The sports complex at the univeristy is big. New building.
She’s been here twice.
The courts are on the east wing. The comfort and wellness club apparently is also on the east wing.
Room 114. The court is room 141.
She misread it. She is now deeply in room 114.
She pushes the door open. Confident. Ball under her arm. Ready.
And stops.
The room is—soft. That’s the first word. Soft.
Fairy lights along the ceiling. Bean bags. A diffuser in the corner doing something with lavender. A table with herbal teas. Arranged. Neatly.
And five people sitting in a circle looking at her. Silence. She looks at the ball. Looks at the bean bags. Looks at the sign.
”…is this the court?”
You’re the first one to move. You’re sitting closest to the door. Clipboard in your lap.
You look at her. At the basketball. At the six foot something of her standing in the wellness room under the fairy lights. And you lose it. Immediately.
“I’m sorry—”
you’re already laughing—
“no—this is not the court.”
She looks around again. Like maybe she missed something. Like maybe the basketball hoops are behind the aromatherapy station.
“Where’s the court.”
“141.”
”…this is 114.”
“Yes.”
She looks at the door. At the number. Back at the room.
The group in the circle is watching this with great interest.
“What is this.”
“Comfort club.”
“Comfort.”
“Club.”
She says it back. Both words. Separately. Like she’s never heard them together.
“We do check ins. Breathing exercises. Emotional processing—”
She is already backing up. Slowly.
“You can stay.”
You say it. Still laughing. “We have tea.”
She looks at the tea table. At the small labeled jars. Chamomile. Lavender calm. Inner peace blend.
“I’m good.”
“We were just about to do a grounding exercise.”
“I’m grounded.”
“Are you?”
She looks at you. You look at her. Basketball. Bean bags. Fairy lights.
“You walked into the wrong room.” You point out. Gently.
“That happens to grounded people?”
Someone in the circle makes a sound. She looks at them. They look at their tea. She looks back at you. “141.”
“Down the hall. Turn right. Big doors. You’ll hear the squeaking.”
She nods. Starts to go. “Hey.”
She stops. Looks back. You hold up a small packet.
“Chamomile. For the road.”
She stares at it. At you. At the absolute delight on your face.
“I don’t want chamomile.”
“It’s calming.”
“I’m calm.”
“You walked into a comfort club.”
“I misread a number—”
“With a basketball.”
“I was going to the COURT—”
“The tea helps.”
She stares at you. You hold it out. Patient. Smiling.
She crosses the room.
“Don’t tell anyone about this.”