She can’t.
That’s on me.
I turned over, then sat up, running my hands through my hair, gripping hard until my scalp burned. My chest hurt, like I’d swallowed something too big to breathe around.
God, the way she held that money out. Like she was begging me to take it, begging me not to own her. She thought she had to buy her way out of me.
I wanted to punch a hole through the wall. I wanted to scream until my throat bled. Because it was wrong. Because it made me sick. Because if she thinks that’s who I am, if that’s what she believes about me, I don’t know if I can stand it.
I crashed my body back down onto the mattress and clutched my blanket tightly as if it could ground me from my thoughts.
Focus on trying to sleep, Maxine; there’s a game tomorrow. First game of the season, stop thinking about stupid shit.
Maxine. Max… Maxine. Honey, breathe through your nose and out your mouth, okay? Mommy’s sorry for coming home late, don’t cry, hm?
Mom.
Mom, come back. Help me. I don’t want to be stuck here anymore. I don’t want to be looked at that way by her anymore, Mom.
Did I not do good?
Am I bad? Am I bad again?
Will she ever…
Lo—Like me.
Chapter Eighteen
Aurora / Joshua
Aurora
The stadium was too loud. Made sense; it was the first football match of the season. A home game, too. I didn’t want to come, not really, but Aly really wanted me to come, and I couldn’t turn her down. Maybe I could get some work done while watching.
Miles came too; he brought Matthew along with him, and we were bang on in the middle of the bleachers.
I could barely hear each whisper from Miles, who was kindly whispering, explaining the game to me since I understood little, nothing at all, actually.
I had my notebook open. Pen in hand. That was supposed to be my anchor.
Observe the captain on game day. Note his communication, his presence, his leadership.That was all I needed to do. Simple.
But then Number 8 moved. Joshua Lockhart.
The world narrowed to the line of his shoulders, the cut of his stride, the sheer force with which he commanded the field.
He was ruthless. Fast. Brutal. Every time he went for the ball, the air seemed to shift around him.
I told myself to write. To keep up. To be a good student. But sometimes my pen hovered, unmoving, because my eyes were still on him. Because I’d forgotten to breathe while watching the ball leave his foot and fly into the net.
“Write this—” Miles’ voice was low in my ear, dragging me back. His shoulder brushed mine as he leaned closer, pointing toward the pitch. “He just forced a turnover. That’s a transition moment. Put that.”
I scribbled; my handwriting jagged. Miles added another word softly, carefully. “Aggression.”
My pen obeyed.
But my eyes… my eyes kept flicking back to him. To Number 8, sprinting across the field, hair plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched.
