As if reading my mind, Jacobson smirks. “When was the last time you finished a match without a yellow?”
“I thought you appreciated my aggressive play,” I say, mostly because I don’t have an answer for him. I can’t remember my last clean game.
“Oh, I do. But we both know it’s hard for you to get the job done without the risk of a red.”
I am silent. Sure, two fouls warranting yellow cards equal a red. And a red card means ejection from the game and suspension from the next. The problem is, Jacobson and I are also both very aware that I’ve missed my share of games due to red cards.
“That’s what I thought.” He nods and peers down at the playbook on his desk. “Maybe we don’t need to start the holidays with you getting ejected from the game this year?”
Christmas is two months away. The few weeks around the holiday are the only real break we soccer players get. And last year, I ended our season being ejected from the game and asked to leave the field. Yes, I know exactly what Jacobson is referring to.
But for my cabin … for my solitude …
“I can do that.” I hold a hand across Jacobson’s desk, lifting his gaze to mine.
His right brow quirks up in question.
“If I go the next two weeks without a card, then you’ll talk to Baxter about changing the housing portion of my contract.”
Coach heaves out a weary sigh, standing, slapping his hand into mine. “Sure, Graves. You go the next four games without getting a card, and I’ll talk to Baxter.”
Three
Willow stands over me,peering down as I lie on her couch. “Stella,” she says, her tone a frustrated growl. It’s as if she thought I’d get dressed today. Why would she think that? I haven’t gotten dressed all week. My hair is unwashed. My teeth—okay, my teeth are brushed, but they haven’t been flossed in days, despite what Dr. Carlson said about my gum situation. And I am in the same socks I put on my feet three days ago.
“It’s Halloween,” she says, as if this should mean something to me. “Don’t you want to go to Kate’s party?”
I peer up at my friend from her couch like she’s speaking a foreign language. I have been sleeping here for the last six nights. I have been spending my days on this couch, eating microwave popcorn and pondering my many failures. Why in the world would she think I’d want to move?
“Huh?” I grunt as I lift a handful of extra-buttery popcorn to my mouth. I’m watching all of theStar Warsfilms in chronological order. They were my brother’s favorite, but I never really understood the craze. I’m still notsure I do, but I’m not Anakin. I’ve picked a side (this couch and my wallowing), and I am committed. I’m not quitting now. Certainly not for a Halloween party.
“You need an intervention,” Willow says, arms folded. But what does Willow know? She still gets to go to Clay & Crescent every day. Her sales rep job is safe and sound. They don’t care if she gets creative.Go ahead, Willow, be creative in your ads and pitches. As long as you don’t make the dishes a little more interesting.
I throw a hand toward the television. “Luke just landed on Dagobah. I think he’s having a mental breakdown.”
“You would know,” Willow groans, then bumps the frame of the couch with her foot. “Come on. I brought sustenance. It’s time to get some things off your chest.” She sets one hand to her curved hips, then runs a hand over the top of her short pixie cut. Willow stares down at me, but I pretend she isn’t there. I watch Luke as he spots Yoda in the swamp, pretending my friend and her sustenance aren’t there. But Willow won’t be ignored. She snatches the remote from her coffee table and switches off the TV.
“Hey!” I point to the thirty-inch screen across from my judgment-free zone sofa. “Willow!”
“No one likes disappointing their parents, Stella. But this is out of control.”
“You know it’s more than that!” I surge for the remote, but Willow lifts it up and out of my reach. It isn’t difficult, as I’m still lying down.
“You can’t sleep on my couch forever. You can’t wallow your days away. I love you, but you can’t.”
“Is this about Jerry?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Willow’s ears turn red, her eyes reduce to slits, and she glowers at me.
“Fine, it’s not about Jerry,” I say. And yet, Willow’s semi-dorky but very patient boyfriend, who was planning to move in the day I did, is waiting me out. With the limited space of Willow’s apartment and the single bathroom, he has kindly stepped aside, waiting until I’m back on my feet to move in. Thank you, Jerry—you volunteered as tribute, and my pjs and I greatly appreciate it.
I shouldn’t have mentioned Jerry—it only makes me feel guilty. And I already have enough negative energy swirling inside of me at the moment to support a small planet of stormtroopers.
“I have nothing to get off my chest,” I tell her. “And I have no idea how to fix the mess my life has become. I am unable to do anything right. I am unable to fix this disaster. I know it. You know it. Do we have to talk about it?” I push myself up into a seated position, but I keep my legs stretched out. I don’t want her getting the wrong idea. She isn’t allowed to sit on my depression nest. This couch is mine. I have claimed it. I’m Darth, and this couch is the Death Star. She isn’t taking it.
“You need a heart-to-heart. You need your confidence restored. This multi-disaster mess has filled you with doubt—doubt that isn’t true. You can fix this! We just need to talk about it. And if you aren’t feeling up to sharing, then I’ve brought some liquid courage to help you spill your guts.” She leans down and picks up a two-liter bottle from the floor. She holds the bottle high in one hand. Dark bubbly liquid sloshes inside. Coke—fully leaded. Nothing Zero about it. And in the other hand, two Clay & Crescent mugs.
“Coke.” My weakness. “The real deal.” I cut cola out of my life—cold turkey. Never looking back. It does things to me.
