“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You crying?”
“No.”
“It’s not your fault.”
I sniffed and wiped my eyes again.
I didn’t say anything.
Neither did Chip. He just sat there next to me, like he didn’t mind the silence.
Finally I said, “I let that guy past me.”
“So did I. So did everyone. So did Diego.”
“Diego was on their number 12.”
Chip sighed.
“We’re a team. We win and lose together.”
“But I let everyone down.”
“No you didn’t. I promise.” Chip rested his hand on my knee and shook it back and forth. “Hey. You didn’t.”
“Then why do I feel like I did?”
“Because you care. Because you’re too hard on yourself.” He squeezed my knee. “Because you’re Darius.”
I stared at Chip’s hand. It was kind of square shaped, and his fingers were shorter than his palm.
It was a nice hand. I could feel its warmth through my joggers.
It made me sweat a little bit.
“It just feels like I’ve been doing everything wrong lately.”
“That sucks.”
He gave me another squeeze and met my eyes.
My chest felt tight. My ears burned.
“Um.”
I looked down at my knee. Chip still had his hand there.
I took a deep breath.
“Yeah.”
Jaden, Gabe, and I were all quiet as we got dressed for Conditioning the next day. I think Gabe was even more upset about the game than I was. Coach Bentley let slip that there’d been a recruiter from UC Berkley there.
I’m sure, if nothing else, they’d left with a favorable impression of Robbie Amundsen, the Trojans’ indomitable number 7.
