Page 212 of Bad Prince
Fair.
I wait.
She folds her hands on top of the desk. “You need rest.”
I blink.
That is not what I expected.
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.” She tips her head. “You’ve been grinding too hard.”
My first instinct is to laugh, because what does that even mean? Grinding too hard is the whole point. Grinding too hard is basically my brand.
Instead I say, carefully, “We’re heading into playoffs.”
“Yes,” she says, like I’m slow. “I’m aware. I’m the one building the playoff rotation.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
She keeps going. “You’ve been trying to prove something to everybody. The team. The staff. Me. Probably yourself more than anybody.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
“That’s not?—”
She lifts a hand and I stop.
“Don’t waste both our time lying to me.” Her eyes narrow, not mean exactly, but sharp enough to pin me in place. “You think I don’t see it? The extra reps. The early lifts. The cardio after practice. The tape on half your body like you’re holding yourself together with adhesive and spite.”
I look down at my wrist.
One stubborn strip of white tape is still stuck to my skin.
I hadn’t even noticed.
Coach sighs, and some of the edge leaves her voice. “I want a player, Stella. Not a robot.”
That lands harder than I want it to.
Because the truth is, I don’t really know the difference anymore.
This is what I do.
This is how I stay ahead. How I stay useful. How I make sure nobody can say I don’t belong here, don’t deserve the minutes, the spot, the scholarship, the shot.
If I’m not working, then what am I doing?
Falling behind, probably.
I swallow. “I’m fine.”
Coach actually laughs at that. Just once, short and unimpressed.
“No, you’re functional. That’s not the same thing.”
I stare at her.
