Page 8 of Things I Wish I Said

“I need my mother to think I have a boyfriend. And, okay, technically, I need a date for an event. I can’t go alone, and even if my mother were able to go with me, she’ll hover.

And the last thing I want is her hovering and worrying about germs and infections and how tired I am or if I’ve taken my fucking supplements.

In short, I’d give my left fucking lung to attend this thing.

” She barks out a laugh. “Sorry, a little cancer humor.”

I arch a brow.

“They took my left lung,” she explains. “Lung cancer,” she adds at my blank stare.

“Too much?” She scrunches her nose, then waves her hand out in front of herself while I wonder how she can be so flippant about something so fucking awful.

“Anyway, my mother can’t get the time off work to go, and I don’t have anyone else to make the trip with.

I know technically I’m eighteen and I can do what I want, but she’s done a lot for me.

Sacrificed a lot. And if I go, I want it to be with her approval.

But if I have someone she trusts, someone I could rely on to go with me, who cares about me, then she might be okay with me going. ”

“Okay, and how are you funding this trip?”

“I’ll worry about that later, but I have ideas . . .”

Wishing Well would probably fund the trip if asked, but I don’t say that because I don’t want to reopen the conversation about why they granted her wish in the first place.

This chick is too smart and far too observant.

The last thing I want to do is explain how my mom has it in her fucking head that this harebrained scheme will somehow save me.

“And you really think she’ll let you go with a boyfriend?”

“A sweet-as-sugar, completely devoted boyfriend who is every bit as protective as she is? Yes.”

Fucking hell.

“I mean, it’s one thing to turn me down if I have no one to go with, but it’s quite another to deny me after all I’ve been through if I have someone else to take me.

So we need to be convincing. It’s the only way she’ll let me fly across the country without her in my condition.

Which means the whole acting in love part is, unfortunately, still a part of this deal.

But no worries. This sick girl”—she points to herself—“won’t fall in love with you.

No stage-four clingers here, only stage-two. ”

She winks after the second cancer joke, and I have to admit, her bold honesty and self-deprecation would be endearing as fuck if her situation were any different, but as it stands, I’m not sure how to take her.

“Listen,” I say, leaning forward and steepling my hands out in front of me as I meet her gaze, “there’s a problem with your plan.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not sure I’m capable of . . . acting the part.” I lift my hand to straighten the bill of the baseball cap I’m not wearing, then drop my hands in my lap.

She stares at me, her gaze unsettling. “Why?”

“Because I don’t do the whole boyfriend thing. Or the love thing. I don’t believe in happily ever afters. And because lately I spend more time drunk or high as a kite than focusing on my relationships.”

There. Brutal honesty. Can’t say I didn’t warn her.

Maybe she’ll change her mind, after all.

“So fake it.”

Or not.

“Listen, I don’t expect you to win an Oscar. Play the part only when she’s around. All you need is her approval, and what she doesn’t know won’t kill her. ”

I exhale, thinking about what she just said. I used to be that guy once. The doting boyfriend. Could I be him again, even if it’s for show?

I shake my head. “So, what’s this big trip?”

Her eyes brighten, her gaze catlike. “I won the Gatorade Player of the Year award. It’s in Los Angeles next month.”

“One of the state titles?”

She shakes her head, and my jaw nearly hits the floor with her casual shrug. “I won the single national title. It’s this prestigious award that?”

“I know what it is.” I sit back in my chair, assessing her in a new light. “That’s fucking huge.”

“Now you know why I’m so desperate.”

I nod.

“I’d give my left lung to go.” Her words echo in my head, and I’m hit with a wave of sorrow for this girl I’ve known all of five minutes.

I’m sitting across from an incredible athlete, someone at the top of their game, because you don’t win the Gatorade Player of the Year award unless you’re next-level incredible.

People who win that particular title go on to do amazing things in their prospective sports, almost always going pro.

All that talent and dedication, right at the cusp of her career, only for it to be robbed from her by fucking cancer.

“Around the time of my diagnosis, I found out I won the state title, but there was a delay announcing the national winners. I just found out a week ago. ”

I sink back in my seat with wide eyes, feeling a little unsettled. “You can’t not go,” I agree. “They announce the winner at the ESPYs, right?”

“Right.” Her jaw tightens.

“What sport?” I ask, truly curious now.

“Soccer.”

I stare at her through new eyes, with the mutual respect every athlete has for another athlete at the top of their game.

I wonder how I haven’t heard of her before now, but then again, I don’t exactly follow women’s sports, and even if I did, this last year has been one giant shit show.

The only thing I’ve focused on is killing as many brain cells as possible while just barely hanging on to my scholarship.

Regardless, the cruel injustice of her situation isn’t lost on me. I'd bet my life on the fact this girl has never so much as even touched a cigarette. She’s disciplined—dedicated. She’d have to be to get to where she is, and you don’t get there by smoking and destroying your body.

