Page 159 of Things I Wish I Said
“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.
