Now, my jaw drops. There’s no way. That’s crazy. That’s insane. That’s everything I’ve ever worked for, every early morning practice, every scraped knee, every sacrifice, every nightmare, all distilled into this one moment.
It’s not just a dream anymore. It’s a possibility.
“Are you kidding?” I finally manage to choke out.
“Would I joke about something like this?” he asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. “But I've got something else here for you, too. Someone.”
I’m in such pure, unadulterated bliss that I can only imagine the best possible scenarios. Was my dad here? Did he manage to get a last-minute flight, a scout with him, a whole entourage of American supporters ready to cheer me on? My heart soars, butterflies swarming against my ribs.
But then Coach Rourke moves aside, and the world stops spinning.
“He wanted to surprise you too.”
Every good feeling that was here just a second ago skirts away like leaves in the breeze, wind whipping me in the face like I've just been caught in a hurricane.
“There’s our superstar!”
52
I Know What You Are
Niall
December, 2007
“NIALL,” JJ’S HANDtouches my shoulder, as I’m heading out for the tunnel. My knee has felt fine—better than fine—for the past few weeks and I decided last minute to do away with the brace.
I feel free, unencumbered, ready to play.
JJ left a few minutes ago, to go wait in the tunnel since they usually give out juice or something to the players who are waiting to be lined up. A bit of sugar, a bit of carbs, a last-minute boost before the battle. I usually skip it, preferring to stretch and focus, to get my head in the game.
“Alright, lad?” my brows knit together.
He shakes his head. “Something’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong?”
I follow him out the doors. He’s walking about thirteen steps ahead of me, his long legs eating up the distance, his back ramrod straight with tension. “JJ. Jonathan!”
“Just come on, something’s wrong with Molly—” he calls back over his shoulder, his voice strained.
“What’s wrong with Molly?”
“We don’tknow,” JJ stresses, pausing outside the door of the girls’ locker room. “Fitz and I were waiting in the tunnel and she just ran past us. He told me to get you.”
He pushes the door open. I’ve never been in a girls’ locker room and don’t know what to expect, but it looks exactly like one of ours really. Same lockers, same benches, same faint, lingering scent of sweat and deodorant.
Except that all I can hear is the sound of someone wretching, and Fitz’s voice murmuring comforts.
Molly’s kneeling in front of the toilet, Fitzy crouched beside her with one hand holding her hair back while she vomits. His other hand rubs her back in slow circles. The tiles are cold under my knees as I drop down next to her, pressing a hand to her forehead—she’s clammy, shaking.
“Mol?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head violently, gagging again. Fitzy grimaces but doesn’t pull away. “She won’t say.”
“How much time we got?” I ask JJ, my mind already racing, trying to figure out a plan, a way to fix this, to make it better.
He checks his watch. “Nineteen.”