Yet she got fucking lung cancer anyway.

At eighteen, at the top of her game.

Just like that, with the snap of a finger, all of it was gone—her dreams imploded.

I know all too well what it feels like to have the rug swept out from under you. To feel like you’re floating on air one day, only to feel like you’re free-falling the next without a parachute.

My father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer one day, and three weeks later, he was dead.

Fuck.

My stomach twists.

The noose of guilt tightens.

Any intentions I had of bailing on this wish just went up in smoke.

I hiss as I lift the bar back onto the rack with a clang.

Breathing hard, I lie there a moment as my trainer stares down at me. “You finished?”

I nod and swipe a hand over my sweaty brow as he meanders away to help someone else.

Sitting up, I straddle the bench, my gaze dancing over the weight room.

I’ve been coming to the BSA?the Baseball Sports Academy?ever since my freshman year in high school.

First, for weekly hitting and fielding lessons to supplement my school season, but after my father got sick, my presence between these walls was a constant.

Baseball has always been my outlet. It was always enough.

Until it wasn’t .

Yet here I am once again, hoping it will be the outlet I need, a way to wrap my head around my encounter with Sinclair.

Though I know I need to reconcile myself with helping her for the summer, it doesn’t mean it’s not going to kill me to do it.

Surprisingly, I see a lot of myself in her.

She didn’t need to say anything for me to know her mom is the only parent in the picture, since she made zero mention of a father in her plea for my help.

She loves soccer like I love baseball. Or at least, how I used to love baseball, back when my father was alive, and we used to discuss playing D1 in college and where it might take me.

Lately, I’m set on self-destruct mode, and nothing seems to deter me from that path, not even ball.

Her sarcastic remarks and crass jokes might fool everyone else, but they don’t fool me. I recognize them for what they are—a convenient cover for a bleeding heart, the same way I drink and smoke and spend time with guys I know don’t give a shit about me unless I’m buying.

I rise to my feet and drag myself from the weight room toward the locker room to snag my gym bag, unsurprised to find a text from my best friend Cameron when I check my phone.

Apparently, a bunch of the guys are gathering at the lake, and he wants me to come.

I grunt and shove it back in my gym bag, telling myself I’ll reply later, even though I know I probably won’t. Instead, I’ll pretend like I never saw it, and when he busts my chops about it at the game tomorrow, I’ll play dumb.

Snagging my bag off the bench, I opt to shower and change at home, but when I get there and a short while later, I walk through the door into an eerily empty house, I make a beeline for my bedroom .

Knowing there’s no stopping my mind from going there, I find my MacBook where I left it on top of my dresser and take it to my bed.

Kicking off my shoes, I settle in, placing it on my lap as I boot it up and type “Ryleigh Sinclair” into the search browser.

Seconds later, the results load, and I stare, shell-shocked at the sheer number of accolades she has to her name. I bypass a dozen lesser awards and competitions and slow down when I get to her most recent accomplishments.

Two-time First Team All-Virginia 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 U-18 Women’s National Team at the age of seventeen.

Winner of the Golden Boot at the United States Youth Soccer Association’s U-18 National Championships as her club team clinched the national title.

A senior record of 22-2 and the Class 3 state championship. Thirty-one goals and twenty-three assists.

I swallow, reading the final recap.

Ryleigh Sinclair finished out her senior season as a forward and midfielder, ranking as the nation’s number one recruit by PrepSoccer.com.

My stomach roils as I exhale and flop back into my chair.

She had the soccer world by the balls.

And then it was ripped away from her .

I can see why she has a death grip on that award. It might be the last time she’ll ever see a trophy, easily her biggest accomplishment.

I can’t even begin to imagine how I’d feel in her shoes.

Robbed. Depressed. Pissed.

Hell, I’d be fucking furious.

Yet there she was, cracking jokes and laughing about it. She’s a better person than I am, that’s for damn sure. I snap my MacBook shut, knowing what I must do.

Guilt is no longer my only motivation for sliding my cell phone out of my pocket and dialing my mother.

She doesn’t answer, but her voicemail picks up, so I wait until the beep and leave a message.

“Hey, Ma, it’s me. I’ll do it.”

I hang up, then open my text thread with Dustin. Granting this wish might be the hardest thing I ever do, but at least I can get a little something to take the edge off.

I type out a new text and hit send.

ME :

Can you meet up? I’ve got cash.

DUSTIN :

You ready to try something stronger ?

I grind my teeth, knowing Dustin thinks selling weed is a waste of time. He prefers the shit rich kids like me are willing to pay more for.

ME :

I’m not a junkie.

DUSTIN :

LOL Whatever, bro. I’ll be here when you’re ready.

ME :

Be there in five.