S.M. ✦ Gin & Juice

XVIII.

His knee bounced rapidly up and down, heel tapping the wood floor of the massive locker room. He bit his fingernails, raked his fingers through his hair. The nervous habits had taken an upswing since he'd started drinking. He had never been good at coping mechanisms, but he needed to be right now.

Shawn took a deep breath and closed his eyes, regulating his inhales and exhales like his therapist had taught him. He felt the memories from weeks past, the whisper of her fingers gliding along his chest, felt the ends of her hair brush his face. He wondered if there would be a day when the thought of her wouldn't calm him down, wouldn't settle his heart better than any kind of pill they could put him on.

He didn't want to admit how much he hoped she'd show up. There wasn't even a guarantee that his letter made it to her in time, but he needed to believe it did. He needed to believe that she knew in this moment everything that she meant to him. How much she'd helped him even when she wasn't there, even when she might never be there again.

Soon enough, her image dissipated and he was left alone with his breathing, calm and steady. This was what he had to focus on. Himself. The faith he had in himself to do what he needed to do. It had always been there, just deep and hidden. He didn't need her or a bottle of gin to play football, he never had. The pressure to win, to be the best, would always be there, and he had to deal with it. One breath at a time.

"Are you ready?" A hand clapped his shoulder.

"Yeah, Coach," Shawn smiled, a little tighter than he normally would.

"It's okay to be nervous, kid," Coach Bradford smiled back, chuckling just a little, "God knows, I am." They nodded at each other knowingly. The pride in Coach's eyes was so clear that it almost knocked Shawn over, unprepared for all the emotions he'd have to deal with today. Not that anyone could have dealt with it. He was playing on college football's biggest stage. People all over the country would know his name and face tomorrow if they didn't already, team allegiances be damned. Two months ago, the thought of that kind of exposure would have sent him swan-diving into the nearest bottle. Now, he just had to remember to breathe.

A flash of blue behind his eyelids forced them open. He stood up and walked to the center of the locker room, squeezing his fingernails into his palm to resist the temptation to go numb. It was time. He cleared his throat.

"CIRCLE UP, BOYS."

The deafening roar that answered didn't need a question or an answer to relay the message. They were ready.

——-

Speeding wasn't the word. It was more like flying. Not just because your mom was driving 90 miles an hour down the freeway, but you felt like you were hovering three inches in the air. The floating sensation had started about three seconds after finishing Shawn's letter and hadn't stopped yet. Your mind was firing in a thousand directions. What if I'm too late? What if he regrets sending the letter? This is so crazy. I'm out of my mind. What if I can't do this? All those people. As if she could sense your thoughts spiraling, your mom held her hand out over the center console. You grabbed at it, an anchor to bring you back to shore.

"Honey, I know I said you should start living," her eyes crinkled when she smiled through the words, "but you don't have to do this if you're not ready." She squeezed your hand, making you feel the pressure even though you held her hands between yours in a vice grip.

"I want to do this," you looked at your clasped hands, the white knuckles betraying your words.

"I know, baby," she smiled at the road. You could see the pride plain on her face at the progress you'd made, "and I think you can do whatever you want to do within reason, I'm just worried about going from googly eyes to 90,000 pairs of living, breathing eyes."