The Coaching Hours

by Ney, Sara

  I don’t know what else to say without spilling my guts and making this awkward, and we’re both about to start school, but I will tell you this. If I close my eyes, I can see you standing shirtless in the kitchen, your skin tan from playing soccer with no shirt on.

  Of course, this is the wine talking.

  In the light of day, I’m strong and moving on, just like all the greatest love songs say to do.

  It’s too bad I’ve taken them all off of repeat.

  Love,

  Anabelle.

  Saturday, August 23rd

  Anabelle,

  Stop talking about me like I’m a ghost. I’m not dead, I’m in Michigan. I’ve read and reread your notes at least thirty times and decided to level the sobriety playing field, I’d do a few Jagerbombs before typing this message.

  If you think Iowa is boring, you should come to Michigan. I hear they get buried in snow in winter, and the population here is a bustling 120k. It’s not even September and I’m already freezing my balls off.

  I texted Dev and told him to stop staring at your ass and find someone new to lust after. He didn’t seem fazed and I know he enjoys riling me up, the fucking dickhead. He said you went and ordered a new pair of socks to cover your shin guards, yellow and blue stripes. Bet they’re adorable—you have the sexiest legs.

  Dev was bragging about you, said they switched your position and tried playing you at forward. Why didn’t you tell me you scored two goals?

  Class officially begins on the 25th—two more days—but I’ve got the syllabus for my classes printed out and have been prepping for the course load. Such a fucking nerd, I swear.

  My internship is great. As you know, I’m working with the football players and their team of trainers and therapists. If everything goes well, I’m hoping they’ll offer me a permanent position once I get my degree. Then again, it’s Michigan and it’s fucking cold, so we’ll see if I can hack it in winter.

  I love you, Anabelle. You are undoubtedly one of my best friends, and I think about you every second of every damn day.

  Anabelle

  I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, angling my head from left to right, studying myself. My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are bright, but something isn’t quite right.

  Hmm.

  I lean forward, pulling down on my lower lids with my forefingers, checking my irises. Pat at my cheeks. Run a hand down the front column of my throat, poking at my collarbone.

  Hmm.

  “Hey, you almost done in here? I was going to freshen up my face.” Madison sticks her head through the bathroom door, giving me a thorough once-over. She’s done up and downright adorable. “You look pale—are you feeling all right?”

  I frown at my reflection. “I look pale? Really? I thought I looked rather flushed.” I suck in my cheeks, grimacing at my fish face.

  “Nope, you’re definitely pale.” Our eyes connect in the mirror and I can see that she’s raised her brows. “You don’t think you’re getting sick, do you? Three people in my econ class had the flu last week.”

  “No…maybe? I’m just off. Everything is…off lately.”

  “Do you think it’s depression? I know you miss Elliot, but it’s not like you were in love with him.”

  She’s wrong; I was in love with him, and I want to point out that sometimes suffering through a love you never had is worse than suffering through one you did. Everything with Elliot and me was left unfulfilled.

  “Anabelle, you had the entire summer to get over him and move on. It’s been more than two months.”

  Three.

  It’s been almost three months of summer break and I still miss him like crazy. Our letters back and forth mean nothing if he’s not here. They’re a weak replacement.

  “I know, Madison, but it’s just not the same.”

  “It doesn’t help that you’re sleeping in his damn bedroom.” She’s mentioned this a few times as cause for my melancholy. “You wanna switch?”

  “Please, I wasn’t born yesterday,” I tease. “You just want the queen-sized bed.”

  “True. The twin bed sucks—I can’t bring anyone home because it’s way too small to get laid in safely. Last weekend when you were having dinner at your dad’s, I brought a random home and he fell off the side while he was going down on me. It was so embarrassing.”

  The visual of that makes me giggle. “I mean, he was already down on the floor, on his knees—couldn’t he just have kept going?”

  She rights herself against the doorframe. “Dammit, you’re right! He totally could have!” Crosses her arms. “Shit, now I feel robbed of an orgasm.”

  “He didn’t get you off after that?”

  “No. He kept complaining about the bed.”

  “Did he invite you back to his place?”

  Madison makes a face. “For real? Like I’d screw him at the fraternity house. Gross, no. Nothing against those guys, but the Pi house is disgusting—no one cleans it.”

  “It’s definitely not like the other houses on Greek Row.”

  “Hell no it’s not—those houses are gorgeous.”

  “Even the houses on Jock Row are fifty times better than the Pi house.”

  We chatter, bantering back and forth until she has to leave, and I go back to scrutinizing myself in the mirror. There are dull purple bags under my eyes from fatigue, and my hair looks dull.

  Something isn’t right.

  Hmm.

  Elliot: How you holding up without me now that you’re back in class? Haha.

  Anabelle: It’s a struggle—this female roommate business is overrated **winks** She always wants to talk about feelings.

  Elliot: Guess it depends on the female—I never had any complaints.

  Anabelle: Flattery will get you everywhere.

  Elliot: Not really—not from way over here.

