by Ginger Scott
Ty
I lied to her. I don’t even know why I did it. I don’t lie. I’m a truth-teller—even when the truth is fucking brutal and will hurt someone’s feelings. I. Don’t. Lie.
But I just did.
I sat there, looking into her eyes, my mind conjuring up a thousand images of Cass, everything about her that makes me smile, and then crisscrossing it with the absolute heartbreak I heard in Kelly’s voice just an hour before. I couldn’t get the two to parallel—Cass making me happy, and Kelly making me sad.
But instead of just telling Cass about Kelly, instead of sharing a little bit of my past—I wrapped it up quickly, cloaked it in a lie, and buried it under a fake smile.
I don’t know why I did it, and I’m not proud. I want to fix it, take it back, have a redo…but I replay the scenario over and over in my mind—and it always comes out the same. And I don’t know what that means.
Chapter 15
Cass
Rowe and Nate seem to still be fighting. When I ask her about him, she just shrugs, says he’s been busy. But I kinda think it’s bigger than that. She’s been going to dinner in the cafeteria with Ty and me, and I can tell she feels awkward. We feel awkward. Rowe just seems sad, like she had this brightness that was really coming alive, and then it suddenly started slipping away after their fight.
I asked her about the fight the other night. One of my moments of absolute eloquence…I just blurted out, “What’s wrong with you two?” She couldn’t really put it into words, saying something about how her old boyfriend—the one barely alive back home—made it impossible to move forward, and how it was probably for the best. She was giving up. Quitting. And I suck, because I didn’t know what to say to get her back into battle. But Ty did. And I love that he feels compelled to take her in. I can tell he’s trying to fix whatever went wrong between her and Nate.
Last night was the first one in a few that I went over to his room alone, without Rowe. Nate was at workouts, like he usually is at that time, and their relationship was literally all we talked about. And that’s when I started to get the strange feeling that Ty might be focusing so much on his brother’s problems to avoid something else—something like me…and us.
This is how one negative thought burns a hole in my chest. It plants a seed, settling in and festering like a wound, an ulcer trying to interrupt my heart’s rhythm. There’s a cloud over me today. It’s black. And I blame the seed. My cloud started to form when I woke up with a little bit of numbness in my toes. It faded, but instead of victory, I waited for the next sign of something wrong. My waiting was rewarded when the numbness was replaced by panic after I realized I completely failed to study for my physics test. Now, I’ll have to spend the morning before I compete with the women’s squad retaking a failed exam in the tutoring lab. And all of it is weighing me down mentally now, making me slow at workouts…where I’m supposed to impress Coach Pennington, and convince him to add me to his roster in the spring.
My cloud—born from that tiny seed—gains power every time Ty doesn’t look at me. And it might all just be crazy shit I’ve cooked up in my head; in fact, the rational side of my brain knows this to be true. But it’s also so damned real, so tangible, that I feel sick running my heart out on this field while he sits on the sidelines watching. My black cloud tells me it’s just a matter of time before he cuts me loose, moves on from his project.
Stupid seed of doubt and black cloud.
I take my break on the opposite side of the field, and Coach Pennington jogs over, slapping my shoulder with approval and a smile. “Looking good, Owens. Keep this up, I think there’s more in your tank,” he says, reenergizing my tired body and wiping my slate clean of clouds for a few brief seconds. The storm comes again, though, when I feel the scowls of the three girls standing by the cooler next to me.
“Owens. You played for Tech,” the girl closest to me says. Her hair is jet black, long, and pulled into a ponytail. She looks strong—fast, too. And she’s the only one of the three who doesn’t look like she resents me being here.
“I did,” I say, my guard still up, albeit a little less.
“Right. My cousin’s Tab Snyder. I thought I recognized you,” she says. Tabitha Snyder was our goalie in high school—she ended up playing for UCLA, where I would have played if I stayed on the path I was on before my diagnosis.
