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“Someone is going to sign you. And you’re going to be a starter this year.”
I inhale sharply. The certainty in his words always takes me by surprise.
“I believe in you. I always have. But you need to believe,” he says.
It sounds easy. But confidence—once shaken—is never the same.
Mental toughness is what separates the good from the great. Am I great? Or merely good?
FIFTEEN
ELLIE
When I close my eyes, I see my hands gliding slowly up Slater’s perfectly sculpted abs and onto his equally impressive chest. It’s an image I can’t seem to banish.
As I stumbled out of his apartment, I felt a mixture of wonder and horror.
It’s easy to admit my attraction. I’ve got eyes, and I’d be worried if seeing his half-naked body didn’t cause stirring in my girl parts. Finding him attractive wasn’t supposed to lead anywhere.
I thought he wasn’t interested in a relationship. Or dating. Or sex.
Now I’m not sure what to think.
Why did he let me touch him? Why did he kiss me? Asking him would be the easiest way to get answers, but I haven’t been able to convince myself to contact him.
It’s only been two days—it feels like a lifetime.
I’m out of sorts when my mother calls me on Tuesday morning. She invites me to meet her for coffee, and as this is the first time she’s ever asked me to get coffee, I immediately say yes.
When we hang up, I spend the next two hours wondering why she invited me. Something must be wrong. There’s no other explanation that makes sense.
I make it to the coffee shop with eight minutes to spare. My mother is already seated at a corner table. I weave my way toward her so I can put down my things before I order a drink.
The pinched look on her face gets worse when she spots me.
“I’m selling the house,” she says bluntly as I shrug off my jacket. I’m so surprised, it slithers off and lands on the floor. It’s a good thing I had tea earlier, because getting a coffee is the furthest thing from my mind as I pick up my jacket and sink into a chair.
“The Westover house?” I ask. It’s a ridiculous question—she only has one house.
“Yes.” She fiddles with her coffee cup.
“Why?” My eyes blink rapidly. I’m not sad, but I’m…something.
“I don’t need a whole house. I’m just one person,” she reasons.
Her words are brisk and detached, but she must have feelings about this. I wish I knew what they were. I swallow and bob my head up and down. Tears continue to threaten, but I keep blinking them back. “When?”
“It’s already on the market. The realtor says I’ll probably get a couple of offers by the weekend. We aren’t having an open house since the houses in the neighborhood sell easily.”
My childhood home is in a prime location in a good neighborhood, and the upkeep has been exceptional, so her words make perfect sense. It will sell quickly. Still, there’s nothing she could have told me that would have surprised me more. She’s clung to the house like the memories of happier times could sustain her.
“Well…um…that’s great.” A few stubborn tears leak out. I feel ridiculous. She should have sold the house as soon as my father left. She was never going to move on from him while she lived there. I swipe at my cheeks. “Where will you go?”
“I’m going to travel for a couple of months and then I’ll come back and find a smaller place. I’m leaning toward buying a condo, but I’m open to renting, too.”
“You’re going to travel? What about work?”
She’s the part owner of an interior design company. When my father left, she got a sizable settlement. He agreed to child support and alimony, so we were set financially but she needed a way to keep busy. She had a half-finished degree and a passion for pretty things. In what I’ve always assumed was a moment of defiance toward my intellectual father, she chose to pursue her passion rather than continue her education.
