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He said we wouldn’t work.
I stand slowly as the conversation transitions to goodbyes, not wanting to draw attention to my bad mood. Not wanting to answer questions about why I’m in a bad mood.
“Looking forward to seeing you play tomorrow,” my mom is saying to Will.
My parents attend most of Adler’s matches, but Will still has barely played since the start of the season.
“Thank you,” he replies. “Hopefully, it’ll be for more than a few minutes.”
My mom smiles. “I remember the days of having to prove myself to a new club. Don’t get discouraged.”
Will nods. “I’m hoping Sophia will have some more goals to photograph.”
I startle as soon as he says my name, taken aback by the casual way he mentions me. The nonchalant way he brings up photography when Saylor is normally the only one in my family who raises the topic.
I catch the split-second it takes my mom—and my dad—to realize what Will is referring to. They, like most people who attend football games, are focused on what takes place on the field. My small role is already diminished, and I’ve done everything I can to stamp it down further.
“She’s a good sport, for helping out at the games,” my dad says.
He smiles at me, meaning it as a compliment. My family has heard years of complaints from me about football. Of excuses to miss matches and sighs during conversations about the sport. They know photographing the games is a chore to me, not a task I took on voluntarily. But I’m helping out, in his mind. It’s not a job, or a career. Not important. Not as important as the players on the field, at least.
“Your daughter is a very talented photographer.” Everyone’s attention, including mine, focuses on Will, but his is on my dad. “Have you seen the shots the team has been posting lately? All taken by her.”
How does he know that?
One of the team photographers was sick last match, so they outsourced some of the photos they usually share on social media. A few of mine were chosen. But that’s nothing I told him.
Worse than what Will is saying is the edge to his tone. The thinly veiled annoyance that sounds like he’s offended on my behalf. I told him too much. He has insight into my perspective and my feelings that I haven’t shared with anyone else here, not even Saylor.
“I’ve seen some of them,” my mom says, saving my dad.
His silence tells me the answer to Will’s question is no.
“But I didn’t realize they had been taken by Sophia.” She looks at me. “That’s wonderful, honey.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I tell her. “Just part of my internship.”
My instinct is to downplay. Because I’m not confident in my abilities and because I know photography is not an interest anyone else in my family shares. But I’m realizing that has lasting repercussions. That I can’t have it both ways. If I want them to care, I have to be brave enough to tell my parents that matters to me, rather than waiting for them to come around on their own.
Gigi starts crying—for real—and that pushes my parents out the door.
Will says goodbye to Saylor and Adler, then turns to me and holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Sophia.”
There are layers to the five words, ones I don’t have time to unwrap before he stops speaking.
I hold his gaze, my heart thundering in my chest. “You too. I love meeting fans of photography.”
He smirks a little, still holding my hand. We stare at each other, same as we did when he first arrived.
I can’t relax. The rasp of his skin against mine, the rush of having his whole attention—they’re a shock to my system.
I don’t think there’s anything left to say between us. Or I didn’t think there was. It feels like there might be now, the air thickening around us the same way it did every time we were alone in his apartment.
“Good night,” is what he says before dropping my hand, but it sounds a little like, “Goodbye.”
Tomorrow is my last match. After that, assuming another dinner doesn’t get sprung on me—I’ll be asking for the entire guest list in the future—Will and I won’t see each other ever again.
Will heads for the door while I remain in the entryway, waiting for Noah.
