Page 83 of The Players We Hate
I closed my eyes, jaw tight. Yeah, I knew. My mom has always been too stubborn to ask for help. Too proud to admit she needed it, even when it scared the people around her.
I yanked a hoodie over my head, shoved my legs into joggers, and crammed my damp gear into my bag with no care for the dripping fabric. My hands shook as I ended the call and told Coach I had to go. He started to ask why, but I was already moving, and I didn’t stick around for questions.
By the time I crossed campus, the sun had slipped behind the trees, and the air had a bite to it. My breath came hard, every inhale burning my throat as I pushed faster. The weight in my chest only grew heavier with each step.
I was fishing for my keys in the lot, fingers clumsy with urgency, when I heard her voice.
“Talon?”
I turned to find Wren. She stood under the overhang by the player’s lot, one arm wrapped tight across her chest, the other clutching a brown paper bag. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun, wisps framing her face in soft waves. She looked like she’d been pacing. Maybe waiting.
“You heading home?”
I let out a breath. “Yeah. I just got a call… it’s my mom. I need to get back.”
Her eyes softened, the worry I’d already seen written clearer now. She nodded once. “Then I’ll come with you. You shouldn’t do this alone.”
I hesitated, but she didn’t. She stood her ground, not backing down, and I knew she meant it. She wanted to help. Maybe she’d been waiting for this, and perhaps I wanted a reason to trust her.
The ride was quiet. Not heavy, just crowded with too much we weren’t saying. Every so often, I caught her sneaking a glance at me, quick and careful, checking if I was about to break.
Halfway home, my phone lit up on the console. My aunt Susan again. I hit speaker with my thumb so I didn’t have to take my eyes off the road.
“How is she?” My voice was tighter than I wanted it to be.
“She’s okay now,” Susan said, her voice filling the car. “I made her eat something, but her sugar keeps dipping. It’s like I get her stable, and then an hour later, she’s back down again. I don’t understand it, Talon. She’s scaring me.”
Wren’s hand shifted in her lap, clutching the brown paper bag a little closer. She didn’t say anything, but I felt her watching me and listening to every word.
“I’m on my way,” I said. “Ten minutes.”
“Good,” Susan breathed out, relief crackling through the line. “Maybe she’ll listen to you. Because she sure as hell won’t listen to me.”
The call clicked off, leaving the car in silence again, heavier this time. My grip on the wheel tightened. Out of thecorner of my eye, Wren kept her gaze on the road ahead, as if she looked at me now, I might come undone.
When we pulled into the driveway, Susan was waiting at the door, the porch light flickering overhead. I cut the engine, and Wren’s brows lifted slightly, her eyes flicking from the house to me, reading me in a way that made it clear she understood this wasn’t just worry.
“She’s resting,” Susan said. “Still won’t go to the ER. Told me if I dragged her, she’d never forgive me.”
That sounded about right.
The smell of cinnamon clung to the air, but it didn’t settle me. My mom was curled beneath a quilt on the recliner, pale and sweaty, her breathing shallow.
Susan hovered close, wringing her hands. “I gave her juice and some crackers, but it doesn’t last. An hour later, she’s low again. I don’t know what else to do.”
Before I could answer, Wren slipped into the kitchen. A moment later, she was back with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, moving with quiet purpose. She crouched beside my mom and spoke gently, but firm enough to cut through the panic.
“She’s been crashing like this a lot lately,” Susan said quietly. “Two, sometimes three times a day. I can’t get her numbers to hold, and she won’t go see anyone. She keeps brushing it off, but it’s not nothing.”
“Juice brings her up fast, but it burns off just as quick,” Wren said, scooping peanut butter onto a cracker and setting it on the table. “She needs protein with it to hold her steady. Cheese, nuts, yogurt—anything that’ll slow the drop. And she should be tracking her numbers so herdoctor can adjust her insulin. These dips aren’t safe if she’s by herself.”
Susan blinked, caught somewhere between relief and guilt. “I didn’t think of that. I’ve just been grabbing whatever’s quick.”
Wren shook her head. “That’s not wrong. It works in the moment. But to keep it from crashing again, she needs more than sugar. Could be her dosage is off too. You’re right about her seeing a doctor. Until then, she shouldn’t be alone.”
I stayed quiet, watching as Wren tucked the quilt higher around my mom’s shoulders. Her hands didn’t falter, her presence cutting into the panic that had been clawing at my chest since the call.
“I thought it was just stress,” I muttered, the words weak even to my own ears.
