“Makes sense. I gather it would be difficult to study for your Master’s programme if you had distractions,” Jelani supplies, and I roll with it. A lie by omission is still a lie, yes. But maybe not as damning?
I nod, unable to provide a verbal response with the guilt swirling inside me.
“Are you comfortable with a male flatmate? I may have a friend looking for a new flat.” Rafael pinches the bridge of his nose and grumbles, “And if he’s not, he damn well should be.”
I assume something is wrong with where his friend currently lives, but I won’t ask. It’s none of my business. “I care very little about what's dangling between their legs, or not, for that matter. So long as they’re clean, quiet, and pay their half of the rent, the spare room is fair game.”
Elise points at me with the sharp end of her fork, a noodle dangling from the prongs. “Youmay not care, but your parents certainly will.”
She’s not wrong. Mummy will have a conniption, and the aunties will lose their minds. Papa might even try to have me committed and shipped home, but ultimately, they’ll get over it. My parents have long since given up on trying to control myactions—and knowing it’s driven by fear of losing me only twists the knife deeper.
My whole life, they’ve shifted their views and changed how they’ve parented me to meet my needs so they wouldn’t lose another child, and here I am, keeping secrets from them that threaten to tear me away regardless.
My throat feels thick, and I swallow around the dry lump, pushing my food around on my plate. “Just like with everything else, they’ll eventually get over it. So long as I maintain good grades and don’t get pregnant, they shouldn’t have anything to complain about.” That doesn’t mean they won’t find something, but that’s between them and the universe.
“Alright. I’ll chat with him today and get back to you,” Rafael tells me.
“That’d be great. Thanks,” I murmur, sliding out of my seat and collecting dishes.
“We’d better get going, or Coach Auclair will kick our arses for being late,” Jelani says.
“He’s only a hard-ass when it’s deserved,” Elise comments, always quick to defend her father. He may be the coach of one of the best rugby teams in the nation, but he’s also a gentle giant. He’s got a soft spot for the underdog, and so far, he’s had no trouble shaping each of his players into a champion.
“Fair point,” Jelani says, pressing another kiss to the top of Letty’s head, her light-bronze cheeks flushing. He gives Chelsea a kiss on the cheek and says, “Thanks for the fuel, love. One day, you’ll have a Michelin star with those skills.”
“I’d like to think so,” she replies, as everyone helps pack up the leftover food and the guys head out.
When we’re finished in the kitchen, Elise tosses jerseys at us fresh from the dryer, each sporting her last name in support of her father and his team, the Wyvern Warriors.
“Alright, ladies. Be ready in twenty. It’s a home game, and I have no interest in needing binoculars to see the action,” I announce, heading upstairs to change and get ready.
And as I do, it settles in that this is the last time we’ll all be living together like this, and from this day on, I’ll be hiding things from the women who’ve become not only my flatmates, teammates, and friends these last three years, but my sisters. Each of them brings something different to our friend group that the others lack. Knowing I may be the weak link that breaks that bond has me sliding down my closed bedroom door, knees drawn to my chest, gulping for air I fear won’t come until my fate is settled.
* “My beloved child has worked so hard.”
CHAPTER
THREE
Run,run, run.
My hamstrings are tight, calves burning. A lock is already there to secure possession of the ball, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I tackle him like I’m the incredible player Coach Auclair believes me to be, not the nobody from Manchester who got lucky after years of misfortune.
The sound of the crowd swells, a living thing roaring in my ears.
We collide, my chest cracking against his ribs, air leaving my lungs in a whoosh as my shoulder drives into the turf beneath me. I land hard with a grunt.
The ball spills as planned, and we recover. It should feel good. Bloody incredible.
It doesn’t.
Not enough. Never enough. Not when my family needs me to prove my worth, to make them proud, to keep a roof over their heads. I can’t afford to have bad days.
The pressure snuffs out any spark of joy before it can form, the weight of expectation pressing harder than any tackle.
I shake the thoughts away, climbing to my feet, and we set again.
One. Two. Crash ball. Recycle.
