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"I want to be a journalist," I said. "But I'd also like to write books."
One side of his mouth turned up. "The kind of books that get banned?"
I snorted. "No. The kind that get made into movies and TV shows." I hadn't even told Grace any of this. I didn't know why I was telling him. Maybe because he wasn't laughing at me. I felt like I could tell him my dreams without him thinking they were silly.
"What about scriptwriting?" he asked. "You could write the next big superhero movie. Or the kind of TV series that get spin-offs forever and ever."
"I've never thought about that," I admitted. I loved watching them, but I never considered writing them. The fact he even made the suggestion surprised the heck out of me.
"I'd watch them," he said firmly.
"I'll put that in mymaybebasket," I said. "I really want to be a journalist so I can make a difference in the world. You know?"
"Maybe you can interview me someday," he said. "When I'm a famous, successful, pro ball player, people are gonna have questions." He looked impressed with himself at the idea.
"Will you answer them?" I asked teasingly.
"If you are the one asking them, then I will answer every single one," he said with all the confidence of a guy who was absolutely certain his life would turn out the way he planned.
"I may hold you to that someday," I said. "Who knows, it might lead to my big break."
He grinned. "If it's time for a break, I have a surprise for you."
"Oh? Should I be worried?" I wasn't. I felt…comfortable. He made me feel like I was the only girl in the world. Like he'd support everything I did. I tried to push away the thought, to protect my heart, but I couldn't help but wonder if maybe he liked me after all.
He reached in behind a couch cushion and pulled out something. With his hand behind it, like he was presenting me with a bottle of wine in a fancy restaurant, he showed me a DVD box.
"Thor. One of my favourites." I nodded like it was the perfect vintage.
"Is that Hawkeye guy in it?" He asked.
"Put it on," I suggested. "Find out."
Chapter Ten
CONRAD
I hated the smell of hospitals. I mean, doesn't everyone? When they first bought Mum in, I didn't mind it so much. I figured they'd treat her, she'd go home healthy and well. They'd fix her. Wasn't that what hospitals and doctors were for? People went in sick, and came out well.
They told me she'd be fine. That chemo would get rid of her cancer. They never told me it would spread. They didn't mention she mightnotget better.
Until one day, Dad sat me down and said she wasn't coming home. They would make her comfortable, but they'd done all they could.
I hadn't wanted to believe it then. I still didn't.
The whole drive back to school for training, all I could think about was how pale she looked, how thin. Her hair started growing back once they stopped the chemo. Now it was sparse, and spiky. She hated wearing hats and scarves.
I hated that she was dying.
If it wasn't for practice, I'd have stayed at the hospital. She insisted I go.
"Don't let your dreams slip away because of me," she said. "Besides, it will take your mind off things."
She was right there. When I was training, or playing, that was all I was thinking about. It helped get me through.
In the back of my mind I admitted that spending time with Bec made me feel the same way. Although, another part of me was guilty that while I was with her, I wasn't with my mother.
So I agreed to go and train, because I didn't want to let Mum down. She wanted my dreams to come true even more than I did.
