Parallel Plays | P.B & C.C

10. red wine supernova. SAVANNAH

The door clicks shut behind Riley, and the silence that follows is heavier than I expect it to be. My chest still feels tight—not from the concussion, not from the dull throbbing at the base of my skull, but from the way Riley looked at me before she left.

Like she didn't recognize me.

Like I was someone different from the person she thought she knew.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face before pushing myself off my bed. I'm exhausted, but I know I won't be able to sleep. My head is still spinning, not just from the concussion but from everything that just happened.

Riley had shown up unannounced, concern written all over her face, only to find out I hadn't told her about my injury. That she found out from someone else. Then, as if that wasn't enough, she found out about Paige—about how we'd been spending time together, about how I didn't tell her that, either.

The mix of frustration, hurt, and something else I couldn't quite name had been clear in Riley's voice when she asked, "Since when do you and Paige Bueckers spend all this time together?"

And I hadn't known how to answer.

Because I didn't know when it had changed.

Or maybe, I just hadn't let myself admit that it had.

I shake my head, pushing the thoughts away as I cross my small dorm room, trying to busy myself. My practice bag sits in the corner, a reminder of everything I should be doing right now. Of everything I can't do.

The frustration rises up again, hot in my throat, and I let out a sharp breath before yanking open the mini fridge, grabbing the ice pack the trainer gave me earlier. I press it against the back of my head as I sink onto the edge of my bed.

I don't want to think about any of it.

Not Riley. Not Paige. Not the fact that my body has betrayed me when all I've ever done is push it to be perfect.

But I can't stop thinking about all of it.

The Weight of Disappointment

I should have told Riley about the concussion.

I know that.

She would have been there. She always has been. But something about saying it out loud, about admitting to her of all people that I got knocked out of practice and now had to sit out for weeks—it felt too much like failure.

And Riley doesn't do failure.

She expects the best. From herself, from the athletes she trains, from me.

I know she wouldn't have said it, wouldn't have outright told me that I should have been more careful, more aware, more something—but I would have seen it in her eyes.

So instead, she found out after the fact. After I had already gone through the diagnosis, after I had already been benched, after I had already started spending my recovery in the same room as Paige.

And I think that's what bothered her the most.

_______________________________________

I don't know how to explain Paige to Riley.

Hell, I don't even know how to explain Paige to myself.

It started out as nothing—just two athletes recovering at the same time, forced into the same space, making conversation to pass the time. But somewhere along the way, it shifted.

At first, I didn't notice it.

Then I did.

Like the way Paige would linger after her own rehab was finished, sitting on the training table next to mine, swinging her legs like she wasn't in a rush to leave.