Page 66 of Slap Shot Daddies

In the end, I choose something straightforward and simple.

I type back quickly.

>> I’m home. Still feeling sick, but I’ll be okay. Thank you.

Their warm concern envelops me like a cozy blanket, yet a cramp in my stomach pulls me back to the harshness of reality. I mentally trace back my day.

What did I eat?

Coffee, a granola bar, half a turkey wrap from the rink’s café. Nothing unusual.

No one else seemed ill.

Food poisoning doesn’t seem likely.

I clutch my abdomen as another sharp pain jolts through me, and the rain begins to drum more insistently on the windshield.

I need to get inside before I end up vomiting anywhere that’s not a toilet or trashcan.

Again.

I barely manage to unlock my apartment door before another relentless wave crashes over me. I sprint to the bathroom, knees striking the cold, unforgiving tile as I hunch over the porcelain rim of the toilet.

The acrid, sour stench assaults my senses, filling my nostrils as my stomach convulses violently. The acidic burn sears my throat, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.

I cling desperately to the toilet seat with one hand, the other pressing against the cool, tiled wall for balance, my fingers trembling with the effort.

When the episode finally subsides, I gasp for air, wiping my mouth with a tissue as a fog of dizziness settles over me like a heavy shroud.

Dragging myself to the kitchen feels like wading through molasses, my limbs weighted down with invisible anchors as I fill a glass with tap water.

The cool liquid offers a fleeting reprieve, soothing the raw feeling in my throat, but its relief is short-lived, and it soon refuses to stay down.

By the time I collapse onto the couch, cocooned beneath a worn throw blanket, my entire body is a symphony of aches and weariness.

The TV plays a mindless sitcom, its laugh track echoing hollowly through the room, a poor salve for the persistent nausea that rises like clockwork, relentless and unyielding.

Each laborious trip to the bathroom feels more daunting than the last. My head throbs with a steady, unrelenting rhythm, my muscles ache intermittently with sharp, spasmodic cramps, and my lips feel parched and cracked.

I clutch my churning stomach as another wave of nausea begins to stir, a tide I am powerless to resist.

Please, let this torment end.

At some point, between another desperate bout of vomiting and the overwhelming haze of exhaustion, I manage to text Ally.

My fingers tremble uncontrollably over the keys, shaky and weak as if each letter weighs a ton.

>> I might not make it tomorrow. Sick as hell. Sorry.

I place the phone on the couch armrest, allowing my eyes to close for just a moment.

The couch’s fabric feels rough and scratchy against my cheek, but I’m too drained to care. My body feels utterly depleted, as if every ounce of strength has been wrung out, leaving me hollow.

I struggle to breathe through the relentless waves of nausea, concentrating on the soothing scent of my apple candle somewhere on the coffee table.

Just as I begin to drift into a dazed half-sleep, the phone vibrates once more. The sudden sound slices through the background hum of the TV, jolting me awake.

I groan, trying to shift and reach for it when my stomach violently protests again.

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