To the point that he researched ADHD once he was old enough to understand what it was. Trying to figure out how he could support me best.
I was diagnosed late, at least for this era. It didn’t help that I had inattentive parents who just assumed I was “acting like a boy,” and our school was in an under-resourced public system.
More recently, Connor’s been the one who sent me research about how my experience might have led to some of my shitty self-esteem issues. Hardwired me to feel like I’m at fault for anything and everything bad. Apparently, there’s a bunch of studies on how the years of criticism a kid in my shoes faces fucks with their head.
Not that I know what to do about that now.
“Okay sure, let me try to put some notes together that I can follow.” A couple of minutes later, when I have my scribbles in front of me, I make eye contact with him again. “Ask me something.”
Connor adjusts his glasses and puts on a serious face. “So Rawley, what are you hoping to achieve next season.”
Instead of trying to repeat the long talking points from memory, I go off my cheat sheet. “The Waves were so close to the Super Bowl last year. Just two games away. I want to help them get there, and win.”
“Perfect,” Connor says, his normal tone back. “See what I mean? Just get your notes organized. You’ll be impervious to the pressure.”
“Oh, the Princeton man vocabulary,” I tease him.
“You know what it means though, right?” he throws back. Now that we’re older, Connor constantly calls me out when I play dumb. “Bottom line, you can handle this.”
“Let’s hope I can keep that mindset.”
“If you’re nervous, visualize that you’re talking to me.” His voice is calm, direct.
“That’s a good idea. I’ll try.” I’m tired of talking about myself, so I move the conversation to a new topic. “How are things with Bea?”
Connor’s been dating a junior at Princeton since Winter Break—yes, an “older woman.”
Cue my predictable shit-talking about “cougars” when he first told me.
Though Connor’s been more consistently attached to someone than I’ve been, so I guess from an “alpha bro” perspective, he should be making fun of me.
“They’re okay,” he says, without full conviction. “She’ll be staying with her family in Miami for the summer, so we’re talking through what that means.”
“Since you’re spending the summer with us in Orlando, that could work, right?”
In past summers, Connor’s had various soccer activities for the U.S. Youth National Team, but he’s not on the team this year.While he plays for Princeton now, the university program has most of the summer off.
“It’s still a four-hour drive each way, but yeah. I told you she’s Brazilian, right?” I nod. “I’ve been working on my Portuguese to impress her family.”
“Nice. I’m sure you’ll be fluent in no time.”
He ignores my praise. “It’s tough though. She’s brilliant, fun, and beautiful, it just—it feels like something is missing and I can’t figure it out.”
Now it’s my turn to deliver advice. “Don’t overthink it. If it’s working, it’s working. If it’s not, it’s not.”
“Yeah,” he replies, pinching his nose under the bridge of his glasses. “I need to tell Mom I’m not coming home to Alabama for the summer too.” She still lives in the town where we grew up.
“Shit, you haven’t yet?”
“Nah. Avoiding it.”
I can’t blame him. She’s a piece of fucking work.
Granted, our mom—she has zero interest in me, since I’m not book smart and always the one with messes she has no desire to clean up.
Grace and Connor are her favorites, as the family geniuses, but they barely tolerate her crap. Landon just ignores her existence.
Case in point: when my sister told her earlier about my deal with the Waves, all Mom did was send me a short text that read:Congratulations, Rawley. I’m happy for you.