  Anabelle: Why is Michigan so far?!

  Elliot: The car ride sucks—I don’t know if I told you that. Six hours in the car with nothing to do but think.

  Anabelle: I’ve never driven any farther than my dad’s cabin in the woods, and that’s only a two-hour drive, tops. I should make you a playlist so you can listen to it when you come home for break.

  Elliot: What would you put on it?

  Anabelle: I’m not sure…probably all the songs I listened to after you left.

  Elliot: You listened to sad songs after I left?

  Anabelle: I never said they were SAD, weirdo. LOLOL.

  Elliot: I just assumed they were.

  Anabelle: Oh please, don’t act like you’re not missing me too.

  Elliot: I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.

  Anabelle: Then I guess we’re even.

  Anabelle: Also, maybe some of the songs were sad…

  Anabelle

  “Anabelle, what brings you in today?”

  I’ve driven myself to the health clinic across town after some convincing from Madison and a new insurance card from my dad. The nurse on duty flutters around the exam room, pulling up a chair for me and adjusting the reading glasses perched on her nose.

  Rolling to the computer on the small desk inside the room, she peers down her spectacles at me, smiling.

  “We’ll briefly go over your health history, then I’ll take your vitals.” The wheels on the chair squeak. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I figured I’m overdue for a pap. I haven’t had an exam since I moved here and I’m not feeling the greatest. My roommate thought I should come get checked out.”

  She stares at the monitor, reading out loud from my chart. “It lists your primary reason for getting the pill was help with menstrual cramping and moodiness associated with PMS. Is that still correct?”

  I nod. “Correct.”

  Tap tap tap on the keys.

  “This may take a little longer to complete than usual since this is your first visit to this clinic. Even though this isn’t your first medical exam within our network, we do consider you a new patient.”

&
nbsp; “Okay, sure. That’s fine.”

  Her fingers click away, entering all my information into their database. “Still taking a daily multivitamin?”

  She waits for me to reply, hands hovering over the keyboard.

  “Uh, not really.” More like, never, not at all.

  Click click click.

  Next, she takes my blood pressure and checks my temperature. Takes my heart rate, entering that information into the computer, too.

  “I see you’re currently prescribed the birth control pill. Is that still working out for you?”

  “Yes.”

  I shift in the chair, straining to see my chart.

  The nurse glances at the computer, confirming. “I’m going by what’s in the file your last physician sent over.”

  “Sure. Right, sorry.” Nervously, I tuck a stray hair behind my ear.

  She’s all business, plowing ahead with her pre-exam questions. “Any other forms of birth control? Condoms?”

  I smile. “I’m not currently sexually active.”

  “Any pregnancies?”

  “No.”

  Click click. “No spotting, bleeding, abdominal pain, or side effects normally associated with the pill?”

  “Nope, but let me grab my phone to see the last time I had my period—I track all that in an app.” I pull the smartphone out of my purse, tapping the Aunt Flo app, swiping on my period tracker.

  Stare.

  Frown. “I had some spotting within the past two weeks and a fever on the twelfth. I haven’t added any cycles, though. Sorry, is that okay?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll just make those quick notes.” Her fingers fly over the keys. “Any chance you could currently be pregnant?”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “Okay, great, I think that covers the basics.” She pulls her hands away from the computer. Stands and goes to the blue cabinet, pulling out a blue hospital gown, laying it on the exam table. “Remove everything and put this on, open to the back. You can cover your legs with this.” She lays out a paper square moonlighting as a blanket.

  Her smile is motherly. “Sit tight and I’ll let the doctor know you’re here. We’ll both be in shortly.”

  “Thanks.”

  I make quick work of getting changed then hop onto the table, legs dangling over the side when there’s a short knock at the door. It opens, my new gynecologist sticking his head through.

  “Knock knock.” He enters the room, nurse trailing along behind him. Extends his hand. “Hello, Anabelle, I’m Doctor Pritchard.”

  We make idle chitchat while he and his nurse prepare for the physical, and a moment later, I have my legs spread in the stirrups, exam underway.

  Dr. Pritchard rolls back in his chair, staring up at me over the tops of his black-rimmed glasses. “Anabelle, are you sure there is no chance you could be pregnant?”

  I frown. “Yes, I’m sure. Why?”

  “Your cervix appears to be softening and slightly enlarged. Because you’re a first-time patient, with your permission, I’m going to go ahead and order a pregnancy test, just to be certain.”

  “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

  He nods, standing, peeling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash. Smiles. “Fairly certain.”

  Five minutes later, I’m dressed and peeing in a cup.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m pregnant.

  Pregnant.

  Pregnant.

  Holy shit.

  No matter how many times I say it, it’s not real.

  “Do you have time for an ultrasound?” the doctor is asking. Dazed, I shake my head, doing my best to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. “I can send an order down and get you in today, within the next two hours if you have time to wait around, or we should be able to schedule one later in the week. I’d like to get a better idea of how far along you are.”

  How far along I am.

  I’m pregnant.

