Page 85 of Checking It Twice
“Back to normal.”
But nothing about this feels normal. Nothing about sitting next to him, breathing his air, pretending my heart doesn’t skip when his shoulder brushes mine—none of it feels normal.
It feels like the longest flight of my life.
And we haven’t even landed yet.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Withdrawal
Mitchell
Something’s wrong with me.
I’ve been back in Dallas for three days, and I feel like I got hit by a truck. Body aches, can’t sleep, can’t eat. Even Coach noticed during yesterday’s practice and told me to take it easy, maybe see a doctor.
“You look like death,” Hayes says, dropping onto the bench beside me in the locker room. “Seriously, man. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
But it’s not nothing. I’ve been tired before—exhausted, actually, after double practices or back-to-back road games. This is different. This feels like something vital got ripped out of me, and I can’t figure out how to get it back.
“You sure it’s not the flu?” Bennett asks, keeping his distance like whatever I’ve got might be contagious. “Because you’ve been dragging ass all week.”
I have been dragging ass. I can’t focus during meetings, missed an easy shot during yesterday’s scrimmage that I could make in my sleep. Everything feels off, like I’m operating at half capacity.
“Maybe I’m dying,” I mutter, only half-joking.
“Nah,” Chase says, appearing with a knowing look. “You’re not dying. You’re just being dramatic.”
“Fuck off.”
“See? Dramatic.”
The guys eventually clear out, heading home to their wives and girlfriends and normal lives. I sit in the empty locker room, staring at my phone, trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.
I haven’t talked to Clare since we got back. I saw her in passing yesterday—she was walking out of a meeting, laughing at something Lucy said, looking completely unaffected by whatever happened between us in Minnesota.
Or didn’t happen.
The sight of her, all professional smiles and careful distance, made my chest feel like someone was standing on it.
After a few more minutes, I drag myself to the parking garage, every step feeling like I’m walking through concrete.
The drive home is a blur. Traffic, red lights, the same route I’ve taken a thousand times, but everything feels foreign now.
I keep thinking about Clare in that navy dress she wore to the office yesterday, the one that hugged her curves just right and made me want to back her against the nearest wall. Professional, untouchable, like the weekend never happened. She barely glanced at me when I passed her in the hallway, just that polite nod you give a colleague you barely know.
It was worse than being ignored. At least anger would have meant she felt something.
My apartment feels like a tomb when I walk in. Too quiet, too clean, too much like the life I built to avoid feeling anything real.I collapse on the couch, head in my hands, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.
That’s when someone starts pounding on my door like the building’s on fire.
I open it to find Chase standing there with a six-pack and a bag that smells like buffalo wings.
“What’s this?”
