“Yes, you can.”
“No—you weren’t there!” I hate my voice right now, every shaky syllable of it. All pitchy and raw. “Every single one of them knew about Grey and Stacey—how they dated for two years, how he totaled his car after she dumped him—all of it. Every single one of them knew how Grey was treating me. And every single one of them knew it was as fake as Stacey’s new nose.”
“So what! They’re idiots. They used you? Use them back.” She drives home the point with a playful jab, but her eyes are on fire. “Hold your head high and walk into practice tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. You think this is hard? You think those boys are assholes? What if you do make the softball team?” Tears roll down my cheeks. “What about playing on the same team as Kelly? The team you beat at the state semis before whooping up on its star player? You think that’s going to be a freaking piece of Funfetti?”
“No, but I can’t—”
“Did you break your leg tonight?” She taps each of my shins with the toes of her Nikes, like she’s kicking the tires of a used car. “Nope? Okay, then walk into practice—”
“Weights. Saturday is weights.”
“Weights—whatever. Walk in and show those assholes who’s boss. They’ll be so terrified of you there will be an inch-deep stream of piddle on the floor.”
“But if I go back, then who am I?” My arms fling wide. “The girl who told them all to eff off because they were assholes and then came back for more? Isn’t that the definition of a toxic relationship? Not feeling like you have the power to leave and staying where you’re treated like garbage?”
“Not if you give it back.” The wind kicks up and Addie’s braids swirl into her face. “You want to be on the softball team. That’s the end goal. Show up. Kick butt. Do what Kitt needs to see you do and then make the damn team.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. But when I close my eyes, I see Grey’s face in the parking lot. Angry. Unflinching. I see the remorse in Jake’s one good eye and his teeth bare and flashing. I see the blank faces of the “friends” who never gave me a heads-up about this integral piece of Northland romantic history.
“I can’t.” My eyes fly open. “I respect myself too much to go back there.”
“You don’t respect yourself at all if you let a group of stupid boys and an even stupider girl steal your dreams.”
“They aren’t—”
“You quit and yes they are.”
“I’m quitting because I’m standing up for myself.”
“Standing up for yourself doesn’t mean walking away.”
In my head, in this situation, it does. There’s nothing much left to say. Addie knows it, too, and starts backing across the street toward her car.
“Show up to weights in the morning, Rodinsky.”
I watch Addie drive away, Nick in the passenger seat. They’re gone and I’m still standing here, her words swirling in my head.
32
AT SIX THIRTY, MY ALARM DETONATES AND THE SUN busts through my window all bright and cheery, like it’s completely ignorant about last night.
My football gear is strewn all over the floor, a sweat-lined trail of disappointment. My phone’s faceup, home screen lined with texts and missed calls. My head pounds, my knee throbs, and soreness roasts my muscles from the inside out. Even my skin seems to hurt.
Ughhhhhhhh.
Still, I pull myself to standing and head for the hall bathroom as silently as possible—Ryan’s wedged under his pillow, sleeping off being a teenage boy.
The house is mostly quiet—Dad’s snores replaced by clinking in the kitchen. Coffee before his morning jog. The case he was working really must be over. Mom’s sleeping off her treatments in their room, and I hear Heather’s voice coming from the back deck, running Danielle through sun salutations. Danielle’s remarking—not complaining—that she’s just not that damn flexible. Which is exactly why Heather wants her to do it.
And they all expect me to be gone in ten minutes.
Pancakes after practice tomorrow, baby girl.
Now Dad’s over by the front door, probably stepping into his running shoes. Humming. Like he’s freaking Mary Poppins and not a twenty-five-year cop crashing at his eldest daughter’s house while the love of his life battles cancer.
Today, he’s happy.
And last night was part of the reason.
I’m part of the reason.
That word flashes in my brain again—can’t.
I can’t tell him I quit. But I also can’t go to practice. I can’t look those assholes in the eye and lift weights like nothing happened.
I know why it’s a good idea to go. I know I shouldn’t let them get to me. I know that football is the path to my softball dreams. I know I shouldn’t let that opportunity slip away, no matter how tough it is.
But I can’t.
Can I?
I run a cold tap, scrub the last of my mascara onto the towel, and pull my hair back into a ponytail. Look myself in the eye.
I can’t go back. Not to last night. Not to that night in May.
But I can go forward.
I’m five minutes early, but when I walk into the weight room, everyone is there, save the coaches. The boys are hanging on benches, looking as shitty and rundown as I do, and when they see me, they go dead silent, like someone stole all the sound in the room.
Grey. Jake. Nick. Topps. Brady.
Everyone.
I simply find a seat right up front by the mirror and take a sip from my water bottle.
Addie was right.
These boys look like they just metaphorically peed their pants.
The coaches march in, Kelly with them. Her eyes bug out of her head at the sight of me, eyeliner sweeping into a big round O. But other than that, nothing happens. If Coach Lee knows what went down in the parking lot last night, he’s not showing his cards, nor commenting on the fact that the room is very much everyone versus Liv. Instead, Coach Lee accepts a clipboard from Napolitano and starts naming off stations without a preamble.
“Squats—offensive line.”
“Deads—defensive line.”
“Pull-ups—secondary.”
“Bench—quarterbacks and running backs.”
Great. Fantastic. Ideal.
I keep my game face on, of course. Coach doesn’t need to know how I feel about these boys. He just needs me to lift some goddamn weights.
On bench, we’re supposed to pair off—one to spot, one to lift, then switch. But I’m not about to pick any of these people, so I go to the bench on the end and start racking my weights. Napolitano has written the set scheme on the mirror—ten reps, four sets for this station.
Grey starts in my direction, in his calm, relaxed way, and my eyes threaten to roll right out of my head, but then Jake appears and shoulders between Grey and my bench. They exchange a few whispered words… and then Grey starts racking weights two benches away. Brady partners with him, moving to the head of the bench, ready to spot.
And Jake joins me.
His swollen eye looks only marginally better than the night before, but the bruising is now so deep it’s as if he painted Windsor Prep purple over the entire socket. The gash above it is covered with a bandage, a slice of white drawn sharply over his brow, the only visible signs of his mild concussion.