“What’s the plan for break?”
“My parents are coming,” I say. “We’re going to go to Boston for a few days.”
She nods quickly. “I’ve got connections there. BC. BU. I can set up official campus visits.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Really,” she says. “But Jade… listen carefully.”
She crouches in front of me, eyes level.
“If they ask about homecoming, you can’t tell the whole truth. I hate this. But if you say what actually happened? They’ll get nervous. They won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”
My stomach sinks.
“So what? Pretend it was just some stupid prank?”
She grimaces. “If you want those offers, yes. Sweep it under the rug. For now. I know it’s wrong. But nobody does the right thing anymore, kid. Not in college sports.”
I swallow hard.
I hate it.
Hate every part of it.
But she’s not wrong.
“Well,” I say quietly, “my parents can’t afford tuition at either of those schools. So I’ll need… serious help.”
“Then,” she says gently, “you’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”
A hollow laugh escapes me.
“Coach Roman’s words follow me out of her office like ghosts.
No one wants to recruit drama.
You’ll need to sweep it under the rug.
You’ve got a lot of thinking to do.
Soccer was supposed to be my way out.
My future.
My ticket.
My escape hatch.
Now it’s another landmine I have to tiptoe through.
I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth, smearing a little of my matte plum lipstick. My nails match — dark purple, sharp as obsidian — but none of it makes me feel stronger right now.
I rush out into the hallway before she sees the panic rising in my throat.
I barrel straight into a wall of boys heading to basketball tryouts.
Tall. Sweaty. Loud.
