Page 59 of Things I Wish I Said

“Well, you’re quite the young lady with a very impressive record. Which is why we’re here. Jason, our cameraman, is going to record this little interview. It’ll be brief, maybe five minutes, and then we’ll let you get on your way because we know you have photos to take and an award to get to.”

I smile, feeling my first jolt of excitement at what awaits me tonight since I first arrived.

Part of me can’t believe it’s here. Shortly after I was awarded the state title for women’s soccer, and announced as a national nominee, I was diagnosed.

My achievements quickly fueled my will to fight.

Months later, here I am, having won the national title.

It’s almost hard to believe.

“All set?” Colby asks.

I nod, ready to get started.

With a broad smile, he turns to the camera. “Hi, it’s Colby Brian here with Ryleigh Sinclair, and if you don’t know Ryleigh, then you have got to get to know her. Ryleigh, also known as The Missile, just graduated from Federal Hocking as the number one recruited player in the nation.”

He glances down at the card in his hand.

“Ryleigh is also a two-time First Team All-Virgina Prep honoree, the Virginia Soccer Coaches Association’s Class 3 Player of the Year, two years in a row.

A member of the US Soccer Under-18 Women’s National Team at the age of seventeen, and Winner of the Golden Boot at the United States Youth Soccer Association’s Under-18 National Championship.

” He pauses, glances up at me. “Ryleigh, how does it feel when you’re blazing down the field? ”

I bite back the um I want to start with and go straight into my answer. “Being on the field has always felt a little like coming home. Put a soccer ball in front of me and my brain shuts off. My body moves on instinct. When I’m playing nothing else matters. It’s like I’m truly alive.”

“What do you think makes you so good on your feet, so quick and sharp?”

“Um, I do a lot of cross training. Biking, running, and sprints. Lots of weights, too, especially my legs and core.”

“So, being here and being the Gatorade Player of the Year, what does that mean to you?”

I exhale, taking a moment to compose my thoughts. “When I found out I won, I was thrilled. It’s just nice to be recognized in a sport you love and have dedicated so much time to. Just being nominated, let alone winning, with all the other talented athletes here is just amazing.”

“You had an amazing senior season with a record of twenty-two to two and the Class Three state championship, thirty-one goals and twenty-three assists. Anyone can look up your track record and your massive number of accolades, but what they might not know is that this winter you were hit with some devastating news.”

My stomach drops. Sinks into a puddle at my feet.

“In February, after passing out on the field of an indoor travel game, doctors discovered you had lung cancer.” He pauses for what I assume is dramatic affect. “Can you tell us what that was like, receiving that news?”

Blood rushes in my ears. I stare at him, unable to speak, my throat dry.

His probing gaze narrows. “Ryleigh?”

“Uh, sorry.” I swallow a nervous bubble of laughter, my body numb. “Um, it was . . . heartbreaking?”

“At first, did you think ‘I can overcome this, I can still play,’ or did you just give it up, knowing it would be too hard? ”

“I was angry at first. Mad. Determined to keep playing against all odds, and I did, for a little bit.”

“They tried immunotherapy first, but it didn’t work. Were you hoping they wouldn’t need to do surgery so you could still play?”

I nod, more than a little surprised at how much research Colby has done about my treatment history.

“I’m young, healthy. We hoped it would shrink the cancer and I could continue playing in some capacity, but doctors didn’t give it long before they stopped treatment.

My body didn’t respond well to the immunotherapy.

” My voice sounds hollow, my words empty.

“Once I started having complications, they hit pause and removed the left lobe of my lung. It was shortly after, I realized I’d have to quit. ”

“What was that decision like for you? Quitting the sport you love, the one you’ve achieved so much in at such a young age?”

“Devastating.” My voice is faraway, a quiet whisper. “Completely and utterly devastating.”

Our car pulls up outside the Dolby Theater and the driver gets out. Coming around to the back, he opens my door.

I hesitate, staring out at the throng of people in a combination of awe and fear. Athletes, celebrities, press, and fans screaming behind barricades form a sea of people I’m not sure I have the strength to wade through after my interview .

A warm, calloused palm settles over my bare thigh below the hem of my dress. “I’ll be right here with you the whole time,” Grayson says, mistaking my hesitation for nerves.

I nod, but I still don’t budge. “I know.”

His gaze flickers over me, to the wig I curled into soft waves and the length of my dress showcasing my legs, and says, “You look stunning, Sinclair. Like, out-of-this-world beautiful.” He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my lips, careful not to smudge my lipstick.

I didn’t tell Grayson about how my interview with Colby Brian turned into a saga on my cancer diagnosis.

I didn’t have the heart. He’d been so excited for me after I finished, and between the dinner for the nominees, my promo video, and the interview, all the festivities leading up to the awards feels like one giant letdown after so much waiting, anticipation, and the struggle to get here.

But his words are like a salve, giving me the courage I need to inhale and step out.

Grayson straightens the jacket of the suit that hugs his muscular frame, stepping in line beside me while I walk on wooden legs, following behind the other nominees.

The red carpet is a whirlwind.

We pose for several photos in front of the Gatorade backdrop. There’s the pop of cameras followed by a series of flashing lights, and then it’s over and we’re being ushered inside.

Grayson hurries behind me, grappling for my hand as we weave our way indoors .

I gasp at the sight of Megan Rapinoe, Julie Ertz, and Ashley Hatch, my soccer idols, while Grayson goes starry-eyed at Shohei Ohtani and Corey Seager, some of the best in baseball.

