Page 55 of How to Lose at Love

This girl doesnotlike to be cold…

“So,” she begins, lifting a bronze trophy off my desk and studying it this way and that. Reads the small print at the base. “Third Place, Pee Wee League.” Ryann glances up. “What is this?”

“Pee Wee League.”

“I can see that, but what sport was it? Tee-ball?”

Baseball? Don’t insult me. “No, football.”

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know.” I know exactly how old I was. “Maybe seven?”

Six.

Why am I lying? Jeez.

“What’s so special about this trophy that it’s the only one you have in your room?” She sets it back down on the desk. “Can’t be the only trophy you have.”

No, it’s not the only trophy I have.

In fact, I have dozens. And yes, that’s the only one that seems special because when I was six years old…football was fun. I enjoyed it.

It was my first year playing; it wasn’t work or a chore or an expectation set by my father, and coming in third place was still the best day of my life.

After that? Shit got real.

We weren’t playing for bronze; my father wanted gold. First.

He wanted me to be the best, my brothers too. Can’t forget about them.

His four athletically gifted sons.

Duke was always the golden child, but then again, he’s the oldest and was the first to do everything purely because of the hierarchy. While Dad was on the road, it was up to Ma to get us to practice, make sure we threw the ball around the yard, ran drills. Never missed a game, not even when we were sick.

Dad wouldn’t allow it.

Sure was a hovering control freak considering he was only around in the off season and barely even then.

“Earth to Dallas…”

“Huh?” I look up at Ryann, lost in my own thoughts.

“I said, what’s so special about this trophy that it’s the only one you have in your room?”

Shrugging, I walk to the other side of the room and stand next to the bookshelf. “Guess it’s because that’s the first trophy I ever got. You always remember your first.”

First win.

First trophy.

First kiss.

First fuck.

Some of them are special for other reasons, ha!

“How is it that we keep getting off subject?” Now she’s fiddling with the pens and pencils in a ceramic coffee mug on my desk—I don’t drink coffee, but for whatever reason, a friend gave it to me one Christmas.

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