“How is Tab?” I ask, excited to be starting a conversation with one of the girls. There’s almost a sense of relief, but it’s quickly extinguished when she doesn’t answer my question, and instead pretends not to have heard me at all. She tosses her paper cup into the trash and eyes me one last time over her shoulder while she slithers back up with her friends.
The whistle could not have come at a more perfect moment.
I was done.
Life is a series of choices. My mom is always talking about free will, and how we are like marbles, rolling around through life, our paths constantly shifting based on whatever choices we make. Funny, though—no matter how many times I choose to leave my old life behind, it still manages to find me.
I shouldn’t be listening. I should just walk out of the locker room, slamming the door behind me to let them know how close they were to getting caught. But my weaker side forces me to hold my breath, not to zip my bag closed completely, and to lift my feet from the bench and make myself small so I can capture every single cruel word coming from their lips.
“I heard she slept with her coach,” one of the girls says, her whisper not really much of a whisper at all.
“No, it wasn’t her coach,” another girl says. It sounds like the girl I spoke to, Tabitha’s cousin. “It was a teacher. She’s a total homewrecker. The guy was married.”
“Oh my god, do you think that’s why she’s out here now? Would coach really put her on the team just because she slept with him?” the first girl says.
“Probably. I mean, Coach P. is lonely,” Tabitha’s cousin says, and the sound of her locker shutting follows, blended with arrogance and laughter.
My vision is clouding, but it isn’t from the MS—it’s from the sting of tears I’m fighting desperately to keep from falling. It’s been months since I’ve heard the whispers. My father made sure that the whispering back home stopped. It’s amazing what a well-written letter from one of California’s top law firms can do to gossip. But that letter seems only to have power back home—there are new rules here.
“What a bitch! I mean who does that, sleeps with someone’s husband? That’s low. She must have no self-respect,” the voice says.
Of everything said, this is the one statement that hits the hardest. Yes, there are times when I have had no self-respect. But I have a shitload now. And if you’re going to shame me, sum me up with a few rumored whispers swapped in a steamy locker room, then you might as well get the chance to say it to my face.
I zip my bag and stand on the bench on the other side of the lockers, making enough noise to make the other girls nervous. They can see the top of my head as I walk along the bench. I jump from the seat with enough force to cause my shoes to slap the concrete hard, the sound echoing. By the time I round the corner to face them, my chest is full of swagger.
“Oh, hi, ladies. I didn’t know you were still here,” I say, my smile caught somewhere between the words fuck off and bitches. “Since you are, I thought I’d take this time to maybe clear a few things up.”
Their eyes are wide and their hands are limp at their sides—even the beautiful, confident one who started all this in the first place. This vision is priceless, and it makes the pulsating sick feeling in my stomach completely worth it.
“Yes,” I say, my lips falling into a comfortable smile, my mouth closed tightly while I wait for one of them to take my bait. The skinny blonde on the end does me the favor.
“Yes, what?” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder while her eyes roam up and down my body as if she can size me up—everything about me—with this one look.
“Yes, I sl
ept with my coach in high school. And yes, I slept with my teacher. Slept with the principal at our school, too. I get around—collect other girls’ husbands and boyfriends. I don’t know why they always fall for me…” I keep up the false, flippant voice as I talk. “Maybe their women just can’t keep them satisfied. I’m so good that after a man sleeps with me, he gives me anything I want. You like being first team?”
When I say this, I turn my head to the girl with jet-black hair, because she’s the one I want to hurt the most.
“What? No response for me? Are you afraid I’ll spread my legs and fuck my way into your position? I mean, why wouldn’t I, right? It’s what I do. I don’t earn anything myself. Those sprint times that are better than yours, my California scoring records, the goddamned trophy I hoisted up on my shoulders when our team won state—all lies. It’s really about the blowjobs I give behind closed doors—to recruiters, to whomever I need to, so I can get ahead. Because, yeah…that makes way more sense than the idea that maybe I’m just really fucking good, and maybe I could help your team win nationals, and maybe…just maybe…my skills are threatening to you,” I snap my head to the third girl, sitting in the back, her breath held this entire time. “Or you.” I revel a little inside when she makes a chirping noise, scooting back in fear. She’s afraid of me. Good.
