All in on You

Chapter Twenty-Nine

My intention had been to sneak into the meeting room as inconspicuously as possible, but that plan failed epically for two reasons. The first reason is that the room's only door is at the front. You take a step inside and it's all eyes on you. Talk about a walk of shame. The second reason is that Keith, as soon as he saw me, took it upon himself to yell, "Hey, you're laaaate!" in an immature sing-song melody.

I know. I feel like shit about it. I open my mouth to apologize to the group of Saints players, coaches, and management, but it falls flat and no words escape me. Keith's expression has morphed from one of harmless teasing to genuine concern. Is everything okay? What have I just stepped into?

"What?" My question is rude, but I'm caught off guard by Keith's worry. It's only becoming more obvious that I'm missing something.

"Harlow," Adam says slowly.

He's standing a few feet to the left of the podium, where the head coach was probably addressing the team until I barged in here like a hot mess.

"Is everything okay with you?" he continues.

Adam is the person standing closest to me, and just like Keith, the concern is evident on his features. My eyes scan the quiet crowd who-to my horror-are mostly focused on me with a tentative look on their handsome hockey-playing faces. When I see Angelo, I decide that his expression puts the rest to shame.

Now I'm really worried that something happened. Angelo's dark brows are harsh slashes, and his jaw is as taut as I've ever seen. My chest squeezes.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. I got caught up in something and I didn't have time to message anyone." My words rush out in that panicked tone of someone who has high standards and hates to disappoint people, including herself.

I throw off my vest and cringe at the stain my drink left on my white shirt.

"I don't want to interrupt anyone more than I have, so just let me know when I can lead the exercises I've prepared-"

Oh wow. That's not good.

In a matter of seconds I go from hastily putting my bag on an empty table near the podium and pulling out my laptop to feeling so dizzy I forget where I am. A wave of what I can only describe as panic comes over me, absolutely drenching my body in clammy moisture. Shit. It's not until my wrists and knees hit something hard that I realize I'm on the floor.

And that's when the room springs into action. Footsteps are rushing towards me, and a mix of panicked and authoritative voices-the authoritative one belongs to Jacob Chandler-are barking worries and orders.
"Holy shit!"
"Is she okay?"

"Where's Glen? We need a trainer!"

"What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know where he is!"

Even with my blurred vision I can sense that I'm surrounded by Saints. Strong hands grab my ribs, just under my arms and guide me into a chair that someone has just pushed over. It feels like I'm blinking in and out of consciousness, but I'd know that touch in my wildest dreams.

When I'm hunched over in the chair, things start to come back to me, but I'm still sweating profusely, and my mouth is dry. Angelo is down on one knee and has his arms on each side of the chair, likely on standby to catch me in case I keel over.

"Har," Angelo whispers. "Talk to me."

"I'm not feeling well," I admit.

That's an understatement.

Angelo studies my face. He's not at all concerned that his teammates and coaches surround us, as do Adam and Robert.

"Here, have her drink this," Keith says as he thrusts an opened bottle of blue sports drink in front of my face.