Page 160 of Things I Wish I Said
My heels click on the floor, echoing ominously around me in my rush for the bathroom. If I’m right, I have about ten minutes, fifteen tops, to do my business and get back to our seats. I’m nervous enough about accepting my award in front of hundreds of people, celebrities and athletes alike, without having to do sowith a full bladder.
The door to the ladies’ room comes into view, and I barely resist sprinting for it, afraid of falling or worse, inciting a coughing jag I can’t stop. Instead, I walk, ignoring the ache in my bones and the burning in my chest that makes moving at the quickened pace difficult.
Relief washes over me once my hand curls over the door handle. I tug it open and step inside, halted by the sound of my name.
For a moment, I think they’re talking to me until I realize they haven’t even seen me yet. I’m still just inside the door while they’re around the corner in front of the stalls.
“Wait. She has cancer?” a voice says.
“Yeah. She told us at dinner. I guess it’s really bad, like she can’t play at all anymore.”
Amanda.I recognize her voice and instantly feel sick.
I shrink back against the wall, my pulse pounding in my ears as I’m hit with a wave of déjà vu. It’s like being in the bathroom at Kip’s party all over again, listening to Hannah and her friend discuss me, not knowing I could hear.
“Oh shit. So, how the hell did she win the national title? That should go to someone who’s going to make a career out of this.”
“I spoke with my uncle who’s friends with someone at Gatorade, and he said they had it narrowed down to three candidates, her, Tony, and Cory, but someone on the board found out about her diagnosis, and the next thing you know, they chose her.”
“So, you think they gave it to her just because she’s sick?”
“He sure seemed to think so.”
Shame slides through me, sticky and thick like molasses. I try to swallow, but my throat won’t work.
“Damn. We should probably get back. They’ll probably announce it soon.”
Panic grips my throat, its nails digging into my flesh as I straighten. The sound of footsteps approach, and I bolt for the door.
Swinging it open, I run as fast as my feet will carry me, down the hallway and out a side door labeled emergency exit.
The breath stalls in my lungs, like they’re filled with lead. Every single inhale is a chore.
I should go back inside, find my seat, and plaster a smile on my face. I should climb the stage and accept my award with grace, give the short acceptance speech I wrote in the hotel, then take a car back to our room.
But I can’t.
I can’t seem to bring myself to head back inside those walls. Not when it feels like they’re closing in on me. Not if it means accepting an award I didn’t earn.
No matter how many platitudes or smiles I give, my insides revolt at the thought.
I’m hollow. Gutted.
Here I thought I won because of my talent, my skill on the field. At one time, I had the world at my fingertips. I could’ve gone to any school I wanted. Professional soccer was in my near future. Possibly the Olympics.
But now all I am is someone to be pitied. The Gatorade Player of the Year award isn’t a recognition of my achievements, it’s a consolation prize because I fucking lost at life.
Everyone inside of those walls, Grayson included, is running toward their future—with arms wide open while my dreams are dead in the water. There’s no reviving them. I thought this award would be a celebration, one last triumph to prove I’m more than my disease, but so far it feels more like one giant fucking funeral.
I start to hyperventilate, my breath coming faster.
Everything I feared is coming true.
I’m no longer Ryleigh Sinclair, The Missile. I won’t be remembered as the girl who could strike with the precision of a knife and remain calm under pressure. Instead, I’ll be remembered as the wasted talent, the soccer player with cancer. Just another girl with a tragic ending.
My head spins, and I’m hit with a wave of nausea.
Sliding to the ground, I wrap my arms around my legs while sweat trickles down my back. I don’t care that I’m wearing a dress or that someone might be watching as I press my forehead to my knees. Not when I can’t calm down long enough to catch a breath.
