better enough to be more sociable than just sitting with another person.
And it’s not like I’m usually particularly chatty anyhow.
Cecelia doesn’t seem to mind, though. She appears perfectly happy as she puts back three containers of mac and cheese and a banana.
“As your trainer, I should probably be appalled by this as a post-game meal,” I tell her.
“Are you kidding? I’m carb loading.”
“You’re supposed to have protein after a work-out.”
She peers down at her empty container. “There was probably some protein in that powdered cheese.” Then she nudges my shoulder. “I ate a grilled chicken sandwich right after the game and I had a protein shake before I went to Target. I’m fine.”
The guilt seeps back in, stronger and sharper now that I’m not feeling so numb. “I fucked up your knee,” I mutter, looking down. “I’m so sorry.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t do anything to my knee.”
I give her a sharp look. “You should have had treatment before the game. We both know it.”
She just shrugs. “If I had asked you to treat me, would you have said no?”
I shake my head. Even as shut-down as I had been feeling, I never would have said no to her.
“Then it sounds like a me problem,” she says easily. “I could have asked you or one of the other trainers, but I didn’t, because I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact my knee is still giving me problems. That’s on me, Sol.”
It doesn’t do much to make me feel better, but this could be the in I’ve been looking for. “Maybe you should tell them, then. That way you’ll have a whole team of coaches and trainers looking out for your injury.”
She slumps back in her chair, looking defeated. “I’m scared to tell them. I’m scared it will make it more real if I tell them. I’m scared they’ll treat me differently or minimize my playing minutes.” She sighs. “I’m just scared.”
“Dealing with mental shit is hard.” I gesture to the bags she brought in. “Being vulnerable in front of someone else is hard.” I force myself to meet her eyes so she can see how serious I am. “But everyone needs to ask for help sometimes.”
She studies my face for a long moment before she finally nods. “Fine.” She lets out another sigh. “If you can accept my help to feel better after dealing with your bitch of a mother, I can tell the staff I need help too.” She fiddles with the string of her hoodie. “Will you go with me?”
“Of course I will.”
Our eyes meet again, and this time the emotion that passes between us feels heavier, more intense. I don’t realize that I’m leaning down towards her until she pulls herself back, giving her head a little shake like she’s trying to clear it. “Okay, let’s get going on these Legos, yeah?”
I lean back into my own chair, running a hand through my hair as I try to settle my galloping heartbeat. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
The kit she bought is a mini baseball field. “They didn’t have anything soccer. Pathetic.”
“You know,” I tell her as I carefully arrange the numbered plastic bags in the right order, “baseball is pretty cool too.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” She reaches into one of her shopping bags and takes out a newspaper.
“I pulled the sports section out of one of the papers in the lobby. Apparently, there was some big baseball game last night? That has all the stats.” She hands me the paper.
“I remember you said you liked baseball stats.”
I stare down at the paper, feeling ridiculously touched. I don’t know why this in particular is hitting me so hard. Everything she’s done tonight has been proof of her going out of her way for me.
But the rest of it were things Jay told her. The food and the LEGO kit and the Sprite came from him. But the newspaper was all Cecelia, based on something I’d told her weeks ago.
I have to clear my throat before I can talk. “Yeah, it’s playoffs. Lots of big games.” I swallow. “Thanks.”
“No worries,” she says easily, like she hadn’t just completely blown me away. She reaches for one of the LEGO bags.
“We’re only opening the first one,” I say automatically.
She gives me an adorable little scowl. “You say that like I was about to tear into all of them at once.”
“You absolutely were.”
She sticks out her tongue at me and reaches for the instructions. “Fine. We’ll be totally organized and boring.”
We don’t talk for a few minutes, getting the pieces laid out and looking over the instructions. “Do you like quiet while you’re doing this or do you want music or something?” she asks, eventually. “Or we could watch a movie? I brought my laptop.”
“Music would be good,” I say, even though I’d be perfectly content to sit here and listen to her breathe for the next twelve hours.
She takes out her phone and pulls up a streaming app.
A moment later, something upbeat and poppy fills the room.
She doesn’t even look at me before holding up a hand.
“Don’t say a word. I like cheesy pop sometimes.
I live with Vega.” She gives me a mischievous little smile. “And don’t you dare tell my dad.”
The mention of her dad brings me back to the FaceTime call I’d witnessed earlier. “Does your family always watch your games?”
“My mom and dad do. Usually my brothers, too. My aunts and uncles come to plenty of my games but they’re not really sports people.
” She smiles to herself. “Neither is my dad. All four of his kids have played soccer and he still couldn’t explain off-sides to you if his life depended on it.
He says his brain just doesn’t work that way. ”
“I guess having a brain wired to be a rock God is a pretty good consolation.”
She laughs. “Right?” She slides a little pile of green bricks my way before moving to another color.
“He came to every match though, for all four of us. Even though he didn’t really get it, he was still there.
And when he was on tour or doing something with the band, he would stream them or get my mom to FaceTime him. ”
She smiles down at the pieces she’s working on.
“One time, when Silas was playing in high school, Dad had a concert during regionals. He had a roadie coming out after every song to give him updates. It went to a penalty kick and Dad made them stop the show so he could go back stage and watch on his phone.”