I start dissociating.
I write my name on my algebra midterm Wednesday morning, and the letters make no sense. Like, how does this mess of made-up lines spell out a word that represents my entire existence?
I spend the whole hour staring at my name and trying to see myself in it.
Delilah bumps me when she stands up and gives me a look over her shoulder as she heads toward the front of the room with her backpack and exam. Jade’s waiting for her by the door, and the room is almost empty.
Panic surges through my chest when I look down at my blank paper. “Shit, shit, shit,” I say under my breath, scrambling to get something done. I only manage two equations, probably not even right, before Professor Morris calls time. I put my face in my hands and breathe in deep.
Kill me.
There are two other people left in the room, and of course one of them is Cauler. He sets his test on the desk and looks at me. My eyes are heavy with the grimy feeling of unshed tears and lack of sleep.
Still, I manage to hold his stare. He tilts his head and gives this curious, narrow-eyed look to the paper clenched in my fist.
“I’ll take that, Mr. James,” Professor Morris says.
My heart lurches. I give Cauler one more look like mind your damn business and turn to face my first F of the semester.
“So, uh…” I start once Cauler’s almost out the door.
“I noticed a lot of staring,” Professor Morris says when I don’t continue. “Not much writing.”
“Yeah, I…” I look down at all the white space on my exam paper. “I have this … this brain thing. Going on. I guess.”
“What kind of brain thing?”
I can’t meet her eyes. She doesn’t look mad or annoyed or anything. More like concerned. It’s not something I’m used to.
“I’m not trying to push,” she adds. She leans forward and folds her arms on her desk. “Are you alright?”
There’s a lump in my throat. Like having this person I’ve never spoken to care enough to ask if I’m okay has me all choked up. I should lie. I can hardly talk about this with Nova, and I love her. The second I tell a person of authority what I’m dealing with, they’ll be checking in on me all the time and I’ll never know peace.
“I mean.” My next breath is watery. I look down at my shoes so she can’t see my eyes tear up. Like she can’t hear it in my voice. “Not really?”
“Have you been to the counseling center?”
I shake my head.
“You should consider it. Freshman year is tough, and being an athlete only makes it harder.”
I shrug one shoulder.
“There’s nothing shameful in seeking help. You can also let your other professors know you’re struggling and they should work to accommodate you better. We’re your teachers. We’re on your side.”
“Okay.”
She holds her hand out for my exam. I hesitate for a second before passing it over. She doesn’t even look at it. Just folds it in half and tears it up. “My office hours on Monday are eleven to one and four to six. Either of those times work for you?”
“Eleven, I guess.”
“Why don’t you stop by and take your exam then. I’ll make sure you stay focused. Sound good?”
I gape at her for a moment before stammering, “Uh, yeah. Good. Sounds good. Thanks.”
She gives me this sad smile. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I almost trip over myself in my hurry to get out. I keep my head down and skirt around people on the paths back to my room, heart palpitations making me feel light-headed and nauseous all the way. But at least I make it back to my room before breaking down completely, back sliding against the door until I’m sitting on the floor with my face in my hands, sobbing.
If I can’t make it through a semester of college, how am I ever gonna make it in the NHL?
* * *
PROFESSOR MORRIS GIVES me the number for the counseling center when I go in to retake my exam. Even offers to walk me there, but no thanks. I have the number typed into my phone later that afternoon, thumb hovering over the call button, but Dorian and Barbie walk in and I clear it out and don’t try again.
I went from feeling great, loving hockey, loving the guys on the ice with me, to feeling like I was maybe gonna be okay, to feeling as bad as I have ever felt all in a matter of days. It’s like that single day of contentedness sent my brain into self-destruct mode because it didn’t know what was happening.
Maybe it’s because my grades are so borderline.
Maybe it’s because I could’ve kissed Cauler and instead I bro-zoned him.
Maybe it’s because my parents are coming to a game in a couple weeks.
It was supposed to be just Mom and Dad, but then I mentioned it in a group video chat with my older sisters and they decided to crash it. I almost cried. I haven’t seen them in so long and I miss them so much and this whole thing will be a lot easier to handle with them here.
The game’s being broadcast on ESPNU. NHL scouts will analyze every second of ice time. It should be an easy win, but the final score won’t matter as much as my performance.
Cauler’s only a few points behind me, with better defensive stats. I can’t afford a single bad shift. I gotta take every chance to pad my stats, put flourish in my play, be the superstar everyone expects me to be.
Pretend I’m not dead inside for sixty minutes.
That’s barely an exaggeration.
Whenever I think of Alyssa and Hugh, or Dorian’s relatable music or Cauler’s face when he said what would you do if I said yes, I just get so tired, I want to crawl in bed and not come out for five years. It’s not even sadness. It’s nothingness.
Hockey is the most important thing in my life besides my sisters and Nova, but when it gets like this, the only thing putting me on the ice is my anxiety, my fear of failure.
Doesn’t help when Professor Morris pulls me aside after class one day and asks if I ever contacted the counseling office. Pretty sure she knows I’m lying when I say, “Yeah, I got it figured out. Thanks.”
For the rest of the week if I’m not in class or on the ice, I’m on my phone reading about depression and anxiety and trying to convince myself that I’m allowed to feel this way even with all the privileges I have, even though nothing really bad has ever happened to me.
I survive our only game of the week on Friday. Even manage to put up a goal. But it’s not fun like it was in Colorado. I feel a thousand miles away from my teammates even in the middle of our celly huddle.
I try to force myself out of it on Saturday, at least long enough to get some work done on a paper I have due on Monday, but I end up with my head in my hands, elbows on my desk, exhausted after a single sentence.
I don’t know how long I sit like that before the door opens on Dorian and Barbie, because it’s always Dorian and Barbie. I don’t remember the last time I saw them apart from each other, which doesn’t make any sense with Dorian’s science classes and Barbie’s language classes on complete opposite sides of campus.
“What’re you doing?” Dorian asks, almost frantically, when he gets a look at me. I probably look pathetic, wallowing at my desk, shirtless in sweatpants with books and papers all over the place. “We gotta leave!”
I blink at him. What is he talking about?
He flails his hands at me like that’ll—oh wait. Concert. Right. He invited me to this concert. I don’t remember agreeing to go.
I practically deflate in my chair. “Kill me.”
“It’s fun! Even Kovy’s coming, and he’s into country music. Country, Terzo.”
“You get to shove people around and no one gets mad,” Barbie offers.
“I don’t know,” I mumble.