“This one will!”
I can see words forming on Dad’s face about my club team, but we both know we don’t have the money to pay for a premier travel team. “Ineedthe kind of press that comes with a major run at state. The games I played this summer? They were fun. Were they enough to keep me on scouts’ radar for an entire year? Probably not.” My voice cracks and I draw in a big, shaky breath. “You know that.”
I’m going to need both school and club seasons this year—junior year—to secure the only type of college ride I can afford: a free one. We both know it. And we both would do anything to make sure those scholarships and Olympic team accolades happen. Or I thought we would—apparently this method, my choice, isn’t common ground.
Dad purses his full lips, hands on hips, the rest of hisbody perfectly still. After a moment, his mouth drops open and the words come out at a precise pace.
“No more football, Olive. It’s too dangerous. I know you’re trying to prove a point, but if you get badly injured, you can kiss softball goodbye altogether. You have a much better chance of making the team healthy and repentant for your actions than injured and proud.”
“Dad—”
“No more football.”
“But—”
He holds up a hand and I go quiet, leaving my next words unsaid.But I can’t get a full ride without being on a team. And I can’t be on a team without proving I’m teammate material. And the only way to do that is to play football.
“No. More. Football. Do you understand?” I squeeze my eyes shut and nod. “And you’re grounded this weekend. No cell, no computer, no car.”
He presents a palm for my phone and keys. When I hand them over, he gives one last stoic Dad look before turning to go inside, no doubt to retrieve my laptop.
Conversation over. Concluded. Done.
But I’m not.
My lips quiver as I shoot words at his back.
“Dad, please.”
He keeps walking. But I’m rooted to the spot. I force myself to be louder. Not to yell, but to make sure he hears me.
“Dad.Please.Please listen to me. I’m good at this. I’m part of the team. I won’t get hurt.” The tears are still spilling over my face. “I’ll play. And Coach Kitt will see. And I’ll play softball in the spring. I promise.”
But he doesn’t turn around.
18
I WAKE UP IN A STATE OF EMOTIONAL WHIPLASH—head pounding, eyes throbbing, the early morning sunlight too much. In basically five hours last night, I went from a stratospheric high full of touchdowns, applause, and kisses with Grey (not sure that’s the right order, honestly) and then all the way to the lowest of freaking lows, with Dad effectively killing all those things with a single sentence.
I want to believe it didn’t happen. That I’m going to be headed to practice in a few minutes where I’ll see Grey, he’ll kiss me (preferably in front of Jake), and we’ll lift weights until Coach Lee calls a break to congratulate us all on a job well done.
But with a single open eye, I know that’s all wrong.
The clock says 7:38AM. An hour later than any time I’ve woken up in the past two weeks, and thirty-eight minutes past when I should’ve been in the weight room. Even Ryan is up and gone, his bed a still life:Wrestling Match with the Sheets.
My desk is bare—no computer there. And my phone charger is limp on my nightstand, phone-free.
Ughhhhh.
I step out of bed with a creak of the floorboards and give myself a once-over in my cheapo full-length mirror. My skin is mottled with bruises of varying sizes and colors. Dark purple on my thigh. Yellow in the middle of my upper arm on my nonthrowing side. Brownish-green on both shins.
A knock comes at the door.
“Liv?”
Ryan.I instantly wonder how long he’s been standing out there, waiting for a sign of life. I squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself that I can’t be mad at him. None of this is his fault. It’s completely mine and mine alone.
“Yeah?” My voice is dry and I need water. Sweaty minutes on the field, late-night pancakes, and toothpaste leaving me parched.
