Nathaniel Jean's Senior Year

5: Nathaniel Jean's Downfall

The next day after practice, I was showered and out of the locker room before Lucas Morgan could so much as look at me. And the next day, and the day after that.

     A small part of me wanted to talk to him, to make sure that he knew he couldn't say a word to anyone. A smaller part wanted to apologize for the way I'd acted. A third part, bigger than the other two combined, wanted to pretend nothing had happened and simply cut Lucas out of my life, just like I had in the seventh grade.  That seemed like the easiest method. The path of least resistance.

     It wasn't.

     Destroying Lucas' image was hard when he was all I seemed to think about. It was as if he'd somehow claimed a sector of my brain and dedicated it to himself. The worst part: the thought of Lucas came with the thought of what Lucas knew. I wasn't stupid, I didn't think he'd bought any of my "I'm not gay" speech. He knew. He had that information, and he could use it however he wanted.

     That thought alone hadn't allowed me more than six total hours of sleep since Monday. It was Friday now, and halfway through practice, coach pulled me aside.

     "Jean, you look like you're gonna pass out on me," he said in his deep, coarse voice. "You sick?"

     "I'm fine," I all-but snapped. It was never a good idea to be rude to Marcus Larmon, but lack of sleep was making me irritable. Of course, he was right. I felt queasy and dizzy, constantly somewhere between throwing up and passing out. But I wouldn't stop until my legs gave out. If I overworked myself, so be it. I desperately needed the distraction.

     "No, you're not," Larmon insisted. "It shows. You were all over the place at last night's game, and you look green now. You need a break."

I'd been playing for Coach Larmon for years, and I knew him well. The tone of his voice now told me that arguing would bring me nothing but trouble. His decision was final.

"Fine," I said. "I'll take five minutes."

I thought that was fair. Coach, however, shook his head. "Practice is almost over. You're done for today. Go back and—"

"Coach!" I whined. He held up a hand, efficiently silencing me.

"You're done. Now go back to the locker room and freshen up. Drink a lot of water. And get some sleep, Jean. Skip the club game tomorrow, that's an order. And if you're not looking better by Monday, I'll bench you all game."

My eyes widened in disbelief. Coach had never made me skip a game, or threatened to bench me for so long; he rarely ever benched me at all. I was one of his best players, maybe his best. He needed me on the field. Especially next Monday—the team we were playing was no pushover. But Coach didn't bluff. If I didn't catch up on sleep, he wouldn't let me play. If only he knew that I tried to sleep. I couldn't. Not while anxiety and paranoia made me restless.

Nevertheless, I hummed in grudging understanding and headed for the locker rooms, grabbing my water bottle on the way. Teammates glanced at me as I passed, confused. The only one who didn't turn to look was Lucas.

When I sat down in the locker room, my entire body seemed to sag. I was so tired and anxious and angry and sad. That wasn't exactly abnormal—I spent most of my time feeling tired and anxious and angry and sad. Never to this degree, though. If I didn't get it together soon, I would become my own downfall. Or perhaps I already was.

So many things were wrong. Physically, that was obvious. I looked horrible. My hair was stringy and messy, my face was caved in with exhaustion, and coach was right—I was starting to look a little green.