Page 20 of Things I Wish I Said
Any intentions I had of bailing on this wish just went up in smoke.
I hiss as I lift the bar back onto the rack with a clang.
Breathing hard, I lie there a moment as my trainer stares down at me. “You finished?”
I nod and swipe a hand over my sweaty brow as he meanders away to help someone else.
Sitting up, I straddle the bench, my gaze dancing over the weight room. I’ve been coming to the BSA?the Baseball Sports Academy?ever since my freshman year in high school. First, for weekly hitting and fielding lessons to supplement my school season, but after my father got sick, my presence between these walls was a constant. Baseball has always been my outlet. It was always enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Yet here I am once again, hoping it will be the outlet I need, a way to wrap my head around my encounter with Sinclair.
Though I know I need to reconcile myself with helping her for the summer, it doesn’t mean it’s not going to kill me to do it.
Surprisingly, I see a lot of myself in her.
She didn’t need to say anything for me to know her mom is the only parent in the picture, since she made zero mention of a father in her plea for my help. She loves soccer like I love baseball. Or at least, how I used to love baseball, back when my father was alive, and we used to discuss playing D1 in college and where it might take me. Lately, I’m set on self-destruct mode, and nothing seems to deter me from that path, not even ball.
Her sarcastic remarks and crass jokes might fool everyone else, but they don’t fool me. I recognize them for what they are—a convenient cover for a bleeding heart, the same way I drink and smoke and spend time with guys I know don’t give a shit about me unless I’m buying.
I rise to my feet and drag myself from the weight room toward the locker room to snag my gym bag, unsurprised to find a text from my best friend Cameron when I check my phone.
Apparently, a bunch of the guys are gathering at the lake, and he wants me to come.
I grunt and shove it back in my gym bag, telling myself I’ll reply later, even though I know I probably won’t. Instead, I’ll pretend like I never saw it, and when he busts my chops about it at the game tomorrow, I’ll play dumb.
Snagging my bag off the bench, I opt to shower and change at home, but when I get there and a short while later, I walk through the door into an eerily empty house, I make a beeline for my bedroom.
Knowing there’s no stopping my mind from going there, I find my MacBook where I left it on top of my dresser and take it to my bed.
Kicking off my shoes, I settle in, placing it on my lap as I boot it up and type “Ryleigh Sinclair” into the search browser.
Seconds later, the results load, and I stare, shell-shocked at the sheer number of accolades she has to her name. I bypass a dozen lesser awards and competitions and slow down when I get to her most recent accomplishments.
Two-time First Team All-Virginia Prep honoree.
The Virginia Soccer Coaches Association’s Class 3 Player of the Year, two years in a row.
A member of the US Soccer U-18 Women’s National Team at the age of seventeen.
Winner of the Golden Boot at the United States Youth Soccer Association’s U-18 National Championships as her club team clinched the national title.
A senior record of 22-2 and the Class 3 state championship. Thirty-one goals and twenty-three assists.
I swallow, reading the final recap.
Ryleigh Sinclair finished out her senior season as a forward and midfielder, ranking as the nation’s number one recruit by PrepSoccer.com.
My stomach roils as I exhale and flop back into my chair.
She had the soccer world by the balls.
And then it was ripped away from her.
I can see why she has a death grip on that award. It might be the last time she’ll ever see a trophy, easily her biggest accomplishment.
I can’t even begin to imagine how I’d feel in her shoes.
