Before The Sunrise

panic

Usually, the locker room after a game echoes with lively conversation like a diner on a Sunday morning.

When I get out of the shower tonight, though, all I hear are whispers and Josh's little group's snickers. Like they need to bother keeping their voices down. I know they're talking about me, so they might as well say it out loud.

I do my best to ignore all of it, sitting down and pulling out my phone. It's not like there's anything to look at on there, but it makes it easier to look like I'm not inches away from a breakdown if I have something to do with my hands.

DeAndre sits down next to me, and I obnoxiously refuse to acknowledge him.

"Hey," he says in a low voice that, in my mind, is echoing through the entire room.

I don't say anything. I know I'm being an asshole. The way I'm acting right now is the kind of behavior that scares my teammates and takes the fun out of the game for them. The more I sulk like this, the more pressure I'm laying on guys that I guess are my friends and my responsibility as a captain. It shouldn't be about winning or losing for them.

It's not fair to them.

"Can we go somewhere to talk?" DeAndre asks.

"What is there to talk about?" I reply rudely. I stand up and turn around, pulling my sweaty clothes out of my locker and shoving them in my bag. Guys slowly make their way out of the locker room, migrating to the gym where we do our post-game debrief. "Coach is waiting for us."

I turn to follow everyone out, but DeAndre catches me by arm, stopping me. "Wait. Are you mad at me?"

Fuck. "No," I say tersely. I feel like I should explain myself to make him feel better, but I don't know how. It really sounds like I'm mad. "Fuck. No. I'm not mad. Okay?"

No. Fuck. That's not how that was supposed to come out.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I feel like I let you down."

My heart twists. I muster the courage to look him in the eye. "No. I'm sorry. Please stop apologizing. It's just a fucking game."

"Maybe you should take your own advice, bro," DeAndre says. "Look, you know I won't lie to you. The more you act like the sun rises and sets on these games, the more stressed everyone else feels. We all follow your lead."

He's just being honest, but it fucking hurts, hurts like being sacked by fucking Matt Schultz. DeAndre doesn't know how important this game is to me. None of them do.

"Hanson, Jackson, get your asses out here!" Coach calls from the door.

"Fine, I'll try to chill out," I tell DeAndre, turning to leave.

"But this isn't about them," DeAndre adds, stopping me. "It's about you. I'm worried about you."

I don't want to talk anymore. I decide the conversation is over and walk out to the gym, taking a seat in one of the last two chairs available.

"Glad you could join us, Hanson," one of Josh's friends, Miguel, sneers. Everyone else chuckles uncomfortably as DeAndre sits down next to me.

I look around at them, feeling anxiety radiating from them.

Fuck. This is my fault.

I pull my jacket tighter around my shoulders, a sudden chill rising on my skin, and stare at my lap.

"I don't want to take long tonight," Bradford says. "This was a difficult game, and I know a lot of you haven't done your homework for tomorrow yet, DeAndre."