“I underestimated you girls. You’re too smart for me. Guess I’ll just have to earn my way into the captain’s job by showing your asses up out on the field instead of fucking some fifty-year-old married man off campus. Damn, this way is going to be so much harder. Why’d you have to ruin my plan?”
I have left them speechless, each of their mouths opened, but unable to breathe. A year ago, I would have waited for them to leave, would have run home and cried in my closet, my whimpers muffled by my giant teddy bear, and then I would have fixed it all by putting out to some boy who didn’t love me, but who I could pretend did—at least for the night.
That was the old Cass. This Cass? She loves herself, or at least she’s working on it. She is more than her MS. And she has a boyfriend—who isn’t married, and isn’t her teacher, or just using her for a few hours and bragging rights.
And these bitches have just lost their starting positions on the team, because tomorrow I am going to humiliate them on that field. I don’t care if it kills me.
I slide away from them in my socks and sandals, my gear slung in my bag over my shoulder. I pop my gum once because my hands are both too full to give them the finger.
“See you ladies tomorrow. Hope you’re ready for me.” I bite down once and force a final smile before I turn and let the door slam behind me.
My chest is thumping wildly with adrenaline. This is the first time…perhaps ever…that I have stood my ground, stuck up for myself, squashed rumors before they got out of control. I feel like I could run a hundred more sprints, or climb a mountain. By the time I get to Ty, who is still waiting for me at the front of the field gate, I leap onto his lap and kiss him—completely forgetting all of the doubt that’s been keeping me awake the last two nights.
I’m amazing, and Ty is lucky to have me. And for a few moments, I honestly believe that’s true.
Chapter 16
Ty
“You’re pushing things kinda close, don’t you think?” I ask, watching her shove everything into one bag—her physics notes, her book for the exam, her cleats. I’m fighting every OCD bone in my body not to grab the bag from her and at least fold some of the crap she’s stuffed in there. “Awe, woman! You’re wrinkling your shorts.” I lose the fight and take the bag into my lap, doing my best to organize it.
“I know it’s going to be close, but I don’t really have a choice,” she says, tapping her foot while I do my best to organize this mess she’s thrown together. “I failed my test. I mean, like…blew it! This is my only chance to get a retake…just give it to me.”
She zips the bag shut, and hooks the straps over one shoulder.
“Okay, but just make sure you leave in time to get to the field for warm-ups,” I remind her. Why am I always the nag? Nagging Nate, nagging Cass—huh…I’m Mom.
“Yes, coach,” she teases, kissing my cheek as she walks by. “Oh, hey…can I borrow your watch so I can keep track of the time during my test?”
“Oh, uh…can’t you borrow Rowe’s or something? Mine’s so big and heavy,” I lie. That makes two, though this isn’t really a lie, it’s more of an omission. My watch is heavy, but that has nothing to do with my diversion tactic.
“Rowe went home for the weekend. Which means I’m alone,” she says, eyebrows waggling. I’m won over by her adorableness, and suddenly I slide the watch from my wrist and hand it to her, somehow keeping myself from clinging to the other end of the band. I watch her slip it over her hand, watch her clasp it shut, and when she looks back at me, I force myself to only look at her face—not at the black and silver time piece that has my soul locked inside.
“I’ll see you at the field, right? Nate coming?” she asks as she walks out the door, my eyes still splitting time between her lips and my watch.
“No, he has a tournament,” I say, and she freezes at the door, her lip curling on one side.
