Page 96 of Red Zone
Right on schedule, like clockwork.
Perfect.
I push through until halftime, forcing smiles and barking reminders through the headset like nothing’s wrong.
But as soon as the players file into the locker room, I slip toward the media room, pull out my phone, and fire off two quick texts. The first to Madison and the second to Carter.
Heading home. Not feeling great. Will grab your notes later.
Raincheck on tonight. Sorry.
I shove my phone back into my pocket before I can overthink it and make my way out of the stadium quietly, keeping my head down.
The drive home feels like it takes forever.
Less than ten minutes after walking into my apartment, I’m out of my jacket, into sweats, and curled up on the couch with a heating pad pressed to my stomach before the second half of the game even kicks off.
As much as it sucks to miss it, and to cancel on Carter, it’s almost a relief to finally stop pretending everything’s fine. My body feels like it’s trying to kill itself from the inside out.
I’ve always struggled with painful periods, but this is definitely the worst it’s been in a long time.
As the post-game interviews begin, I find the remote and turn off the TV. My couch just about swallows me whole. I’m curled up on my side, knees brought up toward my chest, the heating pad clutched to my stomach like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
The tea I made earlier has gone cold on the coffee table. I can still smell the faint trace of peppermint, though it did nothing but burn my tongue and make me nauseous. The cramps are still sharp and low, constant now, a steady ache that flares into stabbing pain every time I shift.
My phone buzzes somewhere behind me, but I don’t move to check it. I know it’s probably Madison or Carter, and the thought of trying to sound okay for either of them feels impossible.
Instead, I stare at the dark screen of the TV across from me and let my mind wander somewhere I usually try not to let it go.
I wonder what it would’ve been like to have my mom here for this.
It’s such a small thing, but I can’t help imagining her sitting beside me when I was twelve, brushing my hair back and explaining what to expect. Telling me what to keep in my backpack at school. Reassuring me it was all normal.
Instead, it was a pamphlet from the nurse’s office and an awkward box of pads left in my bathroom by my dad, who couldn’t even look me in the eye that day.
I close my eyes and breathe through another wave of pain.
Even now, years later, I wish she could be here to tell me how to handle all the parts of being a woman that feel so impossible some days. Not just the physical stuff—though God knows this is miserable enough—but everything else too. The pressure. The way my chest feels tight all the time, like I’m already letting everyone down before I’ve even had a chance to prove myself.
Would she tell me it’s okay to rest? That it doesn’t make me weak to stay home and take care of myself instead of forcing a smile through the game while my uterus is trying to make me fold over in pain?
The heating pad shifts, and I press it harder to my stomach. I can feel the perfectionist part of me simmering beneath the pain, whispering that I’m being dramatic. That I should’ve stayed. That people probably noticed me leaving and think I’m flaky now.
But I literally feel like I’m going to throw up if I move at all right.
I curl tighter into the cushions and tell myself to stop being so emotional.
Eventually, I drag the throw blanket from the back of the couch over me and tuck it under my chin, praying the Advil kicks in soon since I’m out of Midol, making a mental note to stock up on that next time I make a run to the store.
27
CARTER
Something just hits different about the energy of the home crowd.
It’s the kind of noise you don’t just hear—you feel it. In your chest. In your teeth. Every shout, every stomp rattles down to your bones.
I roll my shoulders back and glance at the play clock as I jog toward the huddle, my heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through my ribcage.
