Page 98 of Whistle

Lump in my throat, I slammed the locker door and went to see what Coach wanted. Maybe it was to officially throw me off the team. Maybe my panic-induced trip to the bleachers during practice gave him all the time he needed to decide I wasn’t worth the effort.

After I was off the team, I’d probably get tossed out of Westbrook, booted back to Cali, and thrown in jail, never to be heard from again.

“Hey.” Ryan’s hand clapped down on my shoulder, and I glanced around at him. He seemed impenetrable to the scowl I painted on my face, his blue eyes almost bored. “The team goes to Shirley’s every morning after practice. It’s tradition. They have good waffles and give out extra fries.”

“Bro, they only give you extra fries,” Jamie mocked, totally giving away the fact he was listening to our conversation.

“The waffles are bomb, though,” Wes put in.

“Burgers too,” Prism added.

Oh goody. This was a group conversation. Participation from everyone required.

“You should come. Hang out,” Ryan told me.

So I can feel even more alone than I do right now?

I twisted around, finding Rush and Lars down the row, their heads together, having their own conversation.

“Is he coming?” I said, loud enough to make his blond head turn in my direction.

“He is your teammate and our friend,” Ryan said, voice unforgiving.

“Hard pass,” I said, brushing past a glaring Rush to go into Coach’s office.

Coach barely glanced at me before ripping another one of those damn yellow sticky notes off the pad and holding it out. “Here.”

“What is it?” I asked, not coming farther into the room.

He huffed and stalked forward, reaching out to stick the note directly to the front of my shirt. “It’s the name of your new therapist. First appointment is next week. I got it moved up.”

My brows drew down. “I thought they couldn’t get me in before the end of the month.”

“Mm.” He agreed. “I called over there, and they found room.”

I don’t know why, but I found that so hot. The way he seemingly bent things to his will. The way he did it for me.

I ripped the sticky off my chest and stared down at it. “I didn’t need an earlier appointment.”

“You can’t even put your big toe in the pool without a full-on panic attack.”

“So cut me from the team,” I deadpanned.

“No,” he rebuked, then pointed at the note. “Time and place are there. Don’t be late.”

Crumpling the paper in my hand, I turned and walked out. I needed some space. The locker room was thankfully clearing out and I stealthily avoided looking at the pool on my way to the parking lot, but it was impossible to avoid the shiny blue Corvette parked right at the curb.

“Get in,” Rush called through the open passenger window.

“I’m not going to Shirley’s.” I refused.

“Neither am I.”

I pursed my lips, then got into the Corvette. The second I did, I was assaulted with nostalgia, the kind that made your airway feel too narrow to draw in a proper breath. I’d spent so much time in this Corvette in the past. It was almost like a second home. And then, like everything else, it was gone. Rush was gone.

I knew it was my fault, but it hurt the same. What was I supposed to do? My sister was dead. He was in cuffs. The evidence pointed to him.

In that moment, I felt I had to make a choice. My sister or him.

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