Six Things Before Breakfast

18

When Sanders is back in the court, he doesn't feel as good as he should.

His teammates clap him on the back—even his coach gives him one of his very rare smiles, often reserved for victory celebrations after games. Rosen promises to treat him to lunch after their morning training, a little welcome back to red wrists and sore calves, sweat drenching the back of his shirt and fresh gashes on the knees.

Sanders doesn't know why, but it's a little hard to show the relief on his face, holding a volleyball once again.

Because he doesn't. There's no relief. Admittedly, he gets winded after the first half of their drills—and instead of diving for a ball Rosen passes to him, Sanders lets it fall on the ground, and he's bending over, clutching his knees, catching his breath.

"Dude," his friend says, walking closer. "You just broke the alphabet streak."

"I know," he says in between pants, shutting his eyes.

"We've never broken an alphabet streak."

Rosen's right. Sanders has never allowed the ball to touch the ground whenever they're doing drills. But for some reason, his arms feel...they feel dead. And numb. Are they supposed to be like this after weeks of sitting at home and lying in bed?

"I'm tired," Sanders admits, raising his head and meeting Rosen's gaze. His friend's eyes are narrowed, worried with concern, and he's bending down at his level. "I'm—" Sanders swallows thickly. "I need a break."

Rosen grabs the nearest water bottle and helps him to the bench.

It's not the last time.

As soon as morning training is over, Sanders crashes on the sofa in his house and sleeps. He thinks he needs to eat, but he can't move. And his muscles argue about going to afternoon training, but he's missed out on a lot, and he needs to go back.

As soon as they're dismissed, Sanders goes home. Maxon and Becks are in the living room, they're yelling, and it's loud—they're playing a video game, and Becks tells him, "Sanders, come play! Maxon is being a little shit." And Maxon pushes Becks on the couch and Becks punches him on the shoulder, but they're jumping on the couch and yelling at the television, but Sanders doesn't have the energy for this. "I'm tired, guys, you go ahead. Becks, kick his ass," Sanders mutters, shutting his eyes, and heads straight to his room. Falls face down on his bed and sleeps, easily losing consciousness.

But then his door opens, and Sanders feels so, so tired.

"Sanders?" Becks's voice whispers. "Are you okay?"

Far away in his thoughts, he's surprised Becks paused the game for this. He's surprised Becks noticed his off mood, that she stopped in the middle of her killing spree in whatever game she and Maxon were playing, and—and even that. That she and Maxon were playing, and she came to check up on him.

"Fine," he mutters, voice muffled against the sheets.

His best friend comes closer. He feels his feet move, and then his shoes and socks are off, and then Becks is jostling him carefully, pulling the sheets over his body. The AC switches on. "I'll wake you up for dinner."

Sanders doesn't even get to respond. He's out.

When Becks shakes him awake, it's dark. "Time is it?" he rasps, feeling sore all over. His throat is itchy and he feels, if it's possible, even more tired than before he slept, and his head is throbbing, like it's smashing against his skull and threatening to leak juices out of his ears.

"Eight," Becks's voice says. The bed's weight shifts, and Sanders feels her hand on his forehead. "You need to get up and eat. And take a shower. Your sheets are stained with sweat."