I climb up to them, left knee protesting—the dull ache there as persistent as the one in my chest every time my mind skips to Grey. But when I reach them, all thoughts of Grey and my knee are driven from my mind.
Mom reaches over Danielle and squeezes my hand, her blue eyes on fire, chemo-downy hair haloing her cheekbones. “We think Ryan’s going to start!”
At her thunder-whisper, Danielle rolls her eyes and stabs at a program I didn’t see when I came in the gate. “Mom, Ry’s already listed as a starter. It’s not like the coach is going to change his mind.”
“He might!” she clucks, and whacks Danielle on the thigh. “Don’t ruin my moment.”
Danielle smirks, shoots to her feet, cups her hands around her mouth, and aims at Ryan’s back. “Hey, number eight! Lookin’ good, STARTER!”
Ryan turns—as does half his team—and toasts us with blue Gatorade as Mom yanks Danielle butt-first back onto the bleachers. “You would have killed me if I did that to either one of you.”
“She has a point, Dani.” One of my favorite things about my family is that they aren’tcompletelyembarrassing spectators.
“Eh, he’s the baby. He likes the attention.”
“He would also tackle you for calling him a baby,” I point out.
“Birth order, not a slight.” Danielle waves me off and Mom chuckles, leaning back in her seat to avoid the impending cross fire.
“Says ouroldersister.”
“With age comes its privileges.”
“Like wrinkles?” Yeah, I do this all the time. I’m a total jerk.
“My skin is still flawless thanks to the fabulous genes of Ellen Rodinsky,” Danielle says, rubbing Mom’s shoulder. “And the fact that I’m only twenty-five.”
The speakers crackle and we’re asked to stand for the national anthem. The recording is mechanical and familiar, the pep band off doing something more important.
As the final strains of the song die out, the starters get to their feet, Ryan among them.
They don’t announce the players. They don’t say his name or number. But he’s there, nervous legs bouncing in midfield as they line up for the draw, orange streaks chalked through his hair.
Number eight, Ryan Rodinsky, varsity starter as a freshman.
And I’m here to see it.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like a selfish seamonster, clouding the world with her own drama-spiked ink. I feel like a good friend, a good sister.
I feel like me.
We have weights and drills on Thursday, and by the end of it, I can’t ignore my knee. The twinge has now revealed itself as an honest-to-God bruise—Windsor Prep purple—the tendons underneath puffy and inflamed.
It’s nagged me all week, but I’ve managed to push through. I know exactly how to appear fine—the last thing you want is an opponent to know exactly where to take you out. I’m not paranoid, I’m experienced.
I last limped in a game when I was twelve. An ankle sprain had me stutter-stepping from third to home after Addie smashed a triple, and the next inning some asshole girl hooked her cleat right into my ankle when tagging third. Down I went, more injured than I was before.
So, yeah, I’m not about to let anyone know how much this hurts.
But I have to admit, after suffering through Napolitano’s decision to superset front squats with walking lunges, it is literally all I can do not to fess up to the pain. Almost a full week of trying to hide it has only made it worse.
Still, I finish my weights—in capris, mind you, so that no one can see. I run through routes. I do my laps.
When I’m done, all I can think of is rest, but I’m not about to go home and sneak an ice pack out of the kitchen.
Because I know someone will notice, even if I hide down on the basement couch.
Someone will find me.
