See the Stars with You | ✓

NINE | 7th February

NINE

-3 months

7th February, 2015

HARLIN'S POV

"Look," Coach runs a hand through her hair. The other holds a clipboard in place. "You've got a lot in you, kid. There's no denying that."

She takes a moment to take a deep breath in, her fingers entangling in the fine, dark hair once again. There's an unspoken 'but' hanging in the air between us. There always is. Coach doesn't respond immediately, choosing instead, to let her gaze wander to the match going on. The yells of teens, highlighted by Rida's distinct screeches and the squeak of basketball shoes against polished wood fills the silence as she tries to continue.

"And?" I ask hopefully, trying to suppress both the pounding in my temples and my lunch threatening to make a reappearance.

"But," she corrects, "You're just not playing like you used to."

Wow. She just ripped that one off like a Band-Aid.

"What do you mean?" is my faint response, desperately wishing that she'd take it back and let me play.

"I don't know, kid, your head doesn't seem to be in the game anymore." I open my mouth to argue, but she holds a hand up, signaling to let her finish. "Lately, you seem to be making a big deal out of everything, and—"

"Wait, what do you mean?" I repeat, clearly unable to comprehend self-explanatory sentences.

"Take yesterday, for example. You had to sit out just because you got hit by a basketball."

"Lucy practically threw it at me," I say immediately.

"And crying didn't take it a bit too far?"

"It hurt!" I yell, throwing my hands up in annoyance. No one gets it.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" Coach snaps, making me realize a split second too late that my outburst could not have been at a worse time. "You spend way too long fussing over minor wounds, you're yelling at everyone, your stamina's practically non-existent— this is what I'm talking about. Don't you see? I'm sorry, honey, you can't stay on the team of you can't cooperate with your teammates for five minutes."

"Fine," I force out through gritted teeth. "I quit." I stomp out, grabbing my things lying on the benches and shoving them into my duffel. No one gets it.

I try to slow my pace, but my rebellious feet pound against the tiled floor as I break into a run.

Lesson Four: Stop crying, oh my God.

Passers-by give me strange looks as I dash past them, not knowing what I'm running to— or from.

It isn't until I'm outside the building that my pace slows to a walk, allowing me to take in huge gulps of air to ease my heaving chest. Coach was right— I shouldn't be this breathless after a thirty second run. I keep pacing around, knowing that I wouldn't be able to get back up if I sat down.

Coach's words echo in my head, each louder than the last.

I'm not on the team anymore, I'm not playing like I used to, I can't cooperate with anyone, no one seems to like me anymore, I can't understand what the heck is going on, I'm a mess. I can't do this anymore.

The squirrel that makes a dash up a tree in front of me brings me back to earth. I study its quick movements up the tree, until it is lost among the scarce February foliage.