Page 73 of Foul Line

There’s yelling behind us. I hear the coach who refereed the game shouting orders. My dad holds my head to his chest as he leads me away. Up ahead, his car looms into view. He hurries me there and places me in the passenger seat.

I throw my head back and cry then. My dad tries to peel my hand away from me, but it only makes me cry harder. “Please, Pumpkin,” he says. “I have to put your seatbelt on.”

I let it go for a split second while he pulls the belt around me. Then, I clutch it to me again, keeping pressure as it throbs. The pain is pulsing, and with each sharp jolt, I wrestle with what I know about wrist injuries. What’s the recovery time? Is it bad like an ACL? What if I can’t play anymore? Goddamnit!

When my dad gets into the driver’s seat, my head falls to the seat as I look over at him. Tears puddle and spill over. “Dad.”

“I know, I know,” he says, every bit as frustrated as I am. He starts the car and then throws it into reverse. The tires kick up tiny stones as he peels out of the camp. I hear him speak into his phone, “Nearest hospital to Holly Lake.”

I look over just as we’re passing the path to the outdoor courts. My Ballers are emerging. They watch me leave, faces like stone. I’ll never forget those looks. I’ll never forget the determination, the feelings conveyed, and the love in all three hard gazes.

This is it. I played with fire, and it’s gotten me again. Only this time, I’m not walking away with nothing.

I close my eyes and replay the scene. The fury on Ryan’s face as he threw himself at Lake. He’s taken it too far. There’s no coming back from this.

It may have just been one-on-one out there, but it won’t be for long. Welcome to five on one, Lake. I hope you enjoy getting a taste of your own medicine.

Epilogue

My eyes feel like sandpaper. I’ve done enough crying for a lifetime in the span of a few hours. I have no answers about my wrist. Nothing concrete, yet. My dad’s going to fly us to L.A., so we can go to a specialist he knows out there. He’s supposedly the best of the best.

A hand touches my shoulder. I start, but it’s just my dad. He’s breaking me from the merry-go-round of my thoughts. “Ryan’s here, honey. He wants to see you.”

I swallow. “Yeah. Okay.”

My dad’s gaze moves to my bandaged wrist again, the sorrow evident in his eyes. “He drove your car here. I asked him to,” he says quickly, like he expected me to get upset.

I shrug. It’s not like I can do anything about my car right now.

Footsteps sound in the hallway. My dad steps back, excusing himself from the room as Ryan and the rest of the Ballers, minus fucking Lake O’Brien, of course, step in.

Hayes pushes past everyone first. “Are you okay?” He reaches for me, but then his hand falls to the bed when he can’t decide where to touch me so it doesn’t hurt.

Instead, I reach up and trace his cheekbones. “I’m okay. They have me on some good pain meds.”

I’ve had x-rays here. It’s just that this hospital is so small, there’s no one around to read them yet. My dad won’t trust their opinions anyway, which is why he’s already been on the phone with the doctor’s office in L.A.

My brain is hazy due to the meds. I’m thankful for it because it’s not letting me feel the pain right now, but it’s also not letting me think clearly either. “So, what happened? Did I win?”

The Ballers all exchange a look. Ryan comes forward then, even though Hayes doesn’t give up his spot right next to me. “Coach Tanner disqualified him from the game. He declared you the winner.”

A smile passes over my face. “That’s good,” I say. “That’s what I wanted. MVP.”

My stomach twists though. I know I didn’t actually win it. Lake made sure of that.

Sloan comes around the other side of the bed and sits near my feet. He reaches out his hand to rest on my calf. His eyes are heavy and sad. Every one of them refuse to look at my bandaged wrist.

“But overall?” I ask, looking at Ryan. “You won that, right?”

He looks away, his gray eyes shimmering in the corners. “I don’t know. I think you’re the only one who deserves it though.”

I shake my head at that. “Nonsense. You’ve won it how many times in a row?”

“It doesn’t matter, Tessa,” he says, his voice like ice. He leans over my bed. “I’m a terrible fucking human being. I don’t deserve awards.”

I cock my head at him. “Don’t say that. Let’s ask my dad.” I look around him, but Ryan shifts until he takes up my entire view again. My vision is getting fuzzy around the edges. Whatever pain relievers they gave me, they’re working wonders. It’s muting everything.

“Tessa,” Ryan says, and it sounds as if my name is ripped from his chest. “I should’ve seen what he was about to do. I don’t know if you can ever forgive me.”

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