Page 187 of There's No Us Without You
“You better hope so. Anyway, get out of here,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Take the weekend to recover.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “What? Coach you can’t?—”
He holds a hand up and closes his eyes for a second. “End of discussion. You really think you’re going to be able to perform in this state?” He motions down my body. “You’ve soaked through your shirt. Get over whatever virus this is, and we’ll see you at training next week. The boys will be fine without you for one week.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and attempt to calm my thrashing heart with a deep breath. He’s not wrong. I have soaked through my shirt.
Goddamn it.
When I get home, I let myself in and dump my bag at the door. Eden is working, and Will is likely at his dad’s house—like he is every Friday.
I should probably eat something, but the thought of food just makes my stomach churn, so I decide to go for a nap instead.
It takes me at least a minute to climb the stairs, each leg heavy and weak to the point I need to use the railing to drag myself to the second level.
My skin is hot to the touch, feverish like I’ve never experienced before.
And I’m cold.
So fucking cold.
I’ve read it takes a couple of days to two weeks to detox, but I don’t have a couple of weeks for the drugs to leave my system.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I press a hand to my stomach, my mouth filling with saliva—the telltale sign I’m going to puke my guts up any second.
I race towards the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet at the exact moment what little breakfast I ate decides to make a reappearance. I grip the sides of the toilet bowl, my knuckles white while my stomach convulses, and my throat burns from the acid.
After a few minutes of heaving, there’s nothing left to throw up, so I sink onto the cold tiled floor and curl up into a ball, wiping the tears, snot, and vomit from my face with my shirt.
My body is trembling, all my muscles aching. I close my eyes, unable to keep them open as a heaviness I’ve never felt before settles over me.
One minute, I’m a rising soccer star, the next I’m a drug-addicted has-been with no hope, and no future.
FIFTY-THREE
Will
When I get homethat afternoon, I find Emerson passed out and curled into a ball on the bathroom floor. Fuck knows how long he’s been here for, but the strong stench of vomit signals it’s probably been a couple of hours.
That, and the fact it’s dried to his chin and the inside of the toilet bowl.
I grab a towel from the linen cupboard and run it under warm water, then kneel beside him. “Come on, baby,” I say, giving his shoulder a shake. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Emerson stirs, his eyes glassing over and his chin trembling the moment he sees me. “I’m?—”
“Not now,” I say, grabbing him around the shoulders to pull him into a sitting position. When he’s secured up against the tiled wall, I bring the towel to his mouth, and clean the crusted vomit from his face.
I love this man with everything inside me.
Tears roll down his cheeks, his gaze unfocused on my face.
I wish he listened to me this morning when I told him to stay the fuck home. I knew it would likely be hard on him—he looks like death warmed up.
But no, instead he did whatever he wanted, and now look at him.
Jesus Christ.
I’m sure by now he’s seen the picture of himself with my ex dry humping his leg . . . in my bar of all places. I’m also sure he feels the need to suffer because of everything that’s happened.
