The Silicon Valley Connection

14 | aidan - print ('relapses')

"Watch numbers three, one, and eleven, Lim!" our coach barks at me from the sidelines. Knee pads slide across the court as our libero, Riley, recovers the ball just before it hits the floor.

"Got it!" I exclaim, setting the ball behind me, and Marcus spikes it just on the inside of the line, narrowly missing the triple block from Jaeson, Baylor, and Ollie.

Tch. That was a narrowly close line shot, and the toss was too low for my taste; I'm lucky that this is only practice because I don't think I would be able to handle all that pressure as the official setter, with the outside and opposite hitters relying on me like that. Jogging over to the bench after the whistle, I grab the athletic tape and estimate a decent length that I assume will cover both of my fingers.

A hand slaps me on the back, and Baylor sits on the bench next to me. "Already eager to rotate, huh?" he asks, a gusty laugh hidden in his words.

I rip off the tape with my teeth, guarding my smile that's been threatening to show ever since the rooftop kiss with Faith five hours ago. "You are aware that I'm better as a middle blocker, right?"

He pulls his black and blonde hair into a half-up, half-down look and shoots me an annoyed glare. "I know. I know. But you stood out to scouts from the top schools in the country because you were rumored to be a damn good player in any position...a 'jack-of-all-trades' sort of thing, you know? Just wanted to see you in action for myself. You could honestly go all the way to the Olympics if you wanted to."

I finish wrapping my left ring and pinky fingers. "I definitely could, but I don't think my dear old dad would be too keen on his son taking on such an uncertain profession. Besides, I enjoy my field of choice...I'm just not a fan of how my father runs things as the main face in the tech and engineering industry, but beggars can't be choosers, right?"

He grabs a volleyball from the cart and bounces it a few times before backing up towards the end line. "I suppose so. Now, stop sulking, and c'mon; I want to see if you can stuff my spikes. The road to Nationals begins now."

———

Two hours later, I drag my body to the locker room when a hoarse mix between a grunt and cough sounds from behind me on my way to the showers.

It's my father.

Here we go...again. "What was not to your liking this time?" I spit out, my rash inflection apparent and guard back up. My father's grip wraps and tightens on my shoulder, and I wince, remembering Hunter's sucker punch last night. The pain seared through my limbs as I felt his dull nails imprint through my practice jersey.

"Okay, first of all, watch your attitude with me. Just because I let you come to this school doesn't mean you can do whatever the hell you want."

My head is swirling with contemptuous comments, but I bite the edges of my tongue instead. Hard. It's a habit that I'll probably never break away from, but I don't care because the metallic smell and taste of blood send my senses on high alert, and it prevents me from doing something stupid.

"You let me? No. Incorrect. I paid for my application fee, the registration fee, and my tuition for the first two years. Not one cent of your dirty money was used, nor will it be used in the future for these last four semesters. I have more than enough funds from savings and brand collaborations to carry me all the way through the rest of my undergraduate career." His mocking dark green eyes narrow, and I just laugh.

"You really thought I didn't know about you underpaying your staff who do all of the grunt work? The only reason why mom hasn't taken over the company yet is because of your deep pockets and just as filthy board members, waiting to profit from another idea that's not your own."

His hand drops suddenly, and he takes two ominous steps towards me, his hulking frame towering over me. I fear he might slug me for this one, but his fingers only flex repeatedly, his raspy and breathy voice glides like nails on a chalkboard past my ear.

"You're still my son, so you better be careful of what you assume." His posture abruptly relaxes, and he heaves out a sigh, putting the caring father mask on.

I know where this is going.

"Just...do better. If your brother played, he would have--"

My jaw hardens, fixing my lips in a thin line. "But he doesn't, does he? Maybe if you came to more of my games back in high school and not completely centering it all around Hunter and his basketball--or should I say reliving your glory days through him, you just might understand me a bit better and not make a conclusion after one preseason practice." I shoulder past him, and his furious exclamations fade into nothingness, just pure nonsense against my ears.

Before I reach the showers, a sudden throb within my head causes my vision to blur, rendering my glasses useless.

Not now. I was doing so well these past two years. I stumble into an empty stall, slamming the door and sink to the tiled floor, staring blankly at the toilet in front of me.

And I vomit the breakfast panini that I had two hours before practice.

For the remaining moments that felt like hours, I sit with my head leaning against the door, monitoring my blood pressure, and taking full breaths, the way my doctor and CBT explained to me. Another wave of shivers racks through my body; I yank the sweatshirt's strings tighter around me, covering my face and stare up at the grey ceiling. My body knows there's nothing left, but I end up scrambling to the toilet in front of me again, heaving bits and pieces of anything my stomach can get rid of.

Back to square one I go.

2:03 p.m. Riley catches up to me just as I come out from our locker room, showered, clothed, and free of any signs of my previous anorexia relapse.

A minor setback is all that was. You've come too far and worried your mother too much to spiral back down now. It's all in the mind at this point. I'll restart the Pyramid method. Starting with the first levels, a ton of electrolytes and water, along with light meals.

"Hey man, what was that all about--whoa, what happened to your face? You get in a fight without me?" he jokes.

Kacey's concealer must've come off. I dash back into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror, gripping the sink. There, I reapply more of the product that she gave me a sample of with trembling hands.

I still look terrible. Women are damn near artists blending in the right shades and colors when they apply makeup because I'm surprised Riley hasn't said that I looked like a clown with the way I look.

I laugh weakly. "Uh, something like that," I called back, my mind elsewhere.

He reappears in the walkway and narrows his eyes. "Yeah, sure. So, when are you going to the study hour? This data science project is getting on my last nerves, and we all know you're better at this coding thing than all of us combined."

I force my hands into my windbreaker pockets, concealing my still-shaking fingers. "Eh, it depends. Are you going to bail this time?" I joke back. "Besides, I can't go today. I have a meeting with my WTC team."

"Right, for physics. You're in a group with Hunter, Marcus, and Faith, right?"

"Yeah. And if I tell you what happened with this," pointing to my eye, "will you please stop looking at me like a lost puppy?"

He scoffs, and I jab him in the arm. "Dude, relax. It was just a little scuffle between Hunter and me. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Just me being done with his stupidity.