Page 45 of Sidelined Love

Just like he viewed Caleb.

Not once does he mention the goal I scored or the assists. No mention of the way I rallied the team when we were feeling demoralized. It's a clinical dissection of everything I did that he didn't approve of. There is no hint of pride or satisfaction in my doing a damn good job in helping my team win our game.

I can feel Asher's eyes on me as if he's trying to figure out what is going on. When I finally reach the end of the email, I'm pissed, and I fill Asher in on what just happened.

“This is fucking typical of him. I'm not even surprised. Just disappointed.”

“Hey, man, don't let him get inside your head. You can't, or he's going to fuck up your ability to function, let alone play.”

“I know,” I say with an annoyed groan. “It's more bullshit I have to deal with when it comes to him and how he views me and Caleb.”

Saying his name out loud stirs up a mess of emotions inside me. My throat tightens at the thought of my brother, even after all of these years. The wound that his passing away caused still hasn't healed. I don't know if it ever will.

“There's something that has been on my mind for a while, and I didn't know how to say it, but I think it's something you need to hear right now.”

I’d be lying if I said I'm not nervous about what he's going to say. “What is it?”

“Caleb wouldn't have wanted you to live your life like this.”

A pin could drop in the car right now and sound like a glass shattering. Deep down, I know he's right.

“I sometimes think about what he'd say if he saw me now,” I confess, feeling a rare vulnerability creep into my voice. “Would he be proud?”

“He'd tell you to drop your dad's expectations like a bad habit,” Asher replies matter-of-factly. “Caleb played out ofpassion for the sport, not for approval, even when your father used to hound him.”

“Yeah, I can't stand this anymore. But saying that out loud to you versus telling my father is a totally different thing.” I don't want to think about this anymore. “But enough about him. I don't want to keep my attention focused on him.”

Shaking off the email, I lock my phone and shove it back into my pocket. I'm going to ignore the message for as long as I can. Because though his words may sting, they will not define me.

18

HAILEY

My leg bounces up and down to an imaginary beat in my head. Saying I’m nervous about what is going to happen is an understatement.

I can't believe I've done it. This is probably something I should have done years ago.

I'm sitting in Emily Shaw's office, one of the therapists on Crestwood's campus, debating if I still have enough time to run out of here ahead of my appointment.

My gaze lands on a therapy dog I found out was named Charles, and I wonder if it’s worth sitting down there and petting him to calm my nerves. He looks so peaceful laying there with what looks to be soft, golden fur, but I can’t manage to make myself walk up to him. It’s as if I’m frozen to this seat, unable to move.

I steal a quick glance at the closed door leading to Emily's office as my anxiety about this whole thing continues to build. All I can do is let out a deep breath and shake my head. It's a silly idea since her assistant has already signed me in, but I won't lie and say the thought hasn't crossed my mind.

I watch as the clock hanging on the wall to my left ticks away, reminding me that every second I'm here is another second closer to me spilling the secrets I've kept from everyone else. Again. Not exactly my idea of a fun Thursday afternoon, but I also know this is what I need to do.

My thoughts are interrupted by a voice calling my name. “Hailey Reed?”

My eyes land on a woman with blonde hair and thin-rimmed glasses standing in a doorway. Dread clouds my mind but I force a smile, which I never do, and my stomach does this weird little flip thing, twisting into knots. My nerves and anxiety are something else.

“Hi,” I reply, standing up too quickly. My legs feel like they've been replaced with rubber bands, but I still manage to stay upright. I grab my bookbag and follow her into the office and sit down in a plush navy-blue armchair.

The office emanates a peaceful feeling with the light blue paint I'm sure is done by design. The walls are adorned with diplomas and certificates and a couple pieces of abstract art that aren't meant to be the centerpiece of the room. Bookshelves overflow with texts on psychology, human behavior, and a couple of plants.

Emily is dressed in a simple, yet elegant, cream blouse paired with navy slacks that mirror the color of the armchair I sat on. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a way that's both professional and effortlessly chic. She closes the door behind us as I set my bag down.

“Welcome, Hailey,” she says with a voice that's softer than I'd imagined. Then again, I'd gone into this without any expectations. “I'm Emily Shaw. It's great to have you here.”

“Thanks,” I manage to respond, my words feeling clumsy and awkward in comparison to hers. I'm not sure why.

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