Page 214 of Bad Prince

---

There’s a beat of silence.

Then I try one last time. “This is what I do.”

Her expression shifts. Not softer exactly, but steadier.

“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’m stopping you.”

That one gets me.

Because it’s not annoyance in her voice. It’s not even frustration.

It’s concern.

Which is honestly worse.

I look down at my hands. There’s faint residue from tape glue on my fingers. My knees ache. My shoulders feel like somebody replaced the joints with gravel. I can’t remember the last nightI slept all the way through without waking up thinking about practice film or matchups or whether Coach regretted putting me in.

Maybe I do look a little fried.

Still.

Three days.

My stomach twists.

Coach leans back again, decision clearly made. “You want to help this team?”

“Obviously.”

“Then show up to playoffs with legs under you and a brain that doesn’t look like it’s buffering.”

I mutter, “That was one time.”

“It was three times this week.”

Rude.

She reaches for her coffee, grimaces after tasting it, and sets it back down. “Go home, Cortez.”

I don’t move.

“Now.”

I stand slowly, like maybe if I take long enough she’ll change her mind.

She doesn’t.

At the door, I glance back. “Three days?”

“Three.”

“No workouts at all?”

“Not unless you’re being chased by a dog named, Kujo.”

I grimace.

She gives me a look. “Eat actual food. Sleep more than four hours. Go sit in the sun. Read a book. Flirt with a disaster. I don’t care. Just don’t come back in here acting like overtraining is a personality trait.”

---