Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

8. Finley

8

Finley

“So how’s my favorite college student doing?” Dr. Warren asks when I join our video chat.

I usually look forward to my weekly check-ins with Dr. Warren, but a ball of guilt sits uncomfortably in my gut at what I’m hiding from her. After my first doctor prescribed a medication that put me into a void of nothingness, she helped me climb out and find my way back to myself, to a life of hope and enjoyment… and sadness and disappointment and anger too.

Good emotions don’t exist without tough ones.

“Wait—don’t you have a kid in college?” I ask.

Dr. Warren smiles. “That sharp memory will serve you well in school. Let me rephrase, how is my second favorite college student?”

I settle deeper into the pillows on my bed, my tense muscles loosening. “Mostly good. Logic is kicking my butt. I didn’t expect it to be math without numbers, but I’m getting help.”

“And living with Matt and Gemma? How’s that been?”

I roll my eyes and give an exaggerated shrug. “As expected. I don’t see my brother much, because, you know, hockey. And when I do see him, he runs down a checklist of questions like the good little babysitter he is. Gemma’s cool though. He married up, for sure.”

“It sounds like he’s concerned about your well-being,” Dr. Warren says in the practiced careful voice she uses when she’s saying something I might not agree with.

“I suppose, but it’d be nice if he believed when I said I’m fine. If I wasn’t fine, I’d tell someone.”

Dr. Warren removes her reading glasses and settles them on top of her head. “You remember what we talked about?”

I sigh. My family’s concern isn’t unwarranted. People with bipolar 2 disorder have longer depressive episodes and higher rates of suicide than most disorders. Even when taking medication, they can relapse. And if they don’t take medication consistently, it can become less effective. Dr. Warren has reminded me countless times how important a support system is to staying healthy, and I don’t disagree. But my family’s version of support has resulted in a micromanagement of every aspect of my life.

“It’s hard to recognize early signs, I know, but I’m following the schedule we developed. After this, I’m going to read for fun for my Friday relaxation activity. I know I need to pace myself.”

I’m choosing to live in a world with constant triggers. Dr. Warren knows about my rigorous academic schedule and my part-time job at the café, but not my gymnastics. I could tell her because I’m protected by patient-doctor confidentiality.

But I don’t; I’m afraid of what she might say.

I trust Dr. Warren. She taught me how to keep myself safe and detect an oncoming episode so I could head it off. It’s not an exaggeration to say I owe her everything. She convinced my parents to loosen their grip and let me come here for school. If Dr. Warren doesn’t approve of my return to gymnastics, I’d have to revisit the plan. And I don’t want to do that. I trust she’s sufficiently prepared me.

“That’s good, Finley,” she says. “I’m proud of you and all the progress you’ve made.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my emotions in check. “Thank you.”

Her words remain with me thirty minutes later as I curl under a blanket on the absurdly comfortable couch to read a sports romance novel. I’m a sucker for these, even if the athletes on the page are nothing like the ones I know in real life. It’s nice to pretend.

Ten minutes have passed when the front door of the house opens, followed by the beep of the security system.

“Hey,” Zach says, stepping into view moments later.

It’s like the universe is poking fun at me, at the declaration I made. Here’s an athlete who’s not like the rest of them .

“Were you driving?”

He shakes his head, his dark hair flopping with the movement. “Nah, one of the athletic trainers drove me. I’m not great at driving on a good day. Best not to chance it.”

It’s such a minor thing, the way he stresses the A in certain words, but I find it so damn endearing.

“No sunglasses,” I observe.

Between my hectic schedule the last few days and Zach working with the Palmer City Wolves trainers, we haven’t seen much of each other. I read no fewer than two hundred pages and wrote a ten-page history paper on the Cold War. Add twelve hours of gymnastics and conditioning and eight hours of sleep each night, and I haven’t had time to join Gem and Zach for dinner.

Zach poked his head into my room a few times to say hi but didn’t mention the deal we struck, my questions about his romantic life, or my casual comment about our hookup. I’m on a roll with bad decisions lately.

I’m trying not to read into his standoffish behavior, which is challenging, given my history with men. Not that Zach and I are anything more than friends. Friends who are temporary roommates. Friends who are going to help each other with what they struggle with most. Friends, friends, friends.

“I’m tolerating light better.” Zach takes a step into the room, then pauses. “Okay if I join you?”

He’s so nice. Considerate without being suffocating. How does he manage to chip away at the walls I’ve carefully built?