  The doctor drops his head, scribbling on a notepad. “This is the name of a prenatal you should grab on your way out, or just stop at the drug store. Folic acid should also be taken with food, every morning.”

  I give a barely perceivable nod.

  Folic acid. Prenatal.

  “I have time to stick around.”

  The wait feels like an eternity, the waiting room a beige, cold cube devoid of personality. Sterile. Head down, I occasionally glance at the patients surrounding me: two older couples waiting for their weekly blood draws and a young expectant mother with her hands securely wrapped around her stomach.

  I stare at that stomach, palms sliding to my own, over the waistband of my black yoga pants.

  It’s flat.

  For now.

  Sleepwalking through the rest of my appointment, numb, I lie on the table in the ultrasound room, arms at my sides, holding back tears as the oblivious technician rolls the wand around my stomach.

  “According to this ultrasound, you’re measuring roughly twelve weeks along.” She smiles cheerfully.

  “What?” I practically shout, trying to sit up, the flimsy paper blanket falling halfway to the exam room floor. “Twelve weeks? How is that possible?”

  “Oh, how cute are you going to be when you start showing?” She chirps pleasantly, all smiles, wand gliding across my stomach, below my belly button, the clear gel a cold reminder of why I’m here.

  “You’re one of those lucky first-time moms who doesn’t show any pregnancy symptoms until she’s rather far along, I would imagine. So lucky—I was as big as a house with my first one,” she says, teasing.

  I muster up a feeble smile, bottom lip threatening to tremble. “No signs whatsoever.”

  “Not even morning sickness?”

  I shake my head. “Not even morning sickness.”

  “That’s great. With every one of my kids, I threw up so much I could barely make it to work. I think I called in sick most of my entire first trimester.”

  Eventually, I stop listening, and when the technician prints out the ultrasound pictures and hands them to me, I stare dazedly at the blurry black and white image.

  A baby.

  “It’s about the size of a sweet little strawberry. Imagine that.” She winks, washing her hands in the sink. “Now you have an excuse to go home and take a nap.”

  “A strawberry.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Why is she so cheery? It’s throwing me off, postponing the panic that will surely come by the time I hit the parking lot.

  Elliot: Hey, I haven’t heard from you all day.

  I almost don’t have the heart to answer him, but I don’t have the heart to avoid him, either.

  Me: I know. Sorry, I was…preoccupied.

  Elliot: Rough day?

  Me: You could say that.

  Elliot: Want to talk about it?

  Me: Not right now.

  Elliot: Anabelle, is everything all right?

  Me: It’ll be fine. I just need to think.

  Elliot: Okay…

  Me: Tell me about your day, it had to have been better than mine.

  Elliot: The usual—research and writing. Spent most of the day in the library.

  Me: That is one of your favorite spots.

  Elliot: I have a few of them.

  Me: Oh yeah, where else?

  Elliot: You know that smooth skin along your collarbone…

  I don’t reply.

  Elliot: You still there?

  Me: Yeah—sorry, I have a lot on my mind.

  Elliot: I get it, getting into the swing of things when the school year starts sucks.

  Me: I’m just having a crappy day.

  Elliot: What about this weekend? Are you going out? I know Madison has been dragging you out into public.

  Me: She has been, but nothing exciting. The usual crowd. She gets irritated with me because I’m boring, LOL. I just never want a repeat of the night you had to carry me home.

  And now that I’m an unwed, single, expectant mother, it’s never going to
happen. Ever.

  Elliot: But that turned out okay, didn’t it?

  Me: Sure it did. Look at us now—friends and all that.

  I change the subject; my hormones cannot handle where this conversation could possibly be headed, talking about how we’ve remained close during the past weeks, though he’s all the way across Lake Michigan.

  Me: What about you—are you doing anything this weekend?

  Elliot: Probably. I’ve actually been hanging out with a few people from the medical program. We grab beer a few nights a week.

  Me: Yeah?

  Elliot: Yeah. There’s this one girl who reminds me of you. Her dad is actually a professor here. I posted a picture on IG when we went out last night.

  My stomach drops, the thought of him getting emotionally involved with someone new making me ill. I’m queasier than I’ve felt all day.

  My hands fly to my stomach.

  Me: I haven’t looked.

  Elliot: I hope you’re doing well, Anabelle.

  Doing well.

  Me: I am. Same to you.

  Elliot: I should shut my phone off. This term paper isn’t going to write itself.

  Me: Talk to you later. Good luck with your paper.

  In the bathroom, I strip down and remove all my clothes, standing in front of the mirror for the second time today, eyes trailing down my naked body, looking for any signs that there’s a baby growing inside me.

  I cup my boobs, but they aren’t tender and don’t appear—or feel—any bigger. My hips look the same—slender.

  Still…

  A baby.

  Elliot and I made a baby.

  The harder I stare at my body, the more impactful the word baby becomes. I’m alone, standing in a cold bathroom, barefoot and pregnant.

  I lift a hand to cover my mouth, muffling the sob rising from my throat. Then, the other palm covers my eyes, my face.