Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(23)

“Please, I can’t, please, just please . . .” The only thing that made me let her go was the fact that she sounded afraid, not angry or unreasonable, but afraid. I released her, chest heaving as I pressed her body against the wall.

She squeezed her eyes shut like I was going to hit her.

What the hell was going on?

I backed up, tried to cool myself down, and then said through clenched teeth, “You lied to me.”

Her eyes flashed open. “Excuse me?”

“You. Lied.”

“About what?” By the pale look on her face, I knew I was right. I knew she’d been hiding shit, but drugs? Really?

“You. Tell. Me.” People were starting to stare. I could feel their eyes on my back as I held her in the corner, judging her, needing her to tell me it was a false positive, needing her to tell me she wasn’t just going to throw away her entire career for quick, happy, feel-good moments.

She gulped. “I really don’t know.”

“Stop fucking lying to me! If you can’t trust me, I can’t help you! Your drug test popped positive!”

I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’d like to think it was disappointment raging, but it was more than that, it was being let down by someone I wanted to succeed, someone who gave me a reason to believe that everyone else was wrong and she was right. And I hated that I trusted and was wrong. I hated fucking being wrong.

Her eyes widened. “That’s it?”

“What the hell do you mean that’s it?” I threw my hands in the air. “You can’t just pop positive on a drug test and play professional ball!”

“I’m on antianxiety meds, you jackass!” she snarled. “I’ve never popped positive on a drug test because I haven’t needed them until this last year! I didn’t even think about it, okay?”

“What?” I backed up.

Tears filled her eyes as the party fell tense and quiet.

“I have anxiety.” A tear spilled over her cheek. “I take Xanax when the panic attacks get really bad, but as long as I train really hard I’m usually okay. Except lately . . .”

“Lately I’ve been pushing you too hard?” I wondered out loud. “Lately . . . what? You have to communicate with me!”

She started to walk away.

Seriously? Who parented this woman!

I followed her all the way into her bedroom, not caring who saw. It didn’t matter. She was a client, and I’d done worse with other clients. Hell, I used to follow Slade into the bathroom.

“You can’t just walk away from me the way you do your problems!” I yelled, slamming the door behind us. “I’m the only person on your side right now. If you need pills, tell me why. If you need help, tell me you need it. If you need ice, you yell at me to get you fucking ice. You can’t just run, Parker. Not here. Not now.”

She sat down on the bed, bowing her head, defeated. “Running’s the only way to escape . . . did you know that?”

“Why the hell would you want to escape all of this?”

“How old are you?”

“What the—”

“Just answer the question. I know it’s stupid, just answer.”

“Thirty,” I breathed out and knelt in front of her. “What’s this all about? I know I’m tough on you, but if you think shit is hard now, try when you have a million cameras in your face, when you’re on a Wheaties box with an Olympic gold medal and you have little girls looking up to you wanting your autograph, when you have people saying they want to grow up and be just like you, that’s when shit gets hard. This, this is easy.”

She was quiet, and then, “I’m afraid.”

“It’s okay to be afraid.”

“Not of fame.” She finally met my gaze. Her pretty brown eyes were filled with tears threatening to spill over, her hands were clutched together in her lap, and her jaw was clenched. “I don’t like dark rooms. They set me off. So does the smell of peppermint. And older guys looking at me like they want me to take my shirt off. Actually, these days any guy looking at me makes me panic. I just . . . I’m okay with the soccer stuff. But being touched, being stared at, cornered, anything that makes me feel unsafe . . . So yes I’ve been taking a lot of Xanax lately, to sleep. To keep me from dark places with hollow laughter, rough hands, and the smell of gum.”

I ran my hands through my hair and then placed my hands on hers. “There’s more to this than I know?”

She nodded.

“Does Willow know?”

She shook her head.

“Does anyone know?”

She just shrugged.

“Okay, so apparently we aren’t talking about dark corners and peppermint gum, not today. But one day, you’re going to need to trust someone enough to tell them so that the nightmares stop, so that the lashing out stops, so that you take control of your life again.”

“Control.” She laughed like it was funny. “It’s not real, is it?”

“You decide that,” I said softly. “And make me one promise.”

Our eyes locked.

Off-limits. She’s off-limits.

I just never realized how much.

“Don’t yell at me. Talk to me, like your agent, like your coach, like your friend.”