Page 35 of Guarding the Star

***

The next game is a disaster.

Not because of the team. The team plays well. Lucía is a wall on defense. Zoe distributes like she's got a radar. Jamie wins every aerial duel. Even Tina, who's been on her best behavior for a week, sends in a cross from the wing that deserves a standing ovation.

I'm the one who chokes.

I lose three balls in the first twenty minutes. I miss a one-on-one against the keeper that I would've buried in my sleep any other day. I pick up a yellow card for a stupid foul.

Hades subs me out at the 65th minute.

“To the bench, Vance!” she yells.

For a second, I can't even process it. In my entire career, the bench has only been the place where I left my water bottle and my warm-up jacket.

“Fix whatever you need to fix off the field. And fix it fast. Because the Iris Vance who played today is not the one I know. Or the one I want on my team,” Coach tells me, voice low. And when she goes low, she's scarier.

I don't answer. Not even a throwaway joke. Deep down, she's right. The Iris who played today is a broken, distracted version who's been pissed for twenty-four hours at the person who's least to blame for any of this.

I look for her in the stands. She's watching me. I raise my water bottle as a greeting.

She nods back.

It's the saddest thing we've done since we met.

***

Saturday night, I get a call from Zoe.

“Wesley has a fever. A hundred and one point three. We left him with my mom, but she's getting older. Can you stay with him for a bit? Tessa and I are almost thirty miles out.”

I don't ask for details. It's Wes. He has a fever. That's all I need to know.

Paula drives, but it's like the early days again. We barely talk, and the silence hurts way worse than a screaming fight.

“You can go, there's no danger here,” I tell her as I get out. “Zoe can take me home later.”

When I walk in, Wesley is lying on the couch in dinosaur pajamas, face red. Snotty, eyes glassy, furious at the world.

“Hey, boss.”

“Don't want.”

“Don't want what?”

“Don't want nuffing,” he insists.

“Not even a story?”

“No.”

“Not even the dragon?”

“No.”

Zoe left me instructions: ibuprofen every six hours, lots of fluids, cool cloths if the fever spikes.

I put food in front of him. He doesn't eat it. He throws it on the floor. I give him water. He takes a sip, and the rest ends up on his pajamas. I change his clothes, and he cries. I rock him, and he stops. I put on cartoons. He doesn't want them. I turn off the cartoons, and now he does want them. I put them back on. He falls asleep in five minutes. I carry him to bed. He wakes up. Cries again.