Page 2 of The Rookie's Sister

“I’m sorry, you’re breaking up,” my voice wavers, bordering on hysteria. “Can you say that again? Is he alright? How serious is this?”

The call disintegrates into a cacophony of pops and crackles before going dead. Damn it, the cell service in the training facility might as well be nonexistent.

Fear courses through my veins, electrifying my cells. Ever since I was a little girl, Dad has been my constant, my touchstone. And after mom died, he was always there to count on. My rock.

The news worried me. He seemed totally fine this morning when all three of us grabbed breakfast together. And now he’s....what?

I need to pull it together and get to the hospital. Freaking out will only make things worse.

Easier said than done when it feels like the world is collapsing around you.

I stand shakily, grabbing my things with trembling hands. Focus, Emma. You can do this.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance back at the field. For a moment, my eyes lock with Xavier’s brown ones and a strange little jolt of energy goes through me. I rip my gaze away and return it to my brother. Jeff is completely unaware of the family crisis as the practice continues in full swing.

I should tell him. Call down to the field or something. He’ll want to know about Dad.

But I hesitate, not wanting to rattle Jeff right in the middle of practice. This is his moment to shine, to really impress the coaches. And Dad would kill me if I disrupted Jeff’s big shot for anything less than an emergency. Which this is, my anxiety-fueled brain reminds me.

Fuck!

I’ll go investigate the situation at the hospital first. For all I know, it could be the wanting to be safe. After all, he had a checkup today. Until I have verified facts, no reason to send Jeff into a tailspin.

I scribble a quick note to Holly, the assistant offensive coach, asking her to inform Jeff after practice so he doesn’t hear it through the grapevine. This is the best I can do for now.

Then I pass through the doorway, the door groaning shut behind me, closing off the outside world. Enclosing me in shadowy silence.

Alone with my fear.

I pull off my sunglasses so I can see in the dimly lit corridor, but I keep them in hand. I move on autopilot down the concrete corridor toward the exit. Each footfall echoes like a gunshot. I should’ve worn quieter shoes, I distantly register. The tapping only magnifies my escalating anxiety.

Breathe in for five counts. Out for five. You’re okay.

But the too-calm voice in my head sounds fraudulent even to me. Because I’m not okay. My rock, my foundation, is crumbling. If it falls completely, will I be crushed in the rubble?

You know nothing concrete yet I argue back, shoving the doors open into glaring sunlight. Other people get emergency calls about loved ones and things end up fine.

Positive thoughts.

Ha. Easier said than done with your pulse crashing loud as thunder in your ears.

The July heat smacks me full force, amplifying my nausea. Momentarily blinded by the sun, I fumble with my sunglasses as I put them back on before stumbling across the boiling asphalt.

My car is a small oasis of shade at the far end of the massive lot. By the time I reach it, my cotton blouse is plastered to my skin. I crank the AC, blast the vents directly on me. Leaning my forehead against the blessedly cool leather steering wheel as the arctic air slowly chills my heated body.

When my pulse slows to near normal, I straighten with new conviction.

Get it together, Thompson. Dad needs you.

TWO

XAVIER

The crowd’s roaring like a beast, and man, it’s music to my ears as I step onto the field. That fresh-cut grass smell hits me, and just like that, I’m in my zone. This is my turf, my stage, my kingdom—where I’m the star of the show, no questions asked.

Everyone’s eyes are on me, but hey, that’s how I like it. I live for this spotlight. For a couple of hours under this scorching sun, I’m the man, the boss of this 100-yard paradise.

I toss the football, feeling that adrenaline kick in. It’s just a practice day, but who cares? The crowd is cheering, and yeah, they’re here for me. Xavier Johnson, the name on everyone’s jersey. A quick wave and grin to the crowd, and they go nuts. “We love you, Xavier!” they shout.

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