Page 58 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter thirty-eight

RYLEIGH

A cough startles me awake.

It’s ten minutes until I stop.

Breathless, I blink into the darkness, my bleary gaze settling on the nightstand to the glowing numbers on the clock.

Only six a.m.

I spent all night thinking about the failed dinner.

Hours tossing and turning, replaying the conversations in my head, wondering how I could have answered differently, how I could’ve have sugarcoated the truth, knowing nothing would make my reality easier to choke down.

No matter how you cut it, my situation sucks.

Last night was just one giant reminder of how I can no longer play. While the other athletes are thriving and preparing for the best seasons of their lives, I’m lost in a sea of despair—treading water with nowhere to go.

My cough eases, but the knot in my chest remains.

Tonight, I’ll walk the stage in the biggest awards ceremony in sports and accept the title of Gatorade Player of the Year.

It’s a title I earned in another life, or at least it feels that way.

But it’s one I deserve; one I’ll accept proudly.

Then, even if I beat the odds, I’ll have proof I was once the best at something—that I mattered.

And no one or nothing can take that away from me. Not even cancer.

A glass of water appears in front of me as I draw in a shaky breath.

I glance over at Grayson and find him watching me. Though he tries to hide it, I can see the concern lurking in his blue-gray eyes and the worry creased in his forehead.

“Thanks.” I accept the glass and take a long drink, quelling the burning inside my chest; it’s been the same routine the last couple mornings, though today is worse.

I gulp down the water, then set the glass on the nightstand, hating that I feel so damn tired on a day that’s so important.

“I guess we’d better get ready for breakfast,” I say.

“Yeah.” Grayson nods, eyeing me closely.

He’s worried. He’s been worried since last night. I can tell by the way he’s hovering. It reminds me a little of my mother.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asks, confirming my suspicions.

“Okay. Just a little tired. Would you mind getting me more water?” I ask, picking up the glass again and holding it out to him, not yet ready to fully rise from the warm confines of the bed.

“Sure.” He takes the cup and heads to the bathroom while I mentally prepare myself for the breakfast Gatorade is hosting for all the nominees. It’s informal, unlike last night, so we can probably grab some food, partake in light conversation, then leave, a notion I’m sadly grateful for.

Grayson’s phone chimes, announcing an incoming text.

“You got a message,” I call out.

“Can you check it? It might be my mother,” he says, rattling off the code to unlock his screen.

Swiping it open, my gaze zeroes in on my mother’s name.

Frowning, I start to read.

JILL SINCLAIR :

How are things going? Have you managed to convince her yet?

My heart pounds in my chest, the words jumping from the screen at the same time I hear footsteps behind me.

“Why do you have a text from my mother?” I ask, glancing up at him.

Grayson stiffens, his face drained of color.

I turn the phone toward him. “And what are you trying to convince me of?”

Grayson’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out and suddenly, it clicks.

I reel back as though I’ve been slapped. “Wait. She asked you to convince me to do the trial, didn’t she?”

Grayson snaps his mouth shut, and the muscle in his jaw pulses .

A wry laugh bubbles in my chest as I rise to my feet, placing my hands on my head. “Oh my gosh. Did she ask you to offer me money for treatment, too?”

“No!” Grayson steps forward. “Ry, you have to believe me. When I made that offer, it was all on my own before she ever talked with me. She doesn’t even know about that, I swear.”

I narrow my eyes. I want to believe him, but I want the truth more. “I don’t understand.”

“It was the day I came to your place, after I offered to pay your medical bills that she asked. I guess you told her you weren’t doing it, and she freaked out. Told me you could go on the trip and that I was to take you.” His throat bobs. “And then she asked me to try and change your mind.”

“Did you agree?” I ask.

“That has nothing to do with anything I’ve said and done since, I swear.”

My mind races as anger trickles through my veins. “How am I supposed to believe that? I told you the other night that I was considering the trial, but how am I supposed to know if that was because it’s what I really want or your influence?”

“Are you serious?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I am.”

“If you recall correctly, you were the one that brought it up, not me.”

