Page 8 of Five Things I See in You

“Five things I see. The lace on your left cleat, half-tied. The hair tie Jade dropped. The shower above us, which is dripping, in case you hadn’t noticed. My watch.” She pauses briefly. “And you, listening to me. Five things.”

All I can do is nod, trying to get air into my lungs.

“Now we’re going to do four things you can touch. No rush at all.”

She takes my hands and places them flat on the floor, open.

“The floor. It’s cold, right? And a little damp. We’re going to have to change clothes when this is over.”

I don’t know how far we get. At some point I can breathe again, and I realize my breathing has fallen into step with hers. I also realize I’m crying in the arms of the club’s psychologist.

***

Half an hour later I’m on one of the locker room benches, in my tracksuit, hands still cold, while Tessa checks my blood pressure for the second time. I’ve played finals in front of fifty thousand people and I’ve spent over twenty years training without missing a single day. Now I’ve fallen apart before a league game, on the shower floor, in front of the whole team. That’s the only thing going through my head while she tightens the Velcro.

Hades shows up and looks at us.

“You’re not playing today,” she says, just like that, like anyone at this point could have any doubt that I’m in no condition to do it.

And she leaves the way she came. No comment, no questions. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or completely crushed.

“Is there anyone at your place?” Tessa asks as she packs up the device.

“No.”

“Then you’re not going home alone.”

Jordan is waiting for me by the door with her car keys in her hand.

“I’m taking you home,” she announces.

She says it in a tone that leaves no room for argument, and I think that’s for the best, because I don’t even have the strength to tell her no.

***

Her car is very tidy, but not so spotless it’s intimidating.

Outside, it’s started to rain over downtown Seattle, a dense, cold rain sliding down the glass. Anyone else would have asked me how I was; I would have lied and that would be that. Jordan takes my hand at every red light and squeezes it. And that’s worth more than a thousand words.

She parks in front of my building and turns off the engine. She doesn’t say anything about coming up to the apartment. She stays quiet, one hand in her lap and the other on mine, watching the wet street.

And then I start talking. I don’t really know why I do it, I guess I need to. At the party Iris threw for me, Jordan told me her job was to listen.

“My dad took me to every game,” I begin. “Since I was five. On the way back, in the car, it was time for the analysis. I hated it more than anything in this world. He never told me what I’d done well, only the mistakes. I’d watch the other girls celebrate with their families even when they’d played terribly, and there was always a lecture waiting for me. When I played well, the drive home usually took about twenty minutes. When I played badly, it took as long as he needed. Some days he’d drive around the neighborhood so there’d be time to finish analyzing all my mistakes.”

Jordan squeezes my hand a little harder.

“He kept a notebook for every season. One for me and one for my brother. They’re still in a box at my mom’s house, in Kent. I haven’t read them, but I can’t bring myself to throw them away either. Callum did read his, and he told me the things it said about him made him wish he didn’t have a father.”

I take a long pause to breathe in and let it out slowly. I’d never told it like that, all in one go. In London, when I was sixteen, I mentioned it once in the locker room and someone said, “You’re so lucky to have such a devoted dad.” I made a joke and we all laughed. Nobody knows how much my brother and I cried after every game.

At one point she starts to say something.

“I…” and she goes quiet.

“You what?”

“Nothing. It’s my turn to listen,” she says quickly.