Page 152 of Things I Wish I Said
And then on instinct, I begin to move.
With him guiding me, I chase the pulsing pleasure—the ball of fire building inside of me—until we both burn.
Chapter thirty-six
RYLEIGH
Nerves jump in mychest. At least five cameras and a small crew of people from MaxPreps, the leaders in sports coverage for high school-aged athletes, surround me.
I’m wearing my wig today, pulled back in a low ponytail with a sports headband instead of braids like I used to wear when I still played.
I wonder if they notice.
I shake my hands out, trying to loosen up.
Grayson and I spent the morning sightseeing again. This time, we made sure we had time to shop at The Grove and take a gondola tour of the Venice Canals. This afternoon, however, marks the start of the award festivities.
As the national winner, first I have to meet with some reporters from MaxPreps for an interview and some promotional video material, followed by a Gatorade-hosted dinner for all the national nominees.
Sandy, a petite brunette from MaxPreps, quickly introduces her crew. “So basically, we’re recording snippets of you for a little promotional video. Let me show you an example.”
She holds her phone out, tapping the play button, and a video of a young man lights up the screen. It’s the national winner from 2019, a football player, Colby Bryan. The video moves quickly with footage of him playing during live games, panning back to him training and working out in the gym, to drills on the field, and accompanied with narration about what it takes to be a national champ.
Though the video is only a little over a minute long, it’s inspirational, yet impressive.
Sandy pulls the phone back and slides it in her pocket. “We like to showcase the national athlete as a way to honor them, help them gain even more exposure. Just another thing to add to your resume since most recipients go pro. We have some footage from your games we’ll use, but we’d like some live training footage as well. We’ll do some here with you volleying the ball back and forth between your legs, and then with you dribbling down the field, doing some footwork drills, then we can cut to a weight room. There’s a gym nearby we’ll use for that footage. Make sense?”
I nod, ignoring the sinking in my stomach. “Okay.”
It’s been months since I’ve ran the length of a soccer field, and I have no idea if my lungs are even up to the task. Scratch that. I know they’re not.
Ever since we got here, it’s like my chest is in a permanent vise grip. My breathing is labored, and my lungs burn while my coughing has become unpredictable.
Suddenly, I wish Grayson were here with me instead of back at the hotel room where I told him to wait on me.
I pick up a soccer ball from the equipment bag they brought while Sandy fusses with the camera crew, giving the videographer instructions on angles and lighting and a bunch of other crap I don’t understand. Then she turns to me and claps her hands. “Okay, let’s do this. Just pretend we’re not here. Go ahead and do some footwork. Something you’d do to warm up.”
I toss the ball on the ground while apprehension curdles my stomach.
With a deep breath, I start in on toe taps. It’s a drill I could’ve done in my sleep before; a fundamental skill I learned when I was young. It should be a piece of cake for someone like me.
I begin, slowly at first, tapping my foot on top of the ball, stumbling slightly before muscle memory kicks in. I remember to keep myself centralized overtop of it as I move back and forth with every step and tap.
Within seconds, my legs and lungs start to burn. I become winded.
Struggling to maintain my pace, I continue, holding in the cough nagging at the back of my throat.
I inhale, a slightly wheezy sound as I continue, praying like hell she tells me I can stop.
My head spins, and the world tilts, causing me to wobble.
I nearly trip over my feet, but somehow recover without making a complete fool of myself, though Sandy’s expression has changed. Her brow is furrowed, eyes narrowed as she watches my poor imitation of toe taps.
Even sick and with one good lung, I should do better than this, but it’s like I can’t get enough air. My lungs won’t expand as every muscle locks tight.
When she announces that they have enough, relief crashes over me until she tells me to take the top of the field.
I pant while the sun beats down on my back. I move over the thick green grass, breathing in its sweet scent as a bid to ease the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