“Sure,” I reply, which is all the permission Zach needs to hurl himself onto the couch like he’s jumping into a swimming pool.

“That must be a relief, getting back to video games and movies and whatever.”

His shrug is subdued, which gives me pause. Zach Briggs doesn’t usually have low energy.

“I’m not watching much…”

He trails off without explaining. He doesn’t have to. I know what it’s like to worry about permanently losing the sport you love. The stakes are higher for Zach, whose sport pays his bills. He’s been in the league for a couple of years, but he’s not set up for life if injury cuts his career short.

I don’t need to be a professional to understand the ramifications from an identity and a fulfillment perspective though. Both of us arranged our entire lives to chase the joy of success in our sports, the cheer from the crowds, the high of a win.

Losing can untether you, leave you drifting in a current, hoping to find a port.

I roll my silver ring around my ring finger. “Should we… start on the list?”

His head turns to the side, his dark eyes soft, vulnerable. “Maybe you can read to me?”

I snort. “You want me to read to you?”

He stares, his expression all Why not?

“I doubt you want to listen to me read a romance novel.”

I’m also unsure I could say some of the words in my book out loud to him, at least not without injecting awkwardness into our dynamic. Friends don’t read smut out loud to friends. That’s a fact.

“It’s also not on the list,” I point out, fumbling for an excuse. I’m not a shy person, and I’m not shy about sex… but there’s this hesitance I can’t explain, discomfort with intimacy that comes with sharing a love story. Something to explore with Dr. Warren one day.

He turns away from me, lifting his gaze to the ceiling as he reaches behind him for a pillow. He wedges it under his head and sighs deeply. “I like your voice, Finley.”

My body flushes with heat. No one has ever once told me they like my voice. Guys have commented on my boobs, ass, smile, eyes, and pussy. They like looking at me, tasting me, fucking me.

Zach wants to listen to me.

He says statements like these like they’re no big deal, as if people talk openly about feelings all the time. He’s on his back, eyes shut, waiting for me to read. Not self-conscious about the admission in the slightest.

I want to snuggle against him, wedge myself between his body and the couch cushions. He’d pull me into the crook of his arm, naturally, like he does everything. Kiss the top of my head. Run his fingers over my wrist. Wrap his leg around my ankle.

There wouldn’t be a game plan. He’s all earnestness and instinct.

Don’t change , I pray to whatever is out there. The world needs more men like Zachary Briggs.

I clear my throat. “All right. I just got to the part where she agrees to fake-date this guy on the team who’s in love with her. Her ex gets traded to the team they both work for, and she wants him to leave her alone. She doesn’t know the guy she’s asking to fake-date is already in love with her though. I’m not sure he does either. Not exactly anyway.”

I’m rambling like Zach, and by the way his lips tip into a smile, I think he finds it as endearing as I do. Or he’s laughing at me for my choice of books, which would seriously put a damper on his appeal.

“People do that?” he asks, his eyes drifting to me.

“Fake-date?”

He nods.

“In books, all the time. It’s one of my favorite tropes.” When he doesn’t say anything, I hastily add, “A trope is a story device—”

Zach laughs. “I know I’m kind of an idiot, Finley, but I know what a trope is.”

My cheeks heat. “You’re not.” I swallow thickly before continuing, unsure why it’s suddenly so hard to talk. “You’re not an idiot, Zach. You’re smart, in ways people don’t see—”

He laughs harder. “I’ve heard this speech before. It’s fine. I know my strengths. Or rather, my strength.”

Zach thinks he’s good at hockey and nothing else. I hate every person who helped form and perpetuate this idea in his mind.

“No, of course you know. I’m sorry, that was stupid. Lots of people don’t know about tropes outside the book community. I didn’t mean to imply you’re an idiot. You’re not an idiot, Zach.”

The words rush out like a rip current.

“You know people and what they need,” I ramble on, my face in full-on flame. “And that’s better than solving stupid equations or interpreting poetry. You’re the only person who sees me .”

Zach’s laughter subsides into a seriousness most people never see from him, at least outside the hockey rink. His stare burns into me, and he doesn’t say a damn word. I’ve stunned him silent. I don’t know what to make of it. Clearly, he doesn’t know what to make of me or what I’ve stupidly blurted at him either.

I snatch the book from my lap, wishing the couch would swallow me whole. “I’m going to read now,” I whisper, not trusting my voice to come out steady.

I crack open the book and let the words distract me from what I said. From the intensity of his gaze, I doubt Zach will forget any time soon.