Page 8 of The Comeback

“Piper.” I pinned her with a look. She’s gotten away with her sass long enough.

An older couple in Bermuda button-down shirts and shorts walked into the hotel breakfast nook with their rolling luggage wheeling behind them.

Piper’s eyebrows went higher. “What?”

“Don’t speak to our mother like that.”

“Fine.” She frowned and dug her spoon into her oatmeal.

“Thank you,” my mom mouthed from across the table.

How did we get to this point? I wanted to shake my decked-out-in-all-black sister and tell her to snap out of it. Her life isn’t over.

Her shoulders wilted. Shit. I get it. For her, her life is over. She was set for a scholarship in soccer, but now, she’s destined for a future in a desk job.

“Mom, you don’t need to find a place on your own. We’ll find a place together.” If I’m still here in two months.

Sweat broke out on my forehead. What in the hell will I do if I don’t make the team? Like Piper, I don’t have a backup plan. But unlike my sister, I’m a twenty-five-year-old adult man and should have a backup plan. She’s fourteen and still has four years until she graduates and needs to figure her life out.

I’ve been the man of the family since our dad ditched us when I was ten and Piper was barely a year old. He went out to get her a birthday cake and never returned.

No. He wasn’t a missing person with amnesia. Nothing as exciting as that. He got on a Greyhound bus and kept going until he reached California. My mom got a postcard and then nothing.

A few years later, he was killed during a robbery. Thankfully, he was a victim and not the perpetrator.

“It’s–”

“No.” I dropped my fork on the plate. “I’ll find us a nice place to live. Tonight, after practice, I’ll start looking.”

“Dear, that would be great.” She grabbed my hand. “I feel guilty imposing on you, but it would help until I get established. I put in some applications for jobs, and I have a couple of interviews set for next week.”

“Mom, everything will be fine. I promise.” My gaze darted to Piper, who was ignoring our conversation. Her headphones were smashed over her ears, but the sounds buzzed around her head. No matter what happens, I’ll take care of my family.

****

Twenty Minutes Later

From a seated position on the field, I lean over my left leg, stretching until the muscles sing. I switch to my right leg. The muscles in my ankle are tight. When will this ever get better?

A dark shadow falls over me. “You don’t trust your ankle.”

I glance up to see Coach Tillman standing over me. “What do you mean?”

“You favor your right ankle. And after fourteen months of rehab and a clear doctor’s report, you shouldn’t.”

I lick my lips and sit upright. “I trust my ankle.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You don’t. And it’s going to run you out of a job. At least a job here.” He spins on his heel and marches off the field.

Fuck. I close my eyes and inhale the smell of cut grass and sweat as the overhead speakers blast one of the signature songs for the team. He’s right. I’ve never trusted my ankle after the surgery. Every night, I wake up in a cold sweat, replaying the pop as the Achille’s tendon sheared off my calf muscle.

Anxiety swells from my gut to my chest. I’ve got to do something. Gunner’s and Devin’s laughter pierce my consciousness. Ballet.

What in the fuck? Ballet? For real?

What’s the world coming to? What can a tutu-wearing dance instructor know about getting my step back? But how can I afford to not try everything? I can’t. The coaches have one hand on the red buzzer, and they’re about to push the Whammy Button.

Chapter Five

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