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But the possibility of losing soccer terrifies me. And the chances of a third team taking a risk on me after I was released by two? Minuscule, if that.
“I know.”
Sophia stands. “Can you be a gentleman tonight? I’m too exhausted to get dressed and go home.”
She doesn’t want me to sleep in bed with her. She’s taking this as a rejection, which is the last thing I want. I’m the one who fucked this up for myself. Fucked everything up for myself.
“I—yeah, of course.”
“Great. Good night.” Her voice is curt as she turns and heads into my bedroom, shutting the door behind her. The End is what that slam sounds like. She has too much pride to ask me to reconsider.
I doubt our friendship will survive this. I’m positive she’ll leave in the morning and I’ll never hear from her again.
I let out a long breath, slouching on the couch and tilting my head back to stare at the ceiling.
Soccer.
I chose soccer. I’ve always chosen soccer when given the chance.
My career is all I care about, and it’s hanging on by a fucking thread right now. If Cassandra Owens had given me the choice, I would still be in Seattle. I would have never come to Kluvberg. Never met Sophia.
I glance at the shut door, something slippery and unpleasant and ugly coiling in my stomach. I imagine Sophia sleeping in another guy’s bed. Wearing another guy’s clothes. Letting another guy make her come.
Anger flares, just like it did earlier when she mentioned her handjob experience.
I chose soccer. That’s always been the obvious decision.
And I realize, for the first time, I’m worried I made the wrong choice.
NINETEEN
SOPHIA
“These are all excellent, Sophia. Any one of them would be great choices for your submission,” Professor Graf tells me.
I gnaw on my bottom lip as I gather the photographs up, stuffing them back into the envelope I brought. Excellent, great—they sound like synonyms for fine.
Decent.
Okay.
Mediocre.
I’m aiming for shocking. Breathtaking. Startling.
But I can’t seem to take that photo.
Professor Graf aims a kind smile my way. She’s my favorite professor, a large part of the reason why I committed to applied arts for university.
“You have to go with your gut, Sophia. Don’t worry about how it’ll be judged. All you can control is what you put out into the world, not how others perceive it. That’s the beauty of art. It looks different to everyone. You are the only one who decides what you share.”
She sounds so wise. So aspirational. So unhelpful because I really just wanted her to tell me which of the five photos I’d brought was the one I should submit to the European Photography Awards.
And now, I’m worried her not choosing is her way of telling me what I already know—none of them are good enough.
I thank Professor Graf and then leave her office, lost in my own thoughts as I walk down the street toward where I parked my car.
Photography sounds so easy when you describe it. Point and shoot. A millisecond captured in stunning detail, just from one click of a button. It’s so easy; it’s hard. Anyone can do it, so why bother trying?
