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She smirks and shrugs her shoulders. “With the right angle, yours could too,” she tells me with a wink. “Now get out of my car. I’m starving, and we have scheming to do.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
FRIDAY, APRIL 4
I had hopedthat Elise would go home, consider what she’d be risking by not telling me what she took, and think better of it today. But judging by the unfriendly welcome I receive at the start of practice, that couldn’t be further from the truth. And more than that, all of the progress I’d made with the team has disintegrated.
She says nothing as she passes by my office and into the locker room, and neither do the other women. Instead, I get cold glares that threaten to freeze me to my core, and a chill skates down my spine at the eerie silence.
I shake my head, clenching my eyes shut, and let out a defeated groan. Pushing away from my desk, I stand and grabthe stack of urine drug screen forms before marching into the locker room. I stop at the door, banging loudly on it as I shout, “Cover up! I’m coming in.” I count down from twenty before entering to find that none of them have changed yet.
I steel my spine, refusing to be broken by a bunch of university-age women. “We have a routine drug screening today. Sign your forms quickly so I can get the medical staff in here. If you’re fast enough, we should be able to finish the drills I have planned for the day,” I announce to the room, my words bouncing off of the white-painted concrete block walls.Please don’t fight me on this, I plead with anyone up above who might be willing to answer my silent prayer.
“Coach Lyon never made us do drug tests, so it couldn’t bethat‘routine’,” one of the younger players says, her voice full of sass as she pops out a hip.
“This feels super invasive. Is there someone you’re targeting?” another woman asks, her brow quirked.
How the hell did she manage to get the whole team on her side for this? Never mind, I probably don’t want an answer to that.
I suck in a calming breath, realising how naive I’d been to think that Elise would be the only one with a positive screen.You dumb fucker.You were once a twenty-one-year-old athlete attending parties and smoking weed.
I ignore their protests, handing out the forms to each one of the women, and when they all have a sheet in their hands, they stare down the bridges of their noses at me as they tear them in half, pick up their duffel bags, and storm out of the building.
My gaze flicks to Elise, who I fully expect to be smirking, but instead, her eyes are glassy, and her chin quivers.
She looks away from me the moment our eyes meet, swiping at her cheek before picking up her bag and shoving past me. Myentire soul aches as I watch her. I can tell she’s being vulnerable right now, that this isn’t some ploy to make me feel bad.
She keeps her eyes cast down, and a twinge of guilt ripples through me. I’ve never seen those blue eyes of hers anything besides passionate, but it nags at something deep in my gut that she looks so defeated.
Just tell me what’s going on, Elise. I practically will her to comply, but naturally, the silence drags on, and soon, I’m standing alone in the women’s locker room.
I played like shit at my match tonight, but my team carried us to our win with negligible help from me—the same as our last game.
My feet are propped up on the coffee table, and my limbs feel heavy as I sit here in the silence of my apartment.
I’m not sure why it bothers me so much that Elise is keeping something from me. I’d like to believe it’s because she’s making my job harder, but I know it’s got to be more than that. I’ve been trying to tell myself that she’s nothing more than a spoiled brat, but everything I know of her father leads me away from that conclusion, and it doesn’t quell the unease brewing inside.
Speaking ofguilt, I should call my brother.
I sink into the dark-grey couch cushions, propping my feet up on the marble coffee table and picking up my phone to dial him. It rings and rings, but before I give up, he eventually answers. “Rafa!Che,hermano!” he sing-songs cheerfully, never one to let life get him down.Not that I’ve made that any easier.
“Hey, Carlos. How’s your week been?” I ask, hoping for better than last.
“Going great. I’m doing well in physical therapy, and you won’t believe this,” he says, pausing for a beat, “I was able to use my walker and take a full step today! By myself!” he shouts into the phone.
A mixture of emotions flurry inside dread, guilt, rage, frustration, sadness, elation, and lastly,pride.
“That’s brilliant!” I shout, my voice choked as I hold back the sob threatening its way up my throat.“Estoy muy orgulloso de ti, hermano.”
“I’m doing it, Rafa,I’m really doing it!I’ll be back on the pitch in no time,” he says, and my heart sinks to my toes, my throat constricting at the reminder ofwhyhe’s in this position at all. He continues talking, giving me a play-by-play of his week, and it helps minimally to know that he’s improving.
It’s been over a decade since the accident, and I had lost all hope that he would ever walk again. You don’t go from being paralysed from the waist down to suddenly walking, but he’s never let that deter him. And finally, his determination is paying off, and so is the new physical therapist he’s been working with.
When he lets me go so he can have dinner with our parents, I’m left with too many thoughts that are practically strangling me by the time I fall asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SUNDAY, APRIL 6