Are proud of me.
But—my lungs hitch—that’s not the case.
“Are you okay?”
I look up from my phone, see that Chrissy has come out into the yard.
I nod. Then shake my head.
Her expression gentles, but she doesn’t push, just sits next to me, bumps my shoulder with hers, and stays with me for a time.
And somehow that’s almost worse.
Because kindness always gets me where judgment can’t.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it right now,” she murmurs a long time later. “But it will all work out in the end.” She stands, squeezes my arm. “You just have to listen to your heart.”
I nod, but don’t follow her inside. I just watch the sun set and the darkness take over.
And as I sit there, I think of Chloe’s little hand in mine, and her peppering me with questions.
I think of Rhodes in his pink shirts and making me his chicken noodle soup and his gentle rebuffs to the “demon cats,” and the way his voice softens for his daughter.
And how dangerous it would be to start wanting any of that softness for myself.
Because my heart is already terribly, inconveniently attached somewhere it shouldn’t be.
And, one day, he’s going to wake up and realize…
I’m not good enough.
Sixteen
Rhodes
Buzz.Buzz.
I heard it the moment I came into the locker room between periods, but I tried to ignore it.
Then I hear my phone vibrate again.
Still, I tell myself, I’m not going to check my fucking texts in the middle of a game.
Coach doesn’t have the strictest phone policies—some teams make you lock them up before practices or games, the Eagles don’t do that—but it doesn’t exactly scream focused if I’m texting between periods now, does it?
But…it might be an emergency.
So I pull it out and check my messages anyway.
FINN: Good play.
That’s it.
Two words.
No exclamation point.
No emoji.
