ETHAN'S POV
"We need to talk," Dad said, his voice cold as ice. "Now."
I glanced at Tori, who was still kneeling beside me. Her face showed concern, but there was something else there too.
Curiosity, maybe. Or confusion.
"I'll be fine," I told her, not entirely sure if that was true. "Thanks for coming over."
She hesitated. "Are you sure? You look like you should see a doctor."
"He'll be fine," my father cut in before I could answer. “Come on, Ethan."
I forced myself to stand, ignoring the lingering tightness in my chest. My legs felt wobbly, but I managed to follow my father across the courts toward the parking lot. Matt started to follow, but Dad waved him off.
"Family matter," he said sharply.
Great. I knew what was coming.
The moment we reached his BMW in the mostly empty parking lot, he turned on me.
"What the hell was that?" he demanded, voice low but intense. "The Stanford scout was watching, Ethan! Do you have any idea how that looked?"
"I couldn't help it," I said, leaning against a nearby car for support. "It just hit me after the match—"
"Because you're not taking your medication!" He jabbed a finger at my chest. "We've been over this. You can't afford these episodes."
"The meds make me foggy. I can't play my best when—"
"Don't give me excuses!" His face was turning red now. "Three years, Ethan. It's been three years. You need to get over this."
The words stung like a slap. Get over this. Like it was that simple. Like I could just decide not to have them anymore.
"I'm trying," I said, hating how weak my voice sounded.
"Not hard enough." He ran a hand through his graying hair—the same color mine would be someday. "Your mother would be so disappointed."
That was a low blow, even for him. My chest tightened again, but for a different reason.
"Don't bring Mom into this."
"Why not? She's the reason you're like this, isn't she?"
The memories flooded back, fresh as yesterday. Mom asking me for a ride to her meeting. Me saying no because I had a qualifying match. Her taking the car anyway, despite the storm warnings. The policeman at our door three hours later.
"It wasn't my fault," I said, but the words sounded hollow even to me.
He never blamed me out loud. He didn't have to. The blame was there in the silences between us, in the way he looked at me sometimes when he thought I wouldn't notice.
"I wanted to quit tennis after she died," I reminded him. "You're the one who insisted I keep playing."
"Because throwing away your talent would be the real tragedy!" His voice rose again. "You tried to quit once, and I made myself very clear. Do it again, and you're on your own. No college, no support, nothing."
I remembered that conversation well. It was the only time I'd ever seen my father cry—right before he threatened to disown me if I quit the sport.
"The championship is in two months," he continued. "I expect you to be ready. No more episodes, no more distractions."
He glanced back toward the courts. "Including that volleyball girl."
"Her name is Tori," I said through gritted teeth.
"I don't care what her name is. I care about you staying focused." He checked his watch. "I have a meeting. Take your medication, Ethan. I won't let you embarrass me like this again."
"Embarrass you?" I echoed, anger replacing the hurt. "That's what you're worried about? Your reputation?"
"Don't twist my words." He unlocked his car door. "The championship trophy has my name on it as sponsor. This university expects results, and I expect you to deliver them."
"Or what? You'll cut me off like Mom's parents did to her when she married you?"
His eyes flashed dangerously. "That's enough."
"No, it's not enough!" My voice broke. "I'm sick of living up to your expectations. I'm sick of pretending I'm fine when I'm not."
“Ethan, I'm not kidding about pulling you from the championship if these episodes continue."
He got into his car without another word, the engine roaring to life. I stood there, watching him drive away, my hands clenched into fists so tight my nails dug into my palms.
The panic was building again. I could feel it crawling up my throat, threatening to choke me. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing like Dr. Brenner had taught me. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Again. And again.
Gradually, the tightness in my chest eased. The roaring in my ears quieted. I unclenched my fists, flexing my fingers to restore circulation.
"You're okay," I whispered to myself. "You're okay."
I turned to head toward my car, and froze when I saw Tori standing there, with arms folded across her chest, watching me with an expression I couldn't read.