“That’s going to be you someday,” I whisper in his ear as he stares up at Shoehei.

Grayson simply nods, a fire in his eyes I wish I could match with my own, but with every step inside the theater, and the closer we get to taking our seats, an unbearable weight settles over me—a sadness I can’t shake.

We filter into the packed theater beside the other Gatorade award nominees, sinking down into our seats while I fight the urge to flee.

Butterflies swarm my stomach as Grayson grabs my hand, giving it a little squeeze. “This is what you’ve been waiting for, Sinclair. It’s your moment.” He lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “You ready?”

For the first time since I discovered I won, I’m not.

My heels click on the floor, echoing ominously around me in my rush for the bathroom.

If I’m right, I have about ten minutes, fifteen tops, to do my business and get back to our seats.

I’m nervous enough about accepting my award in front of hundreds of people, celebrities and athletes alike, without having to do so with a full bladder.

The door to the ladies’ room comes into view, and I barely resist sprinting for it, afraid of falling or worse, inciting a coughing jag I can’t stop. Instead, I walk, ignoring the ache in my bones and the burning in my chest that makes moving at the quickened pace difficult.

Relief washes over me once my hand curls over the door handle. I tug it open and step inside, halted by the sound of my name.

For a moment, I think they’re talking to me until I realize they haven’t even seen me yet. I’m still just inside the door while they’re around the corner in front of the stalls.

“Wait. She has cancer?” a voice says.

“Yeah. She told us at dinner. I guess it’s really bad, like she can’t play at all anymore.”

Amanda. I recognize her voice and instantly feel sick.

I shrink back against the wall, my pulse pounding in my ears as I’m hit with a wave of déjà vu. It’s like being in the bathroom at Kip’s party all over again, listening to Hannah and her friend discuss me, not knowing I could hear.

“Oh shit. So, how the hell did she win the national title? That should go to someone who’s going to make a career out of this.”

“I spoke with my uncle who’s friends with someone at Gatorade, and he said they had it narrowed down to three candidates, her, Tony, and Cory, but someone on the board found out about her diagnosis, and the next thing you know, they chose her.”

“So, you think they gave it to her just because she’s sick? ”

“He sure seemed to think so.”

Shame slides through me, sticky and thick like molasses. I try to swallow, but my throat won’t work.

“Damn. We should probably get back. They’ll probably announce it soon.”

Panic grips my throat, its nails digging into my flesh as I straighten. The sound of footsteps approach, and I bolt for the door.

Swinging it open, I run as fast as my feet will carry me, down the hallway and out a side door labeled emergency exit.

The breath stalls in my lungs, like they’re filled with lead. Every single inhale is a chore.

I should go back inside, find my seat, and plaster a smile on my face. I should climb the stage and accept my award with grace, give the short acceptance speech I wrote in the hotel, then take a car back to our room.

But I can’t.

I can’t seem to bring myself to head back inside those walls. Not when it feels like they’re closing in on me. Not if it means accepting an award I didn’t earn.

No matter how many platitudes or smiles I give, my insides revolt at the thought.

I’m hollow. Gutted.

Here I thought I won because of my talent, my skill on the field. At one time, I had the world at my fingertips. I could’ve gone to any school I wanted. Professional soccer was in my near future. Possibly the Olympics .

But now all I am is someone to be pitied. The Gatorade Player of the Year award isn’t a recognition of my achievements, it’s a consolation prize because I fucking lost at life.

Everyone inside of those walls, Grayson included, is running toward their future—with arms wide open while my dreams are dead in the water.

There’s no reviving them. I thought this award would be a celebration, one last triumph to prove I’m more than my disease, but so far it feels more like one giant fucking funeral.

I start to hyperventilate, my breath coming faster.

Everything I feared is coming true.

I’m no longer Ryleigh Sinclair, The Missile. I won’t be remembered as the girl who could strike with the precision of a knife and remain calm under pressure. Instead, I’ll be remembered as the wasted talent, the soccer player with cancer. Just another girl with a tragic ending.

My head spins, and I’m hit with a wave of nausea.

Sliding to the ground, I wrap my arms around my legs while sweat trickles down my back. I don’t care that I’m wearing a dress or that someone might be watching as I press my forehead to my knees. Not when I can’t calm down long enough to catch a breath.

My whole life I’ve been selfish, relentlessly chasing this dream, and for what?

So my mother could put her life on hold while I battle this disease ?

My mom has wound up in a monumental amount of debt she might never recover from with nothing to show for it. She sacrificed and scraped and saved when she could have been selfish, because in the end it didn’t mean a damn thing.

I’m nothing. A nobody. All I am is an anchor around her neck, weighing her down.

Tears streak down my cheeks. More than six months of fighting cancer and this is the first time I cry. I don’t know if that makes me brave or stupid.

A cough rattles in my chest which I ignore until I can’t any longer, and it explodes like firecracker, tearing through me. Covering my mouth, I hack and sob at the same time, choking on phlegm and mucus which is made worse by the emotion tightening my throat.

I gasp for air, trying to calm down enough for the gnawing ache to subside.

I pull my hand away, completely spent. I feel like I’ve run a fucking marathon, rather than a short sprint, followed by a crying spree.

Something slick covers my palm as the taste of gunmetal fills my mouth.

A cold trickle of fear creeps down my spine, and when I glance down at my hand, I find it smeared with blood.