“A panic attack?” I stare at the ER doctor, a thin hippie woman in her forties, wondering how much weed she smoked before coming to work tonight. “I don’t panic. And it felt like my chest was ripping open.”
She places a firm hand on my shoulder. “We ran the bloodwork. We did the EKG. Every indicator of a heart attack is missing. Which means you had a panic attack. I’m going to give you a referral to a therapist who specializes in your particular situation.”
“Situation?”
“Playing sports is tough on the mind, too, Dean. You might want to start paying attention to signs of stress. It’ll only get worse if you go pro.”
If I go pro. Great vote of confidence. But I guess right now, the entire world is on the fence about me, considering how I buckled under the pressure last year. And again tonight.
I run a hand through my short hair. “I’ll be fine. I just have to work out a new situation that popped up.”
“Ah. The baby. Everyone’s talking about that.”
They are? Before I have a chance to ask what she means, an alarm is going off somewhere, followed by a “code blue” over the intercom. “The nurse will be by shortly with your discharge papers and follow-up recommendations.”
She disappears, leaving me scratching my head. I can’t believe I had a panic attack. Then again, I did feel under attack. Maybe my mind made a full-blown assault on my body. But what was it trying to tell me?
I go back to the moment that triggered me: memories of the night I fucked up last year. There were lights, cheering fans, and an overwhelming urge to flee. But why?
Fans had cheered me on before in other games, so why was that night different?
I give it some thought. Maybe because I wasn’t just another player on the field for once. I felt like they were all there to see me play.
“Jesus.” I clench my fist over my heart. Just thinking about it makes my chest tighten.
Maybe the doctor is right. I do need therapy. But whoever heard of a person being triggered by too much adoration? I can’t think of anything lamer. It’s like being too rich, too happy, or too good looking.
“Norland, how you feeling, son?” Coach walks in, holding a bag, and I immediately notice he’s alone. “I brought the clothes from your locker.”
“Thanks, but where’s Fia?”
“Don’t worry. She’s with my wife at home. You sure that baby’s yours? She’s damned cute.”
“Funny. And thank you. It was nice of you to take her.”
“If you’d called before practice and explained the situation, I could’ve helped you figure out a solution, son.”
I honestly didn’t think of that. “I thought I could figure something out on my own. Obviously, I failed.”
“Well, the team and I really admire your balls and dedication—jumping in to care for a baby you didn’t know you had.”
“Yeah, well, I guess that’s life. Curveballs.”
“And you stepped up like a champ, an example to young men everywhere of how to take responsibility for their actions.”
I don’t want to be an example. I just want to play football. Which is why I am not keeping Fia, no matter what. “Thank you, but I really don’t plan to raise—”
“The team started a fund for you. They all put in money to help with daycare cost and diapers and all the other stuff you’re going to need.”
“They did?” That’s really fucking nice of them.
“Yes, sir,” Coach says. “And I called in a favor over at the local station. They’re running the story on the ten o’clock news, but the guys already started posting on one of those social media places—Instabook or Twittgram or whatever. Donations are pouring in. You’re a real example to the community, Dean.”
I can’t seem to talk. Mostly because Coach just said people are giving me money to help with Fia. But what will everyone say when they find out I’m not keeping her? Either Marli is coming back, or Fia goes into the foster system. They’ll all hate me. They’ll skin me alive with bad PR.
“I can tell from your expression, son, that you’re overwhelmed with gratitude.” Coach smiles, and the nurse comes in holding a packet of papers. “I’ll be out in the waiting room. I can take you by my house to pick up Fia. Igor already drove your truck home.”
“Um, thanks, Coach.”
“You bet, kid.” He leaves, and I hear him mumble, “Sure is a damned cute baby.”
So, in other words, he doubts she’s mine. Well, same boat here, buddy.
The nurse starts unhooking me from the monitors. “It’s really great of you to take on fatherhood like that. I don’t know what I’d do if someone just dropped a baby on my lap.” She flashes an appreciative, doe-eyed smile at me.
Dammit. She thinks I’m some hero. I’m not. I haven’t taken on fatherhood. I just kept a baby alive for a day.
She goes through a bunch of instructions about my diet—stay away from caffeine, alcohol, and any form of stimulants. Get plenty of sleep. Drink fluids. Follow up with the therapist.
I thank her, and she leaves so I can dress.
I slide on my jeans and dig out my cell from my front pocket. I type my name into the search engine, and my story immediately pops up.
Oh God. It’s worse than I thought. In a matter of hours, my “situation” has gone viral. “Twelve thousand dollars?” I swallow hard. That’s the amount of cash people have donated.
Why? Why are they doing this? It’s just so…fucking nice!
My chest starts to tighten uncomfortably. The room starts to spin. I lie back down on the gurney and press the red button to call for help.