“Thanks,” I say dully. Shoving him out of my way, I slip inside. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but we both know it’d be a lie.”
You just have to get through this, I chant over and over in my mind. But even that doesn’t help this time.
“Cut it on that attitude, will ya? I was worried when you didn’t show.”
“Well, you have a funny way of showing it,” I say sarcastically as I take my usual seat in the kitchen.
Coach stops in the doorway, looking at me contemplatively. “Were you with him?”
“Him who?”
I know what he’s asking. There is only one him Coach could be talking about with that gloomy scowl etched into his face, but I don’t have to make it easy for him.
“Don’t play coy with me. One of my players, Yasmin? Really?”
And there it is, the reason why I was wary of seeing him even more than usual.
I should have known it wouldn’t take him long to bring Nixon up. The last time I saw Coach, I was standing by Nixon’s side when he was burying his mother. Coach isn’t one to beat around the bush, so it was bound to happen sooner rather than later.
“I don’t see how Nixon has anything to do with this. I told you, I was late…”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard it all.” He waves me off. His bushy brows connect as his scowl deepens, eyes narrowing at me. “I’m not just talking about today.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“You dating one of my players behind my back, that’s what I’m talking about!” he yells, a throbbing vein appearing on his forehead.
Well, that escalated quickly.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. Whatever is or isn’t happening between me and Nixon is of no concern to you.”
“No concern to me?” He stalks closer, hands fisted by his sides as he looks down at me. “You’re my daughter, and he’s one of my star players, how is that of no concern to me?”
I get up, placing my palms on the table so forcefully the plates rattle. “Your daughter? Your daughter?! Nineteen fucking years, you had nineteen fucking years, and in all this time you’ve never, not once claimed me as yours, and you decide to do it now?”
“You’ll not…”
My vision goes hazy, breaths ragged. Grabbing the first thing that comes to hand, I throw it at him. Unfortunately, I’m no quarterback so I miss my aim—his head—but there is still a little bit of satisfaction when the glass shatters.
“No, you’ve had long enough to say what you wanted, now it’s my turn, because I’m done with this shit. You left my mom when she was pregnant. Left me. And not once did you bother turning back.”
“Yas—”
I take another thing, this time a plate, and throw it at him.
“Not once!” I cry out.
I’m done. Done with men in my life leaving, and throwing me away. Done with being the second choice. Just done. “When I wanted you, when I needed you, you weren’t there! Not when I fell off my bike and scraped my knees. Not when boys in school were teasing me about my braces. Not when I was bullied for being Latina. Not when Mom got sick. Not once when I needed you, were you there.”
I inhale sharply, choking on air.
“The funny part is, if you’d come back at any point, I’d have taken you back openhearted because I was that desperate to find the missing piece of me and get it back. And even in the end, after I swore to myself I wouldn’t do it, I had to be the one to call you for help. Not because of you, or because of me, God knows I gave up on you years ago, but because of her. Because I knew how much me going to college meant to Mom, and I couldn’t bring myself to let her down. So no, Daddy,” I say, the irony dripping from my voice. “So no, you don’t get to call me your daughter. Not now, not ever.”
Silence settles over us, the only sound my hard breathing.
Coach runs his hand through his hair, uncomfortable. “I’m just worried about you.”
“Worried about me? Funny, because to me it sounds like the only thing you’re worried about is your precious game and players.”
It’s always been about the game for him. The thing he put first and nothing else could ever come even close; not love, and surely not a child.
Sometimes, when I was younger, I wondered if it would have made a difference if I were born a boy and not a girl. Maybe then he would have loved me.
But I wasn’t that little girl playing what-if games.
Not anymore.
“Nixon has been going through a lot.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I was there, standing by his side through the better part of it.”
“Then you should know it. Besides, Nixon isn’t known to be…” He stops, as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “A one-woman kind of guy.”
I step back as if he slapped me.
“What are you saying?” My words come out slow and measured.
I’m not sure what he’s playing at here, but I know I want no part in it.
“That maybe you should be careful with who you hang out with. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”
Oh, no he didn’t.
“Well, Coach, maybe you should look in the mirror the next time. After all, you know better than anyone what it’s like to be a womanizing manwhore. Nixon, for all his faults, at least cares about his family. You can’t say that about yourself, now can you?”
“Yasmin…”
I step back, avoiding his outstretched hand. “I thought I could do this, but obviously I was wrong. I won’t be coming back again, Coach.”
Looking away, I step around him and hurry out of the room. This time he doesn’t try to stop me.
Tears fill my eyes, making my vision cloudy. Blindly, I walk down the corridor, hoping I don’t trip on my way out.
You won’t break. Not here. Not when he can see.
Pulling open the front door, I stumble outside, a sob ripping out of my lungs.
Why did I think this was going to be a good idea? Why did I think I could do it? It was foolish to think he couldn’t hurt me after all this time, foolish to think, that somewhere deep down, I don’t care anymore.
I don’t want to care. But why does my heart hurt so badly then?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, thinking that maybe it’s him again, but it’s Mom.
Wiping the tears off my cheeks, I inhale a breath to try and calm myself before answering the call.
“Hola, mi niña.” Her cheerful voice breaks my heart all over again.
“M-Mamá.” My voice shakes as I answer. I pray to God that she doesn’t notice but of course she does.
“Is something amiss?”
“It’s…” I sniffle. “It’s all good. Just… A lot has been going on.”
Talk about putting it mildly.
“You sound funny. ¿Estabas llorando?”
“No, I—” Another sniffle. “It’s allergies.”
“Yasmin…”
I can’t tell her. Not yet. I can’t tell her the truth. I know I’ll have to, and soon. There is no way we’ll be able to afford Blairwood next year, but I can’t go another year like this. I just can’t.