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But when it came to Penelope Ewe, I was completely culpable. Flash back to when we were in the sixth grade and she was announced as the new girl at school. I still remembered her crooked, careful smile and the hope in her eyes. Back then, her chestnut locks hung nearly to her waist, and all I remembered thinking in my eleven-year-old brain was how she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
I’d like to say I was welcoming. That through the fog of pre-teen hormones, I had enough sense to talk to her. To show her what an upstanding little dude I was. But nope.
Instead, I did what every immature eleven-year-old who liked a girl did when they had no clue how to approach her. I made fun of her. Her name in particular.
And thereafter, Skunk Girl was born.
She never lived it down.
And neither did I.
Because I became King, she became a wallflower, and the girl with the espresso eyes and crooked smile never talked to me after that.
A few minutes before lunch, I’m cruising the halls when my physics teacher informed me Coach Paul needed to speak with me.
I hurried toward his office at the end of the building, near the pool, wondering what he could possibly have to discuss that couldn’t wait until the end of the day at practice.
I paused in front of the door and gave it a small rap before Coach called out: “Yep?”
I entered, hands on hips as I stopped in front of his desk where play sheets covered every available surface. When he glanced up, he nodded toward the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
Coach was a man of few words. He didn’t like bullshit, which I could appreciate since it seemed the kids at school, my father, everything in my life lately was steeped in it.
I did as I was told, though my stomach had risen somewhere in the vicinity of my throat, nervous about whatever was so urgent it couldn’t wait until practice.
“What’s up, Coach?”
He reached inside his desk drawer and pulled out an envelope, then tossed it at me before he leaned back in his chair and steepled hands out in front of himself. “Read it.”
Slipping my thumb under the opening, I ripped the envelope open, trying to hide the fact that my hand shook as I did. Carefully, I removed the letter and unfolded it, homing in on the letterhead for Bucknell University.
Nerves jumped in my stomach, tightening until I thought I might be sick as I began to read the opening lines. My breath caught, and my gaze jerked back to Coach. “Is this . . . ?”
A hint of a smile. “An early offer from Bucknell, yes.”
“Are you serious?” My heart crashed against my ribs as I waited for the news to fully sink in.
A college wanted me. And not just any college. One of the best collegiate water polo teams in the country.
“Not only am I serious, but so are they.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk, motioning toward the letter. “You’re good, Topher. More than good, and they recognize that, which is why they want you. I already spoke with them; I knew this was coming.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes these recruiters talk a good talk. There aren’t too many places that offer scholarship spots for water polo, so I wanted to make sure they were serious. And they are.” He tapped the letter. “It’s for a full ride, Toph.”
I swallowed. The ache in the back of my throat warned me my pansy-ass was one step away from bawling like a baby. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Think on it. If you want a tour, I’ll set one up.”
“Yes, sir.” I sat there, stunned. To think that they wanted to pay me to go to their school and play water polo.
It was like a dream. Four more years of the one thing I loved more than anything, and a vital step toward turning my passion into a career.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” He waved me away. “Go. Brag to your friends. Call your parents. Whatever. Just get outta my office.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, with a grin wide enough to split my face in two.
I stood quickly, but as I turned, something he said hit me like a tsunami.
