30. CORA
CORA
I’m in my dad’s office, working on finalizing and confirming some of the game stats before I go home. This is something I started when I was in high school and why I have such a good relationship with the college newspaper—I’ve been sending them stats post-game for years.
The rush from the game is wearing off, including the second wave of adrenaline from whatever happened in front of the bench, and I can feel the exhaustion hit my bones. My mouth feels like a desert and I take a swig from my water bottle—trying to remember the last time I had a drink of water.
The team was solid tonight. I don’t know if I remember an opening home game as good as that one.
Maybe part of that is because this is my last one—senior feelings and all that.
But the stat sheet doesn’t lie. They looked like they’ve been playing with each other for years—which most of them have—but the way Lane found his spot on the ice with them, getting a little more comfortable every shift? It was incredible.
I hate to be this person. But it feels like we have a real shot at the Frozen Four this year. I laugh at myself; every diluted hockey fan says this when their team wins the first game. Gets their first taste of success.
I send the email to my contact at the paper and sit back in my dad’s chair. My head feels heavy, maybe some of the adrenaline catching up with me. Taking another long drink from my water bottle, I close my eyes and do some deep breathing.
Cora, you dehydrated idiot—of course you feel like trash.
Just then my dad comes in, smiling like it’s his job. “You done? That was fast.”
“I’ve been doing better at keeping track during the game. Sharpening that skill,” I answer him, moving back and forth on the swivel of his chair.
He laughs at me, grabbing a folder from his desk, where a freshly printed stats breakdown from tonight rest on top. I tell him it’d be easier to email, but my dad still prefers to watch the games and take notes on the back of printed stats sheets. Every time.
He’s in the doorway when he asks, “You out of here soon? Got big plans tonight?”
“Yes. Almost done. Just have to get my bag from the bench. And not sure what my plans are.”
He walks over, puts a kiss on my forehead and says, “Okay, well, they’re still cleaning up out there. Don’t wait too late. I don’t like you walking out alone. There’s still a few players in the locker room, so try not to be the last one, ok?”
This is new. Typically, Freddy would be waiting for me after the first home game of the season. Who knows what he’s doing. I literally don’t care.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I see text messages from Brinn.
Brinn
please come out
we’re going to shore thing
pretty please
“Got it, Dad,” I say, and he turns and leaves the office as I text Brinn back.
Me
Finishing here
let you know when I’m leaving.
I sit for a few more minutes, looking over the stat sheet a final time. It’s not that I think there are any errors in the math or what I’ve created, but I’m trying to see if there’s more to the story for the win tonight. Something we can copy or lean on in the next game.
When I start getting too excited again, thinking how this could “be our year,” I stand and take a few steps.
My head kind of swims, the room tilting, and it catches me off guard.
I press my eyes shut and count to ten, taking in a breath and slowly letting it out.
My eyes open but there’s something distracting.
A squiggle line. I try to blink through it, look around the room, but I can’t shake it.
Shit. I’m getting a migraine.
The wave of nausea hits me like a freight train. My meds are in my bag, but that’s in the arena on the team bench. Brilliant work, Cora. I sit back in the chair and grab the trash can, knowing what’s going to happen next.
I try to breathe through the waves of nausea, but they’re choppy like the waves on the lake when the winds are high.
The squiggle line in my vision has multiplied and I’m losing my peripheral vision.
My head feels like someone is hitting me with a brick and I rest my forehead on my hands.
I wish I were at home with all the things I keep on hand to get through a migraine—ice cap, caffeinated drinks, my meds, and peppermint oil.
Now the only thing I can do is try not to throw up on my dad’s office floor and wait the twenty to thirty minutes for this to pass. The room feels like it’s tilting and wavy underneath me, like a fun house, and I do everything I can to level myself with this trash can and this chair.
I count my breaths. Convince myself I’m not going to throw up. Typically, that only happens when the pain gets too bad. As long as I keep my eyes closed during the beginning, the aura phase, I shouldn’t need to rinse out this trash can.
I wish I could turn the light off but I’m not willing to risk standing up. That isn’t a good idea. I swear I hear someone walk past my dad’s office and I hope they don’t look in here.
Unfortunately, I’m not that lucky as I hear someone call for Coach—they must think my dad is still here.
Lane’s voice cuts through the delicate silence I’m desperate for.
“What are you doing?”