Scored (V-Card Diaries 1)

Derrick shoots him a look that could drop a charging rhinoceros in its tracks and whispers, “Out. Now. If you make me tell you again, you aren’t going to like the consequences.”

“Come on,” Laser says, putting the cap back on his glue stick and standing with a firm glance around the room. “He’s right. We’ve proven we can’t have nice things. Whatever happens now is on us.” He turns to me, what sounds like genuine regret in his tone as he adds, “Sorry, teach. You did a good job. Thanks for trying your best. And for that thing with the fire. It really helped a lot of us. Even if we won’t all admit it.”

A few of the other players mumble their agreement and even Sassy Sven—whose nickname is officially being changed to Shithead after this class—keeps his mouth shut. One by one, they gather their bags and leave the room, slinking past or stuttering apologies to Derrick on their way out, depending on where they are in their personal “taking responsibility for my actions” journey.

When they’re gone, I sag back into my chair, ready for Derrick to tell me how disappointed he is in me for being too weak to retain control over my class.

But he surprises me. “You’ve done a great job, Evie, but these guys are just…” He shakes his head. “They don’t deserve you. Consider your contract fulfilled here. We won’t need you next week. Management has decided to take the camp in another direction.”

I sigh. “I’m sorry to hear that. Sorry but not really surprised.”

“But they’re going to write you a glowing recommendation for your work so far,” he adds as he wanders over to pick up another abandoned glue stick and pops the top back on. “And Gina in publicity wants to connect you with a friend of hers who works with at-risk youth in Soho. They’re looking to add art therapy to their calendar once a week and she thinks you’d be a great fit. If you’re interested.”

“I’m very interested,” I say, torn between excitement at the chance to work with teens—my preferred demographic—and worry for Ian and the rest of the team. “But I’m also sad. I know Sven is an ass and Pete can be a lot sometimes, but some of the guys just need therapy and support. And they’ve needed it for a while. Some have been through a lot of intense stuff, Derrick.”

“I know,” he says, surprising me again. “But we’re running a professional sports team, not a rehab center or an anger-management program. And we need to prove this team isn’t cursed before things get even worse than they are already.” He clears his throat and nods toward the tables. “Want me to help you clean up in here?”

“No, I’ll get it,” I say, “but I do have a favor to ask, if you don’t mind.”

“Shoot.”

“Could you send out an email with my contact information, letting the guys know I’m happy to continue working with them off the clock if they’d like? I think Laser, especially, was finding art therapy really helpful. I’d like to keep that going for him if he’s interested.” My lips curve. “And he’s a really great artist. I actually enjoy his pieces.”

“You don’t have to do that, Evie,” he says softly. “You don’t have to go out of your way for people who don’t appreciate you. And I don’t just mean the team. I’ve been thinking and maybe we should skip the birthday visit to Dad’s on Sunday. I’ll still send him our gift and a card but…maybe that’s enough.”

My brows shoot up my forehead. “But he’s our dad, Derrick. Flawed or not, he’s the only family we have left.”

“Not true. We have each other. And you have Cam and Jess and Harlow. And I have Ian. We both have people who really care about us, even though they don’t have to. Maybe that’s enough. More than enough.”

I pull in a deep breath and let it out, but the tight, fearful sensation locked around my ribs remains. “Can I think about it? And give you a decision tomorrow?”

“Yeah, of course. Sure thing.” He exhales as he nods toward the door. “I should get back to my office. A lot of work to do to revamp our entire camp plan before Monday morning.”

“I bet,” I say, adding as he turns to go, “And, Derrick?”

He glances back. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for asking me about Dad. Being asked feels a lot nicer than being told what we’re going to do. You know?”

His mouth tightens and his chin dips closer to his chest. “Yeah. I bet. I’ve um…been talking to someone. A professional someone.”

Thank God I haven’t stood up yet or I would have fallen over in shock. Derrick has been militantly anti-therapy since we were kids and my school counselor pressured Dad into family therapy for a few months not long after Mom left.