“You’re missing his game,” she says. And she’s right. I told my brother I had to help Cass with something important, and he understands. There will be thousands of games in his future. But she only has this one shot. He didn’t ask what it was, but he smiled and just told me he’d be fine without me harassing him for one game. I shrug and smile at her, pretending it’s no big deal. But it is—I don’t miss Nate’s games—even showed up with pneumonia once. But it seems something finally trumped my brother in the hierarchy of my attention.
She holds her hand over her heart and blows me a kiss when she leaves, and I can’t help myself…I stare at the watch when she does. That stupid watch—I hate how attached I am to it. But it’s like the glowing pod that lives in the center of Iron Man’s chest, and now that it’s gone, I feel a little weaker.
I shut her door for her, locking it from the inside when I leave. I make my way to my room to finish some reading before heading to her match.
I’m early. I know I’m early, but she should still be here by now. I told her she was cutting it close with the physics test. Who makes the only retakes available on a Saturday?
Most of the team is here, and coach motions to me across the field, pointing to his watch and shrugging. I wave him off, mouthing, “She’s on her way.”
Shit, she better be on her way!
I pull the phone from my pocket to my lap because I don’t want him thinking I’m searching for her. But fuck, Cass! Where are you?
Are you almost here?
Long seconds tick by slowly, or at least, I think they do…I wouldn’t know because Cass has my fucking watch! The more time that passes, the more my chest constricts, like I can’t breathe. I hate being late, and even though I’m here, Cass being late feels like an extension of me.
I’m watching the phone screen, waiting for any sign that’s she’s typing, sending me a message. Then I hear a whistle, one of those two-fingered kinds used to call a dog. I look up and see the coach waving his hand in the opposite direction, and Cass is sprinting to the field.
And the breath I’ve been holding exhales all at once. I’m actually sweating. And she hasn’t even entered the game yet.
My eyes zero in on her for the first part of warm-ups. I keep trying to offer her a signal, something to let her know that I’m here, I’m with her—watching. She’s got this. You’ve got this, Cass.
But she won’t look up. She’s locked in to her own zone, and that’s okay. She looks great in warm-ups, not that I know a whole hell of a lot about soccer. But she looks just as good as the other girls out there—girls who have been training with the team, not just some two-bit college trainer in a wheelchair. In a way, it gives me a thrill that I’ve made her stronger. But I don’t think I really did much; I think maybe she was just stronger than everybody els
e all along.
She looks incredible in her soccer shorts. I sketch a mental picture of the high socks pulled up over her knee. That’s a look I’m going to have to beg her to replicate.
Coach subs her in pretty quickly. I can tell it pisses off the girl he subbed out. Good. She should be pissed. Cass is better, and that chick is going to lose her spot. Cass is faster than everyone out there. Her legs work the ball better. She anticipates, and then she capitalizes on her opponent’s errors. By the time the first half is done, she has one goal to her name, and plenty of attempts.
I try to get her attention again when they jog by, but she’s not looking my way. It’s okay—I don’t want to be a distraction. I do manage to catch coach, and I nod as he walks by, hoping he says something to give me an indication, something I can pass on to Cass.
“Looking good, Preeter. That girl? She might just save our season,” he says.
“Well, what can I say, I know how to scout,” I say back, making him laugh as he turns away. I can raise my hand to take the credit until I’m blue in the face. But all of that? The forty-five minutes of feet pounding turf that I just witnessed? That’s one hundred percent Cass and her drive. I can see she wants this, not just for me. And that feels damn good. I’ll take credit for waving the dream back in front of her, but she earns the right to have always wanted it in the first place.
Cass
Nothing is wrong. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Nothing hurts; my body feels good. I’m hydrating, and there’s nothing wrong. I lie here on the bench, an ice pack on the back of my neck, my eyes closed to gather my thoughts, the sounds of the other girls and lockers and chatter all melding together into one obnoxious cacophony around me. I’ve been playing the words over and over in my head, because if I don’t, if I let up the mantra for just one second, I know I’m going to cry.
