“Is your dad there?” Again, her voice was so soft. “Is he making you do this?”
No…Rumple…please don’t go there.
“No, I’m just tired of playing this game,” I told her. “You’re red-carded. Thrown out. No longer interested. You get it?”
“But…Thomas…everything was fine—”
“Maybe you thought it was.” I forced my voice to stay light-hearted, cool, and callous. Yeah, it was all of those. “You do give a good hand job, but it’s just not worth my time anymore.”
You have to believe me…you aren’t safe around me anymore. You probably never were.
“Thomas, what the hell is wrong with you?” she finally yelled. “You aren’t making any sense!”
“It’s pretty simple,” I told her. “Get your own fucking ride to school, bitch.”
I hung up.
“That’s my boy.” Dad clasped me on the shoulder. “Someday you’ll understand why I do these things for you.”
I didn’t think I would ever really understand.
She tried to talk to me in the hallway at school Wednesday, but I turned and walked away from her. I didn’t go to the lunchroom at all—just went straight to the practice field with Paul and Clint. She came out and tried to interrupt our practice, but I told her to fuck off and headed into the locker room.
I changed the ringtone, shut off my phone, and deleted my IM account.
I managed to totally avoid her the rest of the day.
I pushed all thoughts of her from my mind and thought of nothing but my game. At night it was different because my mind kept replaying every time I saw her eyes meet mine in the hallway. I could see the sadness and the lack of understanding in them. I could see the questions on her face, but I couldn’t reply to them.
It was better this way—quick and hard.
She’d heal faster, and she was strong—so fucking strong. I knew she’d be okay. Better off, really. What could I actually offer her long-term?
Nothing, that’s what.
On Thursday, Jeremy tried to bring her up to me, and I told him to fuck off, too.
Kick, pass, run, catch, throw, punt.
It was all I allowed myself to think about.
Friday.
Mind in the game—nothing else.
I saw nothing but the ball and the players.
Still scoreless at the end of the second half, but that also meant I hadn’t fucked anything up. I knew they were out there—Wayne Messini and whoever might have accompanied him from Real Messini. They were watching me, not the strikers. I didn’t let it stress me.
Just me and the ball and the net.
Nothing else mattered.
Klosav scored at the end of the second half.
I win.
Ha!