Page 175 of Tell Me I'm Enough

I haven’t wanted to think about it since. When I do, his words and the look on his face just end up playing on a loop in my head and make me feel like I’m drowning every time I get stuck in the thoughts.

“Nothing serious, just the same old expectations I can’t meet with him.”

“I’m sorry,”she says gently.

“It’s not that big of a deal. I leave for football camp in a week, so I don’t have to deal with it for much longer.”

“You’re taking care of yourself, right?”

I look down at the state I’m in—liquor bottles all over the floor, clothes I haven’t changed in days, and the large empty room around me that feels too ironic.

“Of course.”

“I know what would cheer you up.”There’s a hint of flirtatiousness in her voice that makes me perk up a little.

“What’s that?” I ask in a low, needy voice, feeling these stupid butterflies for this girl.

“You’ll just have to wait and see, I guess. But let’s just say a goodbye kiss has nothing on an I’ve missed you kiss.”

My eyes flutter closed thinking about my lips on hers, the way they quiet everything in my head.

“Ireallylike this new part of our friendship,” I tell her.

She stays on the phone with me until we both pass out, and I feel like I end up sleeping better than I have the entire time I’ve been back home.

40

Mason

Coach waves me over.

“Sinclair,” he says, pulling out his clipboard and looking back up at me. “You’re running with all the starters today. Don’t disappoint me.”

A wave of pride runs through me. I’ve been working my ass off since I got here a couple of weeks ago, and this feels like the encouragement I needed to tell me I’m not screwing it all up.

I’ve been pushing through most days since leaving Florida, and honestly, if I didn’t have football to distract me, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d probably just be rotting away in bed or slumped over a toilet, puking out the night before’s contents.

I know I slept last night, yet I feel like I never even closed my eyes. I’m exhausted today, but I’m still pushing through.

We line up, and I let my mind drift a little, waiting for everyone else to be ready.

I should have gotten some water before we started. My mouth feels like cotton, and my head is spinning a little.

The sound of the whistle blowing startles me, and I snap my attention back to the play we’re running, shaking off the sweat I feel under my skin even though we just got out here.

It has nothing to do with physical activity, and everything to do with what I’m denying myself right now.

My hands feel like they’re shaking, even though I can’t tell if they actually are or not. My head is fighting to get out of the fog I woke up with, and I’m doing my best to keep the nausea down. I know I told myself I wouldn’t drink before practices, but I’m really regretting that today. All I can think about is the coach calling it a day so I can get back to the Sig house.

I rush forward, snap my hips, then run downfield. Muscle memory is the only thing that carries me through the route. The whistle blows, signaling the end of the rep. Coach nods his head at me while holding his clipboard.

I hate how bad I need to be perfect on the field because it’s about the only time anyone recognizes anything I do. I know it sounds pathetic, but I have this sad, desperate need to hear that I am doing a good job constantly —no matter what it’s for.

And I’m good at this. I’m good at using my body and letting loose all the stress that I have built up on the football field.

We move into practicing some more plays, doing them over and over again, until my calf muscles are burning and my lungs feel like they’re literally being ripped apart.

I love it, though.