Knowing that I can’t be what they need, that they’re better off without me, fucking stings. Knowing I’m not willing to risk trying makes me feel like a coward.

Hang my head and drape a towel over me, shrouding myself in darkness. My own personal sweaty hell.

Someone approaches, and I glance at the floor in front of me, spotting Coach’s old school Jordan’s. Man’s got good taste in shoes, I’ll give him that.

“Get out of here. Go to class, go home, I don’t care what you do, but get your head on.”

“I’m fine,” I grit out, annoyed at being sent home like a child.

“It wasn’t a question, son. I don’t want to see you until tomorrow morning. We’ve got seven days until the tournament and I need you to work your shit out.”

With a sigh, I stand and start toward the locker room.

“And Moreno,” Coach calls and I pause. “Tomorrow I expect your shit to be straight or you won’t leave here until it is.”

Thursday’s come to be my favorite day of the week. A communications class that I actually like, followed by economics where I usually spend the fifty minutes of class time working out what I’ll say to Kitty. Today I just stare straight ahead totally numb until class is dismissed. I’m at the door of University Hall before I realize my body has gone on autopilot.

I stand out front unable to go in but incapable of leaving without a glimpse. A group of people walk in, the last one holding the door out to me and I step through.

Holding my breath, I scan the café counter, exhaling when it’s not Kitty I see but some dude. I get in line and wait, keeping my eyes peeled the whole time. Maybe she got held up and is running late. Fuck, I don’t know. She’s always just here.

“Can I help you?” dude that’s not Katrina asks when it’s my turn.

“Looking for Katrina.”

“She’s not here.”

Captain Obvious.

“This is her shift.” I hold my ground. It’d be easier if I just outright asked, but I don’t.

“She called out sick. Coffee?”

Shake my head and turn away.

It takes ten minutes to get to her apartment from campus.

I make it in six.

“Kitty, open up.” I knock on the door and am met with silence. Pace, knock some more, pull out my phone. I’m just about to call her when the door cracks open.

“Joel? What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering I push the door wide and step in. I’m well aware that I may not be welcome, but I need to explain or apologize, or fuuuuck, I dunno, something.

I open my mouth to speak, and then take in her appearance. Messy hair, dark circles under her eyes. “You’re sick?”

“No, it’s Christian. He was up all night.”

Which means she was up all night. The thought, I should have been here, slams through me, but that’s not right either. Still, I hate that she was by herself. She shouldn’t have to do it alone.