Page 43 of Full Tilt
Like a slideshow, brief images flash before my eyes—how Tommy pulled down the zipper on my sports bra, pinned me against my bedroom door, and thrust inside me so hard that I saw stars.
I pinch the side of my thigh, hard, certain I’ll leave a bruise but determined to yank my brain away from the memories.
Sex with Tommy can never happen again.
“Nothing is eating at me,” I bite out, trying to convince myself as much as my friend.
She quirks a doubtful brow at me. “Sure. You keep telling yourself that, and I’ll keep waiting for details of what’s really going on.”
Ten minutes later, I’m having the worst practice session of my career. You know it’s bad when you’re beaten at your near post—three times in quick succession.
On a headshake, I snatch up my water bottle from behind the net, taking two large pulls before throwing it back down.
“What’s the issue, Miller?” Coach Anderson approaches me, scratching at her temple as she tries to work out what the hell she’s witnessed today.
I’m playing like a stand-in goalie who just got woken from a ten-year-long coma.
I release a long sigh; I have zero answers for her—or at least reasons I can give that she’d understand.
“I think I ate something weird last night; I haven’t felt well all morning.”
Her eyes descend on my body.
Coach Anderson is one of the best I’ve worked with, and she can smell bullshit from a mile away.
“Why didn’t you report how you were feeling when you arrived? This Saturday is a key game and could dictate whether we lift the shield at the end of the season. If you aren’t feeling right, then I don’t want you wasting precious energy in a nonessential practice.”
Reaching up, I pull at the end of my high-top ponytail, frustrated at myself for telling lies. “I thought I could ride it out, but I was wrong.”
She nods once, narrowing her eyes at me in question. “Do you need to see the team doctor?”
I shake my head. I do not need to see a team doctor because there’s zero wrong with me, other than my state of distress over what I let Tommy Schneider do to me.
“Well, maybe you should skip out on the end of this session,” Coach suggests, pointing toward the main building. “Grab awarm shower and head home to relax. Get some decent nutrition on board too.”
I practically scowl at the two remaining containers of curry sitting in my freezer.
“Oh, and, Miller?” Coach calls out to me as I turn on my heel and head toward the locker rooms.
“Yes, Coach?”
She bends down, retrieving the water bottle I forgot.
I take it from her with a smile and wait for her to speak.
“I need to talk to you about next season and how I see the team shaping up. I planned to pull you to one side after this session, but now I’m thinking we’ll hold off until after Saturday’s game.”
I bite down on my bottom lip, genuinely unsure what she wants to discuss. Surely, my nutritional habits haven’t gotten back to her …
“Is everything okay?” I ask, impatient to know if I should be worried.
Coach’s expression turns soft. “Everything is fine. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll have someone in admin fire a meeting request to you, and we can catch up and talk.”
The rain beatsdown against the roof of my car when I make a run for it across the parking lot.
With my training bag hanging off my shoulder and icy-cold rain soaking through my hoodie, I dig around in the pocket of my sweatpants for my car key.
“Nice practice.”
