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“But I guess I don’t know what I expected to happen when I started to fall for a football player. It’s not his fault. He told me how obsessed he is with the game. It’s all he’s ever wanted. He has all his eggs in the football basket, and I…I don’t know how I feel about that.”
I take a deep breath, and Sydney squeezes my hand. “I think you should proceed with caution, then. The end of last year was terrible for you. I don’t want to see you broken again.”
She’s not wrong. And the kind of broken that rips out your insides is way worse than this scar on my face.
I let myself wallow for a moment more, and then I push to my feet. I have to get off my ass. I have to be down to the pool to get on the bus for my dive meet tonight.
“Thanks for the talk,” I tell Sydney, forcing away all my worries for now. “I’ve got to get going.”
She checks her watch. “Likenow.”
I peer at the time. “Shit!”
The next few minutes are spent in a frenzy as I throw together my dive bag and Sydney drives like a crazy person back to campus just in time for me to make Coach’s talk. The whole time, I do my best to keep my mind from drifting to West. He’s a big boy. He can handle this on his own, which is apparently exactly what he wants to do.
Coach gives us a rundown of our schedule. When she hands out the roster, I scan it, doing a double take.
I’m on it. As in, diving for points toward the team score.
It’s so quiet poolside that all I can hear is the slight trickle of the water running through the filters. When I glance up, the whole team is staring at me.
Coach grins, and I don’t know who starts it first, but everyone starts to clap. My face heats. My skin buzzes. I stop myself from maneuvering my hair in front of my scar, a nervous tic I’ve picked up any time I’m the center of attention.
Eventually, Coach uses her fingers to whistle so the whole team quiets. “I think we all need to take a lesson from Kenna. She’s come so far because of hard work and determination. I have to admit, I’m impressed. I thought you were going to need more time, but you’ve been diving beautifully. You earned this spot.”
My chest fills, and I feel like my heart is about to beat right out of its cage. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Now, let’s go kick some butt!” she yells.
I give the rallying cry along with my whole team. A few of my fellow divers hug me, and nearly all of them tell me congratulations. When I get settled on the bus, my hands shake as I pull my phone out. I know exactly who I want to tell first. No matter what else is true, I wouldn’t actually be in this position if West didn’t push me.
I press his name in my Contacts list. It rings and rings.
Hanging up, I try again. I really want to tell him personally. It rings and rings again. His voicemail picks up again, I sigh. I have to make a split-second decision, and when the tone sounds in my ear, I just start talking.
“Hey, it’s me. I know I already left you a message earlier, but this isn’t about that. I’m…” I take a quick breath, suddenly nervous about sharing great news when he’s been living in a shitstorm, but the West who helped me get here would be so happy. “I’m diving tonight,” I tell him, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m on the roster. Not an exhibition. I’m really diving.”
My heart starts to skip a little, and I turn toward the window to lower my voice.
“I just wanted to thank you. You helped me so much. Coach gave this whole speech about hard work and determination, but you fueled that in me. God, I’m so nervous.” I chuckle, biting my lip to get myself to stop. “Okay, talk soon. Hope I don’t fuck this up! Bye.”
My heels bounce up and down against the bus floor as I hang up. A part of me hopes he surprises me again and shows up at the meet, but I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up. He has so much going on right now.
Instead, I pull out my headphones and click on my Hype playlist. I’ve borrowed some of West’s, but mine is still filled with 5SOS.
All my life, I’ve been waiting for moments to come when I catch fire.
I just wish I could share this moment with West.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
West
There are139 imperfections in the ceiling above my bed.
When I was in the closet as a kid, I used to count the vertical stripes in the ugly brown paneling over and over. It would help drown out the noise of my parents’ fighting or the loud, vulgar voices of my father’s friends. I hated that closet. It smelled like mildew and cigarette smoke. The smoke would permeate everywhere, like you could never get away from it.
I stole a dryer sheet once and placed it on the floor with me, hoping it would suck up some of the smells. It helped for a little while, but in the end, that ended up smelling, too.