Page 561 of Bad Prince
Then he picks up my bag, loops his fingers through mine, and says, “Come on, baby.”
And for the first time since the whistle blew, I let someone else lead.
The days after are worse than the loss.
That’s what nobody tells you when you’re young and in season and convinced the heartbreak is all in the final point.
It’s not.
It’s in the mornings after.
No practice.
No match prep.
No scout notes.
No recovery schedule so brutal it organizes your whole nervous system.
No reason to tape your fingers.
No reason to ice your shoulder.
No place to put the energy that has lived inside your body for months.
Everyone saysrestlike it’s a gift.
Sometimes it’s just absence in sweatpants.
Tuesday I slept too late and woke up disoriented, like I had missed something important, only to realize there was nothing to miss.
Wednesday I wandered into the campus training room from habit, then turned around before anyone could ask why I was there.
Thursday I tried to do homework and ended up staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes while my brain kept supplying phantom routines.
It is astonishing how much of your identity can be scheduled.
And how abruptly silence can replace it.
Tristan sees all of it.
He doesn’t lecture.
Doesn’t tell me to “use the time.”
Doesn’t feed me some uplifting garbage about balance and perspective.
He just… stays.
He brings food.
Walks me to class when he can.
Leaves protein bars in my bag.
Shows up with coffee when I forget to eat breakfast.
Lets me be mean on the days I need to be mean.
