“I don’t want to talk about this, Mom,” I say after a long bout of silence.
“Fine. The Cruzes invited all of us to hang out next weekend. A Friendsgiving of sorts.”
“Football season is on.”
“It’s next weekend. Jagger will be on bye week.”
“Already?”
“I don’t make the football schedule.”
“Are we driving or flying?”
“Driving. We’re going to Asheville, not New York.”
“Oh.”
“Are you going to come? I know you always say no, but I figured I’d ask and I need to tell Milly so she can be ready for us.”
“Yeah, I’ll go.”
“Good.” Mom pauses. “I hope to see you before then, but if not, I’ll text you the information, unless you want to ride with us?”
“I’ll ride with Misty.”
“I haven’t spoken to her yet,” Mom says. “I don’t know if she’s going.”
“She’ll go.”
“Okay. Sort that out and get back to me. I love you, Josephine. Even if you don’t come visit me.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
When we hang up, I feel bereft. I truly miss my mother, but I can’t deny that I’m still pissed at her. Not because she punished me or for taking away the car they gave me for my high school graduation. I’m mad because she never let me explain myself to her or make things right. They just blew the entire thing out of proportion because they didn’t want to look like bad parents, so it was get a lawyer, expunge the DUI, pay this person and that person, oh, and after you’re done with community service, clean the practice once a week. I wasn’t even mad at all of it. On a deep level, I understood what they were doing. I was just hurt.
I think about Jagger now and wonder what he must think of me. I never gave him a chance to question me. After our brunch non-date fiasco, we’ve pretty much stayed away from each other. I hear him when he gets home late at night after practice and sometimes he’s already there, playing Madden with his friends, when I get home from the bar. He hasn’t so much as looked at me for more than two seconds. Every time he does, I can tell he’s mad though and that’s enough for me not to want to speak to him. I’m tired of having people be mad at me for no reason and I’m even more tired of having to explain myself to them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jagger
“Cut left. Cut left!” Coach B screams.
I cut left, but it’s too late, Payton throws the ball over my left arm and I have no time to catch it. I throw my hands down and curse.
“Dammit, Cruz!” Coach B yells again. “You keep that up and you won’t be starting on Saturday.”
I shut my eyes and exhale, taking the bottle of the sports drink the water boy is handing me as Payton walks over.
“You good?” he asks.
“Miscalculation.” I shake my head and squirt the drink into my mouth before throwing the bottle down on the ground. “Fuck.”
“You think you’ll be ready by Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“You know the plays. You just need to execute.”
“I fucking know that, Pay.” I shoot him a look.
“What play do you want me to run that’s going to make you catch the fucking ball and score?” he asks.
Most QBs I’ve played with wouldn’t ask that. They’d be quick to replace me because they don’t trust I can get the job done. Payton and I have been friends since freshman year and even though I was a starting tight end when I got here, he had to warm the bench until our last QB left for the NFL. Still, he’s been the one I vibe with most when it comes to his impeccable throwing. His arm has power and precision, two things I can count on. Normally, playing with him is easy and seamless, but after my injury, nothing has felt that way.
“Let’s just run that one again,” I say, picking up the bottle I’d thrown on the ground and handing it to the water boy.
We run the route again. This time, I’m there, but don’t lift my arm. I cover my face with my hands. It’s frustrating because I envision myself catching the fucking ball every time, and when it comes down to execute the play, I freeze. I’m scared. There’s no way around it. I’m terrified I’ll pull a ligament. Terrified I’ll undo the work I’ve put in to repair my shoulder. If I keep at it, they won’t start me and before I know it, I’ll lose my spot. I know this just as well as they do. Coach jots something down and it takes everything in me not to scream.
“What are you going to do when you have someone tackle you?” Coach B asks. “You going to freeze up and let them take the ball?”
“Fuck.” I take a deep breath. “No. I can do this.”