The phone rings and a collective silence falls over the room. I glance at my phone, a Chicago number lighting it up.
Mama squeezes my shoulder and Indie grips my thigh in encouragement.
I pick up the phone, as all the boys gather around the coffee table. Clearing my throat, I answer, “This is Lincoln Castle.”
“Lincoln, this is Harold with the Chicago Rebels. Congratulations, son, you’re going to play for the black and red.”
Tears well in my eyes, my skin prickles with excitement, relief, and nerves, which makes me want to puke and cheer. Simultaneously. Shit.
“Wow, thank you so much. This . . . this means the world to me.”
“Well, we’re very excited to have you as part of our organization. Congratulations. We’ll be in touch.”
I hang up and everyone waits in anticipation. “The Rebels. I’m going to be a Rebel.”
The room erupts in cheers. My moms pull me into a hug, both crying into my shoulders while the boys all fist-bump and chant my name. It’s ridiculous and obnoxious, but it also feels good.
Really fucking good.
I did it.
All that hard work, the extra time, the special events I missed because of training. It all came down to this moment—where it paid off.
A Rebel. I never expected to be picked up by a Chicago organization, but I couldn’t be happier.
My moms release me from their loving embrace and then hug each other. I turn to Indie, who has tears in her eyes. She clasps me by the cheeks and brings her lips softly to mine where she presses a gentle kiss, only to pull away and caress her thumbs over my cheeks. “I’m so proud of you, Castle,” she whispers. “So freaking proud.”
Tears spill over my eyes.
“Thank you,” I say, choked up.
Champagne pops in the distance and I hear Rusty gathering glasses for everyone, but I ignore it all and stare at Indie, excitement pouring through me . . . as well as dread.
Because this means it’s coming to an end.
And from the tears falling onto her face and the tremble in her lips, I think she’s seeing the same thing. Yet . . . she’s kept herself hidden emotionally. And sometimes, I wonder if she ever became as invested as I have. Was I wrong? Was this year’s success possibly due to being in a relationship with Indie, and not despite it?
And if that’s true, what happens next?
Chapter Nineteen
INDIE
JUNE
Knock. Knock.
“Who is it?” I ask, mumbling into my pillow.
“Who do you think it is?” Scarlett says, opening my door.
“Not in the mood,” I say, not bothering to look back at her.
She shuts the door behind her. “If you lifted your head right now, would your face be covered in mascara?”
“Maybe,” I answer.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Too bad.” She flops on my bed and drapes her legs over the back of mine. “So, Lincoln is with the Rebels. That’s pretty badass.”
“It is. He’s really excited to have a chance to play in Chicago still.”
“Must be exciting for you too. Means he’ll be here still.”
I shake my head. “Scarlett, you’re smarter than that. You know their Triple-A and Double-A teams aren’t located here. Double-A, I think, is in Massachusetts for God knows what reason, and Triple-A is in Kansas. I think Lincoln is amazing, but it will be a few years before he’s actually playing in Chicago, and that’s if they even keep him in the organization. Minor league players are used as bargaining chips for trades constantly.”
“So what you’re saying is that his future is full of uncertainty.”
“Yup.”
“And that makes you sad because . . .”
“I’m not sad,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that. Can you lift your face off your pillow and repeat that?”
“No.”
“Indie, lift your head or I’m going to do it myself.”
Sighing, I roll to face her and give her a top-notch view of my drenched eyes and black-stained cheeks.
“Jesus Mother,” she says, moving back, hand to her heart. “Your face is what nightmares are made of.”
A snot bubble pops out of my nose as I snort. “It’s not that bad.”
“Have you looked in a mirror?”
“No—”
“Then your opinion has no legs to stand on. Bury your face back in that pillow. You’re going to terrify the children.”
“Scarlett, stop making me laugh.”
“Oh that’s right. Sorry. We’re pretending that you’re not sad when in fact you really are sad.”
“Yeah. Keep it straight,” I say, staring at the ceiling.
“Okay, so even though we’re pretending you’re not sad, when you really are sad, let’s talk about why you’re sad even though you’re not sad.”
“I barely followed that.”
“I’m surprised it made sense at all,” she says, her smile easing my tattered soul.
I don’t answer right away, but try to catch my breath as I think about the goodbye. The one I’ve been dreading ever since he came barging into my room before Christmas break demanding I tell him what was going on. In that moment, I knew . . . I knew deep in my bones that he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me and life without him is going to be impossible.
It’s going to be painful.
It’s going to be tangible pain I won’t be able to get over for a long time, and that thought sent me into a deep depression.
A debilitating depression.
One that I’m still fighting.
I spent the entire winter break seeing a therapist—learning to identify my true fears and pain—and using the library as my place of healing, desperately trying to gain control of the downward spiral that was my life. It was so bad, I almost called up Coach Wilson and told her I was quitting. I couldn’t even conceive of playing soccer, not when nothing felt right.
The only thing that felt right, Lincoln, would leave me at the end of the school year.
And now that we’re here, I can feel the darkness creeping in on me again.
Finally, on a deep breath, I say, “I’m going to miss him, Scar. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do when he’s gone. I’ve relied on him so much this year that I can’t imagine going through another year at school and not seeing him bright and early Monday morning, showering together in the locker room, spending Sundays together lounging, or catching him around campus for a spontaneous coffee date. I don’t know how to be here without him. I don’t know how to play without him in the stands, screaming like a fool. It’s all too painful.” Nothing has ever torn me apart like this. Not my father’s absence. Nor my mother’s negligence. Lincoln has provided the much-needed salve for the damage my parents’ decisions and actions caused in my heart.
And soon he’ll be gone. Forever.
And just like I did to my mom last December, I’ll pretend I’m dauntless and unbreakable . . . even though the truth is, I’m cowardly and weak.