“Oscar, get out of my office,” Dylan snaps, the wheels of his chair moving on the floor the only sound. “And if you do this again, I’ll make sure security doesn’t even let you in next time.”
There’s another gap of silence and I use that to loudly walk outside, like I’m just now approaching the office and not like I was eavesdropping on this out of line, toxic man. I even pair it with a knock on the open door.
“Got a minute?” I say to Coach, not paying any attention to Oscar. Coach nods and Oscar finally gets the hint, turning and leaving, sighing like a toddler on the edge of a meltdown.
At first, I can see the guilt in Dylan’s face, but he shakes it off.
“I was looking for Tyson Bishop during film but couldn’t find him. Do you know if he’s getting treatment or where I can find him?”
Dylan scrunches his brows, like he’s trying to remember something, and then says, “Bishop requested permission to miss today. I’m pretty sure he flew home this morning.”
What? He left? Without saying anything?
“Ah, okay. Cool. Appreciate it,” I say and try to keep my face normal and not in the ‘what the fuck’ expression I feel like giving.
“Blair, have a good week off. You deserve it.” Dylan smiles at me and it soothes my confusion for just a second.
“Thanks, Coach.”
And then I’m out the door, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
Me
You’re already home?
everything okay?
Tyson doesn’t immediately respond, and it looks like his phone is off—the messages go undelivered. My stomach rolls. Why would he do that? Just head home without saying anything? Especially because we originally were on the same flight to go together?
I’m too anxious of a person to just wait until tomorrow to fly out. Or maybe I shouldn’t go at all? Before I’m in a full blown spiral, I scroll my contacts until I reach Teague’s number. Not quite sure what I’ll say to Ty’s older brother, I can’t just sit here and act like everything is fine.
It rings three times before Teague answers, and says in a hushed breath, “I thought I’d hear from you.”
Nineteen
Tyson
“Areyougoingtotell me what’s wrong? Or why you came back early? Or why you’ve been moping around my kitchen all morning?” My mom presses me, while putting her hand on my upper back, rubbing back and forth—the way she’s done since I was a kid.
My mind is a blender, going from one thing to the next, but all surrounding one person: Blair. Part of me wondered if getting permission to skip practice and change my flight to get here a day early was a tad dramatic. Possibly?Probably. The thought crossed my mind when I was talking to the coaching staff but I needed to get out of there.
I needed to get home. To the place that’s predictable and comfortable. Blair won’t miss Thanksgiving and I just needed some time with my family. Needed to get my head on straight.
It’s a snowy Monday in Brindlewick, Michigan. Fat snowflakes fall, making tall piles outside the windows. This is my favorite kind of weather, as long as I don’t have to play football in it. Mom mulls cider on the stove and it’s the smell I most associate with home. Michigan weather is a bit unpredictable, but you can typically count on it being ridiculously cold for seven to nine months out of the year. That means Mom is always making something warm to drink.
She stirs the pot of cider, her other hand still rubbing my back, and I lean on the counter next to her. This is our place. We’ve had many heart-to-hearts in the same exact spot. As much as I don’t want to get intoit, I feel my wall chipping, brick by brick, and I know I’m about to spill my guts.
And that’s what I do. Over a mug of steaming cider, I tell her everything. The night at my place when Blair talked about kissing me. How weird things got after. Our almost kiss on the balcony at the Halloween party. Her crying after the game. The kiss in the elevator. And the gut punch of how she kept something like her dad calling from me but told someone random on our team.
My mom has always been the best listener. She lets me vent, almost losing my breath in the process, and doesn’t ask a single question until I’ve got it all out on the table. Her blue eyes feel like they’re looking through me, picking up all the details I forgot to say. She’s always had a knack for seeing us like this.
She takes a sip of her own cider, laughing to herself, and says, “You think you’re so slick. So good at keeping secrets. I’ve known you’ve loved her since that very first Thanksgiving where you used my credit card to buy a flight for a friend.”
“Well, not sure it matters now,” I groan, letting the steam of cinnamon and apple hit my nose.
“Tyson, I also know that she loves you. Why you can’t tell this about each other is baffling to me.” She exhales and then rubs her temples before locking her eyes on mine. “What did we tell you whenever you were complaining about how hard football was. How the extra training was torture?”
I take a deep breath, thinking of all the times my parents encouraged me, even when I wanted to quit. “If it’s worth having, you better be ready to fight for it.”
