Page 14 of Near Miss

But it’s just off. It hits the uprights before it goes in.

“Dead ball.” Coach Taylor claps his hands again.

I know it’s a fucking dead ball. I feel a bit like kicking another one at him, or at the very least telling him to fuck off—but the old Beckett Davis made a career on being nice and reliable, so I scrub my face instead.

I grin, lifting one shoulder. “Kick went far enough though.”

His eyes sharpen on me, and Darren starts shouting again about how I’m done for the day because I’ll be no good to anyone if I tear a muscle before preseason starts next week.

I’m already no good to anyone, but I don’t say that.

“Jesus Christ, Darren, he’s done. I need to talk to him for a few minutes. Is it alright with you if I talk to one ofmyplayers?”

I don’t turn to watch Darren inevitably run away with his tail between his legs. I scrub my face again and walk towards CoachTaylor, my hand firmly clamped on my jaw to hide the wince I make with every step.

His eyes cut to my thighs, my quad muscle twitching away under the bright light of the sun.

I swallow, exhaling and ready to start making excuses. “I can make the kick, it’s just because—”

“I know you can make the kick, Davis.” He cuts me off with a sharp jerk of his head. “I want you to break records as much as you want to break records. But that’s not what this is about. You played with Pat Perez in college?”

“Uh, yeah. He was my QB when I was a wide receiver. He transferred after I started kicking though.” Back when I was perfectly content to be a wide receiver who was just good. Nothing more. Nothing less. No real potential there. No real pressure after a lifetime of too much.

Coach Taylor nods, rubbing his jaw. “We’re going to trade Diggs for him. Love is going to retire soon enough and Diggs isn’t a viable enough QB2.”

“Oh.” I shrug. I get along with Diggs—I get along with everyone even when I don’t feel like it—but he’s right. He can’t hold a candle to Love’s passing or leadership in a locker room. “That’s smart. Pat’s too talented to ride the bench. He’s been unlucky since he was drafted. He’s always stuck under a veteran, and he hasn’t really had his chance to shine.”

“I happen to agree. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.” Coach Taylor rests a hand on my shoulder, like he’s going to give me a nice old clap for being such a team player, but he doesn’t let go. His hand lingers there, like he’s some sort of paternal figure to me, and he’s about to impart some sage advice. “He’s thrown to you before. It would be much appreciated by me, and everyone else, if you’d walk through some routes with him. But don’t do anything stupid. You might be off right now—but those legs are worth twenty-five million over the next three years.”

Running routes with someone who used to know me when I was nothing, when I was finally able to breathe, to do something and not really care about it and have it not really matter, doesn’t appeal to me. It’s not how I want to spend my time before the season starts. But Beckett Davis is a team player.

“Sure, happy to.” My voice sounds fake even to me.

He does clap me on the shoulder this time and points at me before he starts walking backwards, leaving me alone on the practice field with another failure. “Don’t kill your legs like this ever again.”

He says it like I had a choice. But I’m not really sure I’ve ever had much of a choice about anything.

Greer

“Look at these fucking abs!” Stella whistles, fanning herself with her menu and dropping her phone onto the table with a loud clatter.

She’s practically yelling—but that’s her. She hasn’t cared much about what people think, or how much space she’s taken up, since she was a kid.

We grew up in one of those houses where you opened the door tentatively, peered around the corner, and hoped and prayed or crossed your fingers that it would all be okay.

She bloomed in that environment. Unfurled her petals and put down roots and said fuck it to everything else around her.

Stella grew. I shrunk.

My psychiatrist tells me that’s common—kids act out, or they internalize. It wasn’t that Stella acted out, necessarily. But she asserted herself and took up space and did all the things a kid should.

I turned inwards, couldn’t set a boundary to save my life, and tried to be an adult before I was even a child.

“Who are you talking about?” My eyes flick up from my own menu to my sister. She’s still fanning herself, and one heavily ringed finger reaches out and points at her phone.

Stella drops her menu before slumping backwards in her chair dramatically. “Your football star.”

“Cash—whatare you talking about?” I say her childhood nickname like that’s going to somehow cut through the theatrics and reach forward, turning her phone to face me, tapping the screen so it lights up again.

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