yet.
Were it not for the fact that I need to make an announcement about the charity program I’m spearheading , I would have sat out today’s event. But I can’t pass up this opportunity to speak to all the athletes together. On top of all of the track girls I coach, I already have twenty-two kids signed up for my “Shirts Off Our Backs” program—I’m going to need all the help I can get.
My cheek rocks against the cool window as Jace schools Marcus on the shortest route to the stadium, where the Gladiator Minute to Win It event is taking place. I can always count on Jace to fill the time that most people use to draw a breath. I zone out as Marcus responds to her with a series of monotone Mm hmms , and resume the debate I’ve been having with myself about telling my mom my soccer career is done.
A muffled version of “Strings” echoes from my purse, and I lift my cell to see a call coming through from my brother Ben.
“You’re up early for a Sunday morning,” I say.
“Hey, I’m a working man now. I’m not the partying rock star I once was.” He chuckles. His warm tone makes it easy to picture the smile on his face, and the image lifts the heavy feeling in my head.
“Thanks for calling me back. I have a favor to ask you,” I say.
“Oh God.” He laughs. “What now?”
“No, no, this is an easy one. I want you to tell mom we don’t want to have Thanksgiving at the country club this year. I want to have it at our house.”
He pauses. “How’s that going to work? Who’s going to cook?”
“We are — like every other American family. C’mon, Ben. I don’t want to go to the club and spend the holiday with a bunch of rich old people we hardly know.” We haven’t had Thanksgiving at our house, or any holiday dinner, since my dad left, and I’m sure Ben remembers. “I want the house to smell like turkey instead of Lemon Fresh Pledge, and I want to make one of those stupid cheese balls in the shape of a turkey like you see on Pinterest. Think about it—we could have leftovers in our fridge, like a real family. A real Thanksgiving.” My rant draws a glance from Marcus, and I pause, waiting for Ben’s answer.
“I’m game,” he says. “I’ll tell her and see what she says.”
“Thanks, Ben. I owe you.”
“How’s everything going with soccer,” he asks. “I saw you guys won your last game.” My skin tingles with guilt. I should have told him about my suspension. He’s done so much to help me over the years—driving me to practice when my mom couldn’t, helping me deal with the college coaches that were recruiting me. But the thought of letting him down burns a hole in my stomach. I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.
“Soccer is…kind of challenging right now.” My throat feels dry over the cowardly half-truth, and Jace’s gaze passes mine in the rearview mirror. “I’m not really getting the playing time I want, but I’m working on it.” I spy the massive SEU Sparks logo on the Stadium ahead, which gives me the excuse I need to say good-bye, and he tells me he’ll be in touch.
We park and enter the field through the tunnel, along with a dozen other athletes. Cool wind blows over my face, rustling my hair around my shoulders, and I adjust the brim of my ball cap, pulling it lower and tighter. There’s a fair chance I’ll see Preston today. After I confronted him, I thought of a dozen other questions, but I’d been on the verge of tears, and the last thing I wanted to do was turn into a blubbering idiot in front of him.
Red-shirted coordinators are spread out over the field, working to finish setting up the activities. We weave around the athletes gathered in loose groups, passing a humming blower inflating a bounce house. “That has the potential to be screamingly fun,” Jace says, smiling at the swaying red canvas.
Marcus spots the basketball players beyond the cross-country team, who are stretching their legs on the turf. He throws an arm out,
Were it not for the fact that I need to make an announcement about the charity program I’m spearheading , I would have sat out today’s event. But I can’t pass up this opportunity to speak to all the athletes together. On top of all of the track girls I coach, I already have twenty-two kids signed up for my “Shirts Off Our Backs” program—I’m going to need all the help I can get.
My cheek rocks against the cool window as Jace schools Marcus on the shortest route to the stadium, where the Gladiator Minute to Win It event is taking place. I can always count on Jace to fill the time that most people use to draw a breath. I zone out as Marcus responds to her with a series of monotone Mm hmms , and resume the debate I’ve been having with myself about telling my mom my soccer career is done.
A muffled version of “Strings” echoes from my purse, and I lift my cell to see a call coming through from my brother Ben.
“You’re up early for a Sunday morning,” I say.
“Hey, I’m a working man now. I’m not the partying rock star I once was.” He chuckles. His warm tone makes it easy to picture the smile on his face, and the image lifts the heavy feeling in my head.
“Thanks for calling me back. I have a favor to ask you,” I say.
“Oh God.” He laughs. “What now?”
“No, no, this is an easy one. I want you to tell mom we don’t want to have Thanksgiving at the country club this year. I want to have it at our house.”
He pauses. “How’s that going to work? Who’s going to cook?”
“We are — like every other American family. C’mon, Ben. I don’t want to go to the club and spend the holiday with a bunch of rich old people we hardly know.” We haven’t had Thanksgiving at our house, or any holiday dinner, since my dad left, and I’m sure Ben remembers. “I want the house to smell like turkey instead of Lemon Fresh Pledge, and I want to make one of those stupid cheese balls in the shape of a turkey like you see on Pinterest. Think about it—we could have leftovers in our fridge, like a real family. A real Thanksgiving.” My rant draws a glance from Marcus, and I pause, waiting for Ben’s answer.
“I’m game,” he says. “I’ll tell her and see what she says.”
“Thanks, Ben. I owe you.”
“How’s everything going with soccer,” he asks. “I saw you guys won your last game.” My skin tingles with guilt. I should have told him about my suspension. He’s done so much to help me over the years—driving me to practice when my mom couldn’t, helping me deal with the college coaches that were recruiting me. But the thought of letting him down burns a hole in my stomach. I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.
“Soccer is…kind of challenging right now.” My throat feels dry over the cowardly half-truth, and Jace’s gaze passes mine in the rearview mirror. “I’m not really getting the playing time I want, but I’m working on it.” I spy the massive SEU Sparks logo on the Stadium ahead, which gives me the excuse I need to say good-bye, and he tells me he’ll be in touch.
We park and enter the field through the tunnel, along with a dozen other athletes. Cool wind blows over my face, rustling my hair around my shoulders, and I adjust the brim of my ball cap, pulling it lower and tighter. There’s a fair chance I’ll see Preston today. After I confronted him, I thought of a dozen other questions, but I’d been on the verge of tears, and the last thing I wanted to do was turn into a blubbering idiot in front of him.
Red-shirted coordinators are spread out over the field, working to finish setting up the activities. We weave around the athletes gathered in loose groups, passing a humming blower inflating a bounce house. “That has the potential to be screamingly fun,” Jace says, smiling at the swaying red canvas.
Marcus spots the basketball players beyond the cross-country team, who are stretching their legs on the turf. He throws an arm out,
Similar Books