He’s right. I know he’s right, but holding on to my anger is easier than admitting it. “You’re telling me you haven’t thought about her request? That it didn’t influence you at all? ”

He straightens, the blue in his eyes fading to gray. “Of course I’ve thought about it. All I can do is think about it, because that’s what you do when someone you love is sick and all you want them to do is keep fucking fighting.”

I suck in a breath at the word love, hating the seed of hope that sprouts at the sound of it.

“But I can tell you with complete certainty,” he continues, taking a step closer, “that every single thing I’ve said or done since has been all my own.

You’re a grown woman, Sinclair. Your mother might have forgotten that, but I haven’t.

And I know how you are. You make your own decisions.

There’s no stopping you if you want something, and there’s no convincing you or changing your mind when you don’t. ”

He takes another step, until he’s close enough that I have to glance up at him to look him in the eyes. “Now, do you wanna keep talking about this bullshit or do you want to talk about what’s really bothering you?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Last night. I know that had to be hard, hearing everyone’s plans for the future, having to tell them about your situation. I could tell it affected you.”

His words wrap around my throat and squeeze, stronger than any choke hold could.

Last night felt a little like losing soccer all over again.

The pain is fresh, palpable, settling inside my chest like a metric ton.

I’m used to the reactions from people when they find out about my diagnosis, but these were athletes, people at the top of their game, my peers.

It hits a bit harder when people who once admire your achievements look on you with pity.

And I hate being pitied.

But I can’t talk about it. Each time I do, it’s like reopening a wound.

I glance away from Grayson, my throat tight as I say, “I’m going to go get ready,” and then I turn and head for the bathroom.

After a brief breakfast where I mostly keep to myself, I get ready for the award ceremony. We have to arrive early for pictures, but first I have a meeting with another representative from MaxPreps for an interview.

Dressed in my gown, a pale green dress that hugs my curves and flares at the bottom, I step into the summer sunshine. It’s a gorgeous day. The sun is bright in a clear blue sky, birds are chirping, and the air smells sweet. It’s the kind of beautiful day where I would have killed to play soccer.

I clench and unclench my hands, my palms damp with sweat as I round the corner to the gardens where the interviewer is supposed to meet me.

A middle-aged man sits on a stone bench beneath a rose arbor, a camera set up in front of him, and I freeze. “I don’t want to do this,” I say, turning to Grayson. “Maybe I can skip it? ”

He grips my shoulders, frowning. “No one is going to force you into anything, Sinclair. Do you want to skip it?”

I bite my lip, glancing behind me. This award, an interview with MaxPreps, they’re a big deal.

Amanda’s words from dinner the night before stick in my head. “Maybe once you recover, Florida State or another school will still take you.”

What if she’s right? What if by some miracle I recover and can play again?

Maybe I won’t be the same. I might no longer be a missile down the field, but I can still train my lungs. I can regain some of my speed. With time, my mind and footwork will be just as sharp.

“Maybe not,” I say, turning back to Grayson, though I can’t shake this feeling in my gut. The one that tells me this is a bad idea.

“You’re sure?”

I nod, forcing a smile that almost feels genuine. “I’m just nervous,” I say, more to myself than anyone.

“I wish I could go with you, but they won’t let me. I’ll be right inside the lobby, though, waiting.”

“Thanks.” I stretch up on my tiptoes and offer him a peck on the cheek, then turn around before I change my mind.

I shake out my hands and take a deep breath, telling myself I can do this, that I can do hard things, as I round the bend and the hotel’s full gardens come into view. Sun filters through a rose-covered pergola where my interviewer sits, talking to his cameraman.

This isn’t like the promotional video, I tell myself. I don’t have to do anything physical. All I have to do is talk—answer questions. I’ve watched enough of these videos over the years to know the kinds of things they ask.

It should put me at ease, but it doesn’t.

The vise in my chest squeezes as I step forward, catching the interviewer’s attention as he stands. “Ryleigh.” He stretches a hand out in greeting, and we shake. “Colby Brian with MaxPreps. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.” I smile, willing my voice to remain steady.

“Have a seat.” He waves me to the bench he just rose from and joins me. “How are you liking LA?”

“It’s great so far. I’ve had a lot of fun sightseeing.”

“Tonight’s the big night. Are you ready?”

I relax just a fraction, melting back into the bench. “I think so. Nervous, but excited.”