Page 8 of Keep Me Never
I scrub a hand down my face, closing my eyes a moment, but I don’t stop walking. I don’t have any time to spare, and since I made up some bullshit about needing to see a teacher, I’m forced to walk all the way around the staff building and the back of the dining hall just to get to the library, when I could have cut straight across the grass.
It’s better this way, though, or else Brady, one of my bestfriends, would have given me shit and stated the obvious: that I still need to eat regardless of whatever else I had to do.
Thankfully, Paige took care of that issue for me today. I hated letting her pay, but I’m also glad I didn’t have to. A five-dollar protein shake, while all the fuel I need for now, isn’t what I would want to spend the money on when it won’t help me make it through practice later. No, I’ll have to chomp down a few protein bars the athletic department keeps stocked for us in the practice facility. It’s that or risk passing out when my new asshole receiver coach, Coach Dolton, drives my ass into the ground, like he seems dead set on doing every day. I could hardly walk the first couple weeks of practice this summer, he had us doing so many leg drills.
Sighing, I pick up the pace. If I get there early enough, I can get all the copies I need made and put away before my next class. That way I won’t have to draw attention to myself during our team’s mandatory study hall period by borrowing books in front of everyone.
We’re only a little over three weeks into the semester, and I’m already beat mentally, which is why I’m trying to win in the physical department. If my mind breaks down, I need my body to at least keep standing, but the way things are looking so soon into the year, I don’t know how long that will work.
I could talk to my friends about it. Mason and Brady have been there for me since I was twelve years old, and while I know they would understand, I also know there will be immediate disappointment, too. Not because of what my life has become but because I hid my problems from them. I can’t stand the thought of seeing the look of betrayal shining in Mason’s eyes when he looks at me. Not again. Not after I broke his trust by doing the one thing he asked me not to do growing up—fall for his twin sister.
But we’re past that. I know I fucked up and that he loves me like the family that he and I—that all of our core friend group—have become. And family doesn’t give up on one another.
Or so says the people who have never known the opposite.
Guess it all makes sense now why I let myself become what I hate most: a self-serving asshole with little regard for the others affected by my bullshit.
I swear to god, if I sigh one more time, I’m going to smack myself.
I’m not that guy anymore, I tell myself.
I’m not.
It doesn’t take me long to get everything I need in the library, so I find an empty bench at the edge of campus, climb on top, and pull my phone from my bag.
The second I turn it on, the messages flood in.
Fifteen from my mom, two from her lawyer, and one from my dad.
I open his first.
Dad: I’m so sorry, son. I love you.
My jaw locks tight, but I refuse to get emotional. It’s been the same message every single day around this time. And nearly the same one every morning with an addedI hope you have a good day, talk to you soon. Sometimes those messages helped me get out of bed, but other times they’re just a reminder of how fucked-up my current situation really is. I don’t have the heart to tell him seeing his name every morning on my screen sets off a chain reaction that has me fumbling to focus, not knowing what it is he’s going to say this time, what other bad news could possibly be delivered. But it seems I’m always waiting for it, that other shoe to drop—and for me it always does.
The only thing I have to hold on to right now is the fact that I’m safe for the time being. Before, I couldn’t wait for the weeks to pass, for the semester to end, if only to be done with finals and moving on to the next phase or the next season. Now, every time I go to bed, the next morning, it’s like I’m one day closer to everything falling apart.
I open my email for what must be the hundredth time in the last couple days, and I freeze when the response I’ve been waiting for is staring back at me.
I go to open it, but my thumb hovers over the sender’s name, a sudden wave of panic washing through me. Am I ready to find out the answer?
Delaying will get me nowhere. At least I’ll know.
My eyes skim over the formal response, pausing when I get to the line that matters:
We regret to inform you that we are unable to approve this request.
I close out and let my phone fall to my lap, dropping my face into my hands. The reason why doesn’t matter; I got the answer I was looking for.
Karma: three
Me: fucking zero.
But it’s okay. It’s fine.
If there’s one thing in my life I have control over, at least for the next four months, it’s my performance on the field.
And whether the newest addition to the AU coaching staff likes it or not, I’m going to fucking kill it.
