Page 67 of The Tomboy and the Captain

“Sorry,” I say, flailing my hands up then letting them drop on my thighs.

“Don’t be sorry. You said what you needed to and what she needed to hear. She’ll get there.” Ivy steps into the room and takes a seat on the bed next to me.

“I’m not sure. She was pretty adamant,” I relent.

Ivy glances at her phone for a few seconds then hands it over to me. I narrow my eyes on it and she shakes it a few times.

“It’s not mine. Laney left her phone on the counter. You should read it.” She touches the screen with her thumb but I look away.

“I’m not going to read her private messages.”

Ivy grabs my hand and slaps the phone in my palm, though, forcing me to take notice.

“Read. It.”

I sigh but look at the screen. I’m only able to see a preview of the message that’s now about an hour old.

DAD: Sorry Lane. I’m not going to make it. Maybe some other time.

“Oh no.”

“Yeah,” Ivy concurs. “She actually thought maybe he would make it this time. And that girl hasn’t had her hopes up for her father in a long time. Not since I’ve known her. She’s going to be crushed.”

I turn the phone over and press the screen to my thigh as I close my eyes and sort through what to do. As if I have a choice.

“Okay,” I sigh out, opening my eyes and rolling my head to face Ivy. “He might not be there for her, but I will. I can at least do that. Might be the last time I get to.”

I grab my Tiff sweatshirt and throw a beanie on to mash down my messy hair. I shove Laney’s phone in one pocket of my jeans and mine in the other.

Ivy walks me to the front door and before I step outside, she grabs my sleeve and coaxes me to turn around.

“Nobody has ever gotten that girl to dance. You’re different, Cutter. For lots of reasons,” she says.

I hold her gaze for a beat and do my best to believe it. I thought I was. At the very least, I can be in Laney’s corner one more time.

21/

laney

It’s a big game.And my head is not in it.

“Laney, they’re weak at middle block so you’re going to get the majority today. That arm feeling good?” Coach asks.

I could lie. I won’t. Because as messed up as I am inside right now, I still want this.

I swing my arm around and nod fervently.

“I’m good.”

Sometimes the fact thatfoul moodandgame facelook nearly identical is a good thing. I’m wearing one in place of the other right now.

Coach breaks us up and we all gather by the door for our entry, the thunder already roaring in the gym. I grab one of the damp towels from the bucket and kick my feet back one at a time to wet the treads on my shoes so my grip is solid.

“You’re going to kill it today.” Chelsea holds a fist out to my side, and as sharp as my grudge still feels I push past it and lay mine on top.

“You too,” I say. She nods at me, her game face intact.

It’s not her fault she has leverage. Still, feels weird not to earn something with talent to me. But maybe it all happened for a reason. Last week was one of my best game days ever. It was bigenough to put me at the top of the national rankings. As a middle hitter who has not played middle since her kneepads were school issued and she wrote her name on the back with a Sharpie.

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