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“They didn’t. You took me out—”

“Oh, I’m very aware of what I did for you, Kane. What I did for my team.” He steps closer, shoving his hands into his pockets and shaking his head.

And because it’s the only thing I can think of, like some stupid form of protection, I mutter, “We won the game. It isn’t—”

“We won that game, not because of you, but in spite of you,” he cuts me off, leaning in even closer. “You are nothing but a goddamn leech to this team, an infection that I’ve let fester for too long.”

A leech. An infection.

Scholarship kid on the prep team.

The fucking stray.

“You don’t belong here.”

I’ve heard it enough times, it eventually stuck. I wish that meant the words from my coach now rolled off my back like it didn’t matter. But they don’t.

He steps away, staring at me for several seconds, before blowing out a breath. “You’re off the team.”

There it is.

“Find a ride back to the hotel,” Anders continues. “Give the team and me some time to celebrate. They don’t need you messing up their moment.”

There’s a bitterness then, sprouting into thicker vines and sharper thorns, growing up and around me. It doesn’t matter that I scored three of the five points that won us that game. It doesn’t matter that I’m scared and hurting and desperately need someone to fucking help me.

He’s gone, and I’m here, scrambling with how to pull myself back together. Again.

No choice. Not that there ever has been for me, since the moment I stumbled too close to the Haunted House on Hawthorne Street. My hand shakes as I start to reach into my pocket for my phone, chest so tight I’m sure I’ll pass out before I manage to dial his number.

Instead, I sink down on my heels, jacket threads catching on the brick, slipping down to cover my head with my hands and bite back the steady flow of tears.

“Stop fucking crying,” I grit out, swiping at my eyes, before pushing myself to stand. “Fucking focus. Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop—”

“Hey.”

A soft, quiet female voice carries over my shoulder on the wind outside, making my lungs burn with the quick breath I suck in, like I can vacuum up all the evidence of my crying. I wipe at my cheeks harshly, keeping my chin ducked away from whoever has entered my pathetic space. “Are you okay? Oh—sweetheart, you’re bleeding.”

I look up at the woman standing just in my view; she’s wearing jeans and a sweater but definitely looks like she could be someone’s mom. Her dark brown hair and umber skin are glowing in the streetlight, brown eyes soft as she looks me over again, and I’m too tired and broken and . . . scared to hide anything like I would.

“It’s nothing— I just—”

She rummages through the giant bag on her shoulder, before procuring a plastic package, unopened. Tissues. “Here. I don’t . . . I wish I had some bandages, but I don’t. I bet they have some in one of the locker rooms; let me just—”

“No,” I cut her off, reaching for her hand briefly, before slumping down and opening the package. Definitely someone’s mom. “It’s fine. This is good. Thank you.”

“How about some water? I have—” She looks back in her Mary Poppins–style purse and pulls out a plastic bottle. “Well, it’s Diet Coke, but that’s got to be at least some percent water.”

There’s a light simper of a laugh in her voice as she says it, handing me the bottle.

“It’s unopened,” she offers as my hand reaches out to meet her. “Promise.”

“Th-thank you,” I manage to stutter out, before unscrewing the cap and taking a few slow sips.

“Did you play today, sweetheart?”

I swallow another sip as it burns my throat, tempted for a moment to say no. But my bag is right there at my feet, easy enough to recognize. I nod, not trusting my voice.

She smiles wide. “Mt. Hart? Congratulations.” The words make me feel sick. “What position?”