The Halo Effect

44 | torn

I had to be trapped in a nightmare—I simply had to be.

And so I blinked a few times, trying to shatter reality with sheer hope that this wasn't actually happening. That I was still taking a 20-minute power nap in my dorm room, and this was all just some sinister figment of my imagination.

But it wasn't.

I still sat on the cold tiled floor of the boys' locker room, clutching Trip's jersey. The  pungent odor of sweaty socks burned my nose—I couldn't have dreamt that smell.

Still coming to terms with my waking-nightmare, I remained in the alcove until I knew Trip was long gone. Then I bolted out of the locker room like a racehorse in the Preakness Stakes.

Spring athletes had started to trickle into the building, but I had my blinders on and cold-shouldered everyone—including my teammates—as I ran into the lobby and pushed my way outside.

It didn't matter that it was stupidly hot out—I needed fresh air and sunlight to clear my mind. I was about to storm down the sidewalk to locate a bench to collapse onto when rationality brought me to a complete stop on the sidewalk.

I still needed to return Trip's jersey.

I also needed to change into my jersey for my game—the semifinal game. 

I dug my phone out from my pocket to check the time. I still had 40 minutes before warm-ups. I usually spent that time listening to music, braiding my hair, and getting myself into the right headspace to dominate every aspect of the game. That routine clearly wasn't happening today, but I still needed to focus. I had no choice but to focus.

Coaches and scouts from the three NESCAC schools I sought to receive offers from had attended the quarter-finals game and would likely be at the game tonight. My future was on the line.

I looked up at the sky—a striking blue canvas without a single cloud. "Pull yourself together," I begged myself.

Knowing I wouldn't receive some sort of cosmic sign indicating that I had done so, I marched back inside and made the trek to the hallway that overlooked the field house.

For better or for worse, Trip was alone in the hallway. He stood with one shoulder leaned against the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, looking perfectly at ease as he scrolled through his phone.

My eyes stung at the simple sight of him.

Trip looked up as I approached him.

"There you are. I was starting to worry." Trip sported his charming half-smile, but it faded when I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. "Chan, hey, what happened? Are you alright?"

A mangled, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I didn't laugh because it was funny but because seeing Trip made me want to second-guess what I'd literally just overheard in the locker room. But it was almost second nature to do so.

Trip had the face of an angel, looking so innocent and irreproachable that it felt cruel of me to tell myself that it was time to draw the line. To draw even for the first time in our relationship.

"I went to the team room to give you your jersey," I said, quieting my voice to prevent it from carrying.

Trip's gaze didn't stray from mine, but the light seemed to fade from them. "You were there when Grayson was there."

I nearly smiled. Despite what Trip said on the night of the cookout, I'd never underestimated his intelligence or sought to insult it. He projected his brilliance onto everything he did. It showed in school and on the lacrosse field. It even showed in his eyes.