“It comes naturally. I’ve learned not to fight it.”
“Well, if it’s so easy, you do it.”
He tosses me the ball, and I try not to look too smug as I walk over to the starting spot. I might be a dick now, but high-school-me was an outright ass**le. That’s what happens when you don’t have a parent around to put you in your place: You become pretty damn certain that you know what’s best about everything. Coach Cervera, my football coach the last two years of high school, had no problem showing me how wrong I was. The guy made me run arches every day until, I swear to God, I was walking around bent and hunched even outside of practice. I take a deep breath, blink to make sure my vision is completely clear, and then I speed through the course as fast as I can. My feet slip a few times on the wood chips, but I don’t think Williams noticed, at least not based on the suspiciously blank expression he has when I’m done.
“Fine. Give me the damn ball.”
I do smile then, tossing it like he asked.
I lose track of time while we work. Football does that to me. Dylan is the only other thing that has ever been that way. I could listen to her talk, watch her sleep, run my fingers through her hair . . . anything. I could do that all day long, and never get bored.
Fuck.
That’s over. Done with.
I shake my head and focus back on the task at hand.
Keyon is now good enough that he’s running the drill five times in a row before stopping, rather than just the one lap. He’s still not quite at full speed, he’s too unsure of himself, but he’s already much better. I think the quick turns around the fireman’s pole are helping to train his vision, too. It’s a good start. And he doesn’t need me anymore. Not for this.
As we wrap up, I tell him, “I know a couple more drills that would help if you want to meet up this week before or after practice.”
He finishes out the loop he’s on and says, “Wait.” I hadn’t even moved yet, but I raise my eyebrows in question. “Why are you doing this?”
“I told you. I want the team to win.”
“But I’m your competition. What if I end up taking your spot?”
“If a few hours of drills makes you that much better than me, then you deserve to take my spot.”
“You’ve still got to miss another game, though. What if I show you up?”
“I’m not exactly sitting on my ass doing nothing, Williams. Besides, if you’re good enough, maybe Coach will look at going to a two-back offense. You, me, and McClain? We could be pretty damn impressive, I think.”
He nods. “Cool. Yeah.” He holds up the football. “You need this back?”
“Nah, you keep it. You could stand to do this, oh, another thousand times.”
I start jogging back in the direction of my house.
“Still being a dick!” he yells behind me.
“See you at practice, fish.”
Chapter 28
Dylan
On the next game day, I agree to get lunch with my parents because I’m not sure I can handle watching another game with Stella mentioning Silas every few minutes. The masochism has to stop sometime.
But before I’ve even finished setting the table, I know this was a mistake. Mom has brought up Henry three times. She thinks maybe we should invite him and his parents over for dinner . . . since I’m not dating anyone new.
She gives me a look when she says that last thing, and I know I didn’t fool her at that party.
Ironically enough . . . I no longer need to fool her. Because Silas is so beyond done with me.
There’s that masochism again. Rubbing salt in my own wounds.
As we take our seats for lunch, and Mom passes around all the perfectly plated dishes, I struggle to keep my mind off him. I struggle with all the things that used to come easy. The pleases and the thank-yous. Dad notices.
“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
“Hmm?” I look up from the food I’d been pushing around on my plate. “Just have a lot on my mind, I guess. Sorry.”
God, I never want to say that word again. Never. I’d be the rudest person ever, but if I never had to say that word not followed by a kiss again, it would be okay.
I tune out the conversation about some big donation Dad is trying to land for Rusk, and instead sneak my phone out underneath the table.
Phones aren’t allowed during meals. It’s one of Mom’s rules, but I can’t help it. I have to know what’s happening at the game.
I don’t know if they’re playing an easier team or if things have changed since last week, but on my phone I watch the score climb, as I periodically pause to scoop some food off my plate so my parents don’t become too suspicious. Rusk leads by three. Then ten. Then sixteen. And I find myself imagining Silas’s face on the sidelines. Is he happy for his team? Or still too frustrated by his inability to play?
“Dylan? Is that a phone beneath the table?”
I drop my phone into my lap and look up at Mom. Guilty.
“Yeah. Sorry, Mom. I just had to check something.”
“Are you waiting on a call?”
“No, I was . . . sorry. I’ll put it away. That was rude of me.”
I hear Silas in my head telling me to stop apologizing, and then I imagine him kissing me, and it feels like my lungs are filled with water.
“What are you checking?” Dad asks.
I could lie. Say I’m waiting on an e-mail about school or the shelter or anything. But I’m so tired of lying.
“I was checking the score on the football game. Rusk is up by sixteen if you were curious.”
“Honey.” That one word from Mom is chastising, and I don’t know if it’s for using my phone at the table or for the information she’s inferring after that confession.
As always, Dad gets straight to the point. “That football player you were talking to at the party. I don’t want you involved with him. I’m not sure what he told you, but he’s violent and troubled, and he’s been suspended from the team because of it.”
I don’t know what to say to that because technically the things he’s said about Silas are true. Granted, I wouldn’t go so far as to call him violent. But he does walk that line, and I can’t ignore that, can’t excuse it just because I’m attracted to him.
“He’s worked really hard to turn that around, Dad. I think if you asked around now, you’d hear a different story.”