So Carson plays football.
So he plays football for my dad.
It’s just another truth to face, and I’ve had plenty of practice with that.
I just have to accept that whatever childish, hopeful fancies I’d been imagining about how things might play out between us . . . that’s all they are. Imaginings. He won’t want to take the chance of dating me, not when it could endanger his spot on the team. And even if he does, I’ve already been down that road. And though some things about the next four years are doomed to be repeats of high school, this doesn’t have to be one of them. I won’t let it.
Hell, maybe he already knew. Maybe he’s friends with Levi and Silas, and he just did a better job of fooling me.
I take several gasping breaths, all of a sudden in danger of crying again. I breathe and breathe and breathe and wrap my arms tight around my middle like my limbs are a corset, squeezing me in tight. I hold myself together by sheer force of will.
When I climb back into my car some time later, it’s just past eight o’clock, and it’s only then that I remember my dad. With a groan, I dig for my phone in my purse.
Thirteen missed calls.
What must Dad be thinking? I’d run out of there with no word, no excuse, nothing. It’s been hours.
I unlock my phone, and my jaw drops.
There are thirteen missed calls all right. But only three are from Dad.
The rest are from Carson.
Chapter 9
Dallas
Dad’s truck is missing and the windows are all dark when I pull up outside our house. I slap my hand against the steering wheel, now only angry with myself. There’s only one other place I know that he could be, so I head back to the university and the athletic complex.
Sure enough, his truck is there, along with half a dozen other vehicles. My stomach churns as I climb out of my car and head for the entrance.
Dad might not always be the best father, but I’m just as awful at being a daughter.
Still not familiar enough with the layout of the building to know exactly where I’m going, I head down a brightly lit, sterile white hallway, reading the plaques beside the doors. Toward the back of the building, I reach an open door and hear noises coming from the inside.
I step inside an expansive weight room, painted in Rusk University red, and then immediately wish I hadn’t.
The room is empty except for two people.
One of whom is on the short list of people I would cut off my hand not to have to talk to at the moment.
Silas stands about ten meters from me, a bar filled with an impossible number of weights laid across his shoulders. He bends his knees in a squat, his face colored red with effort, and his eyes meet mine.
“You all right, pretty girl?”
His words are surprisingly devoid of flirtation, and they smack of something almost like concern. I reach a hand up to pat at my hair, wondering if he can tell by looking at me that I just had a breakdown of Britney proportions.
“Is my dad around?”
It’s the trainer spotting him who answers. “He’s in the office, I think. Through that door and then to the right.”
I nod and head off in the direction he pointed. There’s a door propped open, but the lights are dimmed inside. My feet stutter to a stop when I see Carson seated on the couch, watching game film. He has one ankle balanced on his other knee, a notebook perched on his leg, and a pencil tapping pensively against his lip. The sight of him stirs something in my chest.
I guess I didn’t empty myself quite as well as I thought I had.
As if he feels my eyes on him, he glances away from the television briefly, his eyes darting back to stay when he registers who I am. He sits up straighter, dropping his propped-up foot to the floor, and the notebook follows with a thud. He’s showered and changed into sweats, and I can see the number twelve printed just below his hip.
Number twelve.
I suck in a breath. The thought of him out there on that field still stings, but when I think back to the way he dropped the ball, I know that he didn’t know who I was until today. I didn’t realize how much that was still bothering me until I felt the relief wash over me.
He opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes flick to my right.
I can guess who’s standing there by the split second of fear on his face before he shutters his expression completely. I turn to see my dad leaning on the doorjamb to his office, the bright light behind him pouring into the dim room.
I don’t know what to say . . . not to either of them.
So I stalk past Dad into the coaches’ office in silence, and Dad closes the door behind us a few seconds later. The office is large, with a table in the middle, rolling chairs, a few computers, and a couch shoved into the corner. Though the comfortable couch beckons me, I take a seat at the table. It feels safer somehow. Dad sits down across from me, and the frown he fixes on me tells me I’ve got a lecture coming.
“Would you care to explain to me where you’ve been? I called. Several times.”
Yeah, and you’re not alone there.
“I-I’m sorry, Dad. Something came up, and I needed to . . .”
“Something came up?” he asks sternly. His elbows come down hard on the table, and he lays his forearms down flat, leaning toward me.
God, that sounded insensitive. Like running errands was more important than his birthday. Let’s try this again, Dallas.
“I, uh . . .” I’m surprised to feel my chin tremble, and I’m reminded of why Dad and I don’t talk much. He’s the only person who gets under my skin, the only person I can’t seem to keep my cool around. “Things haven’t been easy. Starting at a new school, starting at Rusk.”