Page 2 of Broken Secrets
“It’s probably nothing serious,” she says quickly. “But chest pain and palpitations in someone your age warrant a closerlook. The cardiologist will do some tests—an EKG, maybe an echocardiogram. They’ll want as complete a family history as possible.”
“What if I can’t get that information?”
“They’ll work with what you have. But if there’s any way to get your father’s medical background, it could be helpful. Heart disease, high blood pressure, sudden cardiac death; these things can run in families.”
Yikes. Can she be any more blunt?
“Their office will call you once the referral goes through,” She continues, standing. “In the meantime, try to manage your stress. Get enough sleep, eat well, maybe cut back on caffeine where you can.”
She hands me a pamphlet about heart health and heads for the door, probably already thinking about her next patient. I sit there staring at the cartoon heart on the cover, wondering if mine looks anything like my father’s.
I barely make it to soccer practice on time. The drive from the medical office felt endless. Dr. Jensen’s words looped in my head.They’ll want as complete a family history as possible. Sudden cardiac death. Things that run in families.”
By the time I change into my practice gear, my hands are still shaking slightly. I stuff the medical forms deep into my bag, but I can feel them there like they’re radioactive.
“Kline! Let’s go!” Coach Martinez’s voice carries across the sunlit field as I jog out late. “We’re working on corner kicks.”
I take my position.
The ball comes my way, a perfect setup. The kind I usually bury without thinking. Instead, it rolls pathetically past the goal, joining a growing collection of my failed attempts.
“Kline! Get your head in the game!” Coach Martinez’s voice carries across the field, weathered hands cupped around her mouth. She wears the kind of tan earned from decades of outdoor practice. “This is your third missed shot today.”
I jog back toward the center circle, cleats digging into the turf. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Take five. Get some water.” She blows her whistle, sharp and final. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, leave it in the locker room next time.”
My cleats drag faint grooves in the grass as I trudge toward the bench. I snag my water bottle from the mesh bag, twist the cap, and gulp until my throat cools. A long breath escapes as I sink onto the bench, shoulders sagging. My green Adidas practice jersey clings to my back with sweat, sticky against the wood.
Seagulls circle above the bleachers, dipping low like they’re hunting for forgotten sandwiches from yesterday’s game. Even birds have better aim than me today.
Coach Martinez settles onto the bench beside me, her clipboard balanced on her knee. Up close, I can see the sun damage etched around her eyes; a testament to decades spent on outdoor fields.
“You’re usually money from that range,” she says while looking up and down at me. “This isn’t like you, Kline. What’s going on?”
I twist the cap back onto my water bottle, the plastic threads catching. “Just some stuff I need to handle. Medical stuff.”
“Ah.” She nods. Everyone knows the basic story about my family situation. “Everything okay health wise?”
“They’re running some tests. Heart stuff, maybe.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, but the words feel heavy in my throat. “Might miss some practices for appointments.”
“Your health comes first. Always.” She stands then pauses. “Whatever’s going on, you don’t have to handle it alone. There are people who care about you.”
The words lodge somewhere between my throat and my chest as I watch her rejoin the team. My phone buzzes with a text.
MOM
How did the appointment go? Everything okay?
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. How do I explain everything’s not okay, I need information she won’t give me, and her convenient absences are starting to feel like a pattern?
OLIVIA
Fine. Need to talk when I get home.
By the time I get to school for third period, the medical forms feel like they’re burning a hole in my backpack. I slip into AP English right as the bell rings, trying to ignore Mrs. Devonne’s pointed look as I slide into my seat. Her yellow sundress ripples in the sea breeze drifting through the open windows.
Derek Lance drops into the chair next to mine in his goalkeeper jersey, still damp from his own morning training.Because of course he’s been on the beach, throwing himself around like a Labrador who lives for fetch.
