Page 23 of The Succubus's Song

“Yeah, come on in and shut the door behind you.” His coach pointed to the door and didn’t look up from his computer.

Fuck.

Finley’s anxiety quickly started to give way to morbid acceptance, a cold, shaky feeling that started at the base of his spine. The sound of the door shutting echoed in the small office, and Finley heard it like a gunshot.

He trudged his way over and plopped down in one of the plastic chairs across from his coach, chewing on his lip while he waited for his coach to speak. After a few long, agonizing minutes, he finally looked up and made eye contact with Finley.

“How do you think you’ve been playing for us recently, McEwan?” the coach asked quietly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. He studied Finley, his gaze boring straight through him as Finley shifted uncomfortably.

“It… It hasn’t been my best, coach,” Finley admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I know that.” Finley prayed that some self-awareness would be enough to keep him from the chopping block.

“We both do,” his coach conceded, sitting up a little straighter. “I think you know what I’m going to say.”

Please don’t do this. Finley’s hands started shaking.

“I can take a pretty good guess,” he admitted, fighting the cold sweat threatening to break out across his forehead.

“This is one of the worst parts of my job,” the coach took off his glasses and ran a hand over his face, “but it must be done. I’m moving you from First Team to B Team, McEwan.”

Even though he was expecting it, hearing those words come out of his coach’s mouth with such finality shattered Finley’s confidence into a million pieces. There was nothing he could do about it now; it was one more thing that Finley McEwan just wasn’t good enough for. Finley struggled to keep his outburst contained as the words began echoing in his head, repeatedly. He wasn’t angry—it was expected of him to be angry.

No, Finley was devastated.

The return of Scotland’s magic had been a good thing for thousands of people and creatures alike, his sister included. In that moment, the only thing Finley could focus on was how unfair it was. For reasons he didn’t understand, it had taken his sleep from him, his game, and the new undercurrent of magic everywhere sat under his skin like ants.

The only thing that was the same after the curse was broken was his nearly incessant thoughts of Mara Parker—and the fact that he did love football, even if he now apparently could barely get through a game.

He didn’t have Mara. He didn’t have football. Finley had nothing.

Finley’s breath started to escalate as his thoughts ran unchecked. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs, and the more he tried, the harder it became. Memories of all the rejection he had faced over the past five years started repeating in his head like a fucked up broken record, and Finley clamped his hands over his ears as if he could block them out. Finley could feel his heartbeat in his head, pounding erratically, and he screwed his eyes shut to block out the incessant fluorescent lighting in the office.

Before he realized what was happening, Finley buried his head between his knees and tried to regulate his breathing.

You’re so fucked up. No one is ever going to want you, ever. You’re so fucked up. You can’t do anything right, can you? Finley’s thoughts were running wild, and they showed no sign of stopping. Finley ran his hands through his hair, pulling on it to check if it would stop the chaos happening in his head.

“Finley!” A loud, booming voice finally cut through the noise. “Finley, snap the fuck out of it!” A moment later, there were hands on him, stopping his erratic movements. Finley barely recognized his coach as the man forced Finley’s head up and shoved a water bottle in his face.

“Look at me, McEwan,” the coach snapped. He looked terrified, but his words weren’t unkind. “Drink that. Now. Slowly.”

Finley nodded, his vision slowly coming back to him as the direct command gave him something to focus on other than his panic. He slumped back in the chair as all the energy drained from his body. Finley’s hand shook as he brought the water bottle to his lips, forcing himself to take long sips.

After a few silent, tense minutes, the worst of his panic subsided. Finley slowly came back to himself, feeling simultaneously numb after an episode and embarrassed that his coach witnessed it.

“Does that happen to you often?” His coach broke the silence, sounding concerned. Finley shook his head without looking up. His coach sighed deeply.

“I want you to know I’ll reverse my decision as soon as I feel that it’s a good move.” He rubbed his temple. “Who’s your emergency contact? Do you want me to call them? You shouldn’t drive after a panic attack.”

“No,” Finley snapped, his eyes going wide. “Don’t call her.” He couldn’t help but feel a little confused—he had never divulged to his team that he had panic attacks. It had been years since his last episode.

Fern was his emergency contact, and the last thing he wanted was to call her now. Her cellphone had spotty coverage in Faerie, but she’d get the voicemail soon enough. The last thing he needed was Fern rushing back to his side. She would do it without a moment’s hesitation, and Fern was finally living her life without being preoccupied by her sibling’s needs.

“I won’t let you drive, son.” His coach was adamant, and he seemed to sense Finley’s confusion. “My niece has panic attacks sometimes.” The silence in the office got even more awkward. “She’s a damn good athlete too, so don’t think—”

“That’s fine,” Finley cut his coach off and finished the rest of his water bottle. “I can get a ride.”

His coach only nodded in response, and Finley stood up, heading towards the door without a further goodbye. Finley kept his head down, not wanting to look at all the team memorabilia. Everything mocked him now.

He was about to leave the locker room when his coach interrupted him one more time.

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