Page 156 of Things I Wish I Said
Chapter thirty-eight
RYLEIGH
A cough startles meawake.
It’s ten minutes until I stop.
Breathless, I blink into the darkness, my bleary gaze settling on the nightstand to the glowing numbers on the clock.
Only six a.m.
I spent all night thinking about the failed dinner. Hours tossing and turning, replaying the conversations in my head, wondering how I could have answered differently, how I could’ve have sugarcoated the truth, knowing nothing would make my reality easier to choke down. No matter how you cut it, my situation sucks.
Last night was just one giant reminder of how I can no longer play. While the other athletes are thriving and preparing for the best seasons of their lives, I’m lost in a sea of despair—treading water with nowhere to go.
My cough eases, but the knot in my chest remains.
Tonight, I’ll walk the stage in the biggest awards ceremony in sports and accept the title of Gatorade Player of the Year. It’s atitle I earned in another life, or at least it feels that way. But it’s one I deserve; one I’ll accept proudly. Then, even if I beat the odds, I’ll have proof I was once the best at something—that I mattered. And no one or nothing can take that away from me. Not even cancer.
A glass of water appears in front of me as I draw in a shaky breath.
I glance over at Grayson and find him watching me. Though he tries to hide it, I can see the concern lurking in his blue-gray eyes and the worry creased in his forehead.
“Thanks.” I accept the glass and take a long drink, quelling the burning inside my chest; it’s been the same routine the last couple mornings, though today is worse.
I gulp down the water, then set the glass on the nightstand, hating that I feel so damn tired on a day that’s so important.
“I guess we’d better get ready for breakfast,” I say.
“Yeah.” Grayson nods, eyeing me closely.
He’s worried. He’s been worried since last night. I can tell by the way he’s hovering. It reminds me a little of my mother.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asks, confirming my suspicions.
“Okay. Just a little tired. Would you mind getting me more water?” I ask, picking up the glass again and holding it out to him, not yet ready to fully rise from the warm confines of the bed.
“Sure.” He takes the cup and heads to the bathroom while I mentally prepare myself for the breakfast Gatorade is hostingfor all the nominees. It’s informal, unlike last night, so we can probably grab some food, partake in light conversation, then leave, a notion I’m sadly grateful for.
Grayson’s phone chimes, announcing an incoming text.
“You got a message,” I call out.
“Can you check it? It might be my mother,” he says, rattling off the code to unlock his screen.
Swiping it open, my gaze zeroes in on my mother’s name.
Frowning, I start to read.
JILL SINCLAIR:
How are things going? Have you managed to convince her yet?
My heart pounds in my chest, the words jumping from the screen at the same time I hear footsteps behind me.
“Why do you have a text from my mother?” I ask, glancing up at him.
Grayson stiffens, his face drained of color.
