28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Vaughn
I t’s match day, and the stadium’s atmosphere is electric as fans mill around to watch the game. I can think of nothing but Rachel and how she refused to back down from me earlier. I tried to hold things together, but she wouldn’t let me dictate what she did. It really angers me and fuels the jealousy I wasn’t aware of, had been burning all along.
The tension tightens in my chest as I step into the locker room. My teammates are laughing and joking, and I laugh along, but it’s hollow. I can’t get that image of Rachel’s defiance out of my head—her defiance of me. It’s exciting, and frustrating. It scares me because she should be able to make her own choices. With Collins’s renewed interest in her and someone else trying to get close, it’s enough to make my blood boil.
“Hey, Vaughn!” one of my teammates calls out, breaking my train of thought. “You good? You seem a bit off today.”
“I’m fine, yeah,” I answer, smiling but not quite making it to my eyes.
The truth is, I’m not fine. I am a mess, feeling things, I thought I had under control.
I can’t concentrate as we get ready for the game. I start to think of Rachel’s words—her resolve to keep her word no matter what. I respect her power, but I also think it’s a test of my authority. I’m the one who is supposed to be in control, the one who leads, but here I am, fighting to get control of everything.
I throw myself into the game and try to take that frustration out on the field. I run as hard as I can, my body stretched to its limits, and each time I look up to the stands, I’m searching for Rachel’s face. I can feel the anger bubbling beneath my skin, and it’s maddening.
When the match ends, I leave the field in full fury. We’ve won, but it feels hollow. As I push through the sea of teammates, the crowd’s cheers fade into the sounds of my conflicting feelings. I feel like I’m trapped in a tornado.
By the time I make it home, I’m still riding the emotional rollercoaster of the day. I slam the door behind me and take a deep breath to calm the storm inside. There’s something about it that won’t let me shake the feeling I’ve lost something precious, something I can’t put into words.
I’m about to collapse onto the couch when the doorbell rings. My heart races as I freeze for a moment. It’s too late for anyone but family. I don’t really want to go to the door. I brace myself for whoever is on the other side of it.
I open the door to see my mother’s face light up as she sees me. “Vaughn!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around me in a tight hug. “I was so worried about you!”
“Hey, Mom,” I say, my voice strained as I return the embrace. Her warm affection is comforting, but my chest becomes more and more tense. Her concern is always well-meant, but it’s a weight, an expectation I’m not ready to carry yet.
She pulls back to look at me. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Her eyes are full of love, but I can’t help but feel that old familiar twinge of guilt. I can tell she wants more of me, more affection, but all I see is the pressure to perform—the pressure to be the son she wants me to be.
“Thanks,” I manage to reply, stepping aside to let her in. I can feel her gaze sweeping over the living room as she enters, assessing and judging. It’s like she’s always looking for signs of my struggles, waiting to swoop in and fix things, but I don’t want to be fixed. I want to be understood.
“Have you been eating well?” she asks, her voice laced with concern. “You look a bit worn out.” Again, I feel the frustration bubbling up.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’ve got a lot on my plate. I’ve just had a stressful match, and I want to rest my head.”
Her motherly instinct kicks in, and she huffs softly. “You’re busy, Vaughn, but you need to take care of yourself. You can’t run yourself ragged. You need time to recharge.”
I can see the frustration building, but I take a deep breath to try to keep it together. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got it handled.”
“Handling it how?” she replies, her voice rising slightly. “By working yourself to the bone and ignoring your family?” I can feel the hurt in her eyes, and it’s worse.
I respond, “No, it’s not that simple. You don’t know what I’m going through. It’s not just me—it’s the team, it’s the fans, everything. I can’t just quit everything and spend time with you.”
The words hang in the air. Her expression changes. I can see the hurt, and I watch. The pressure is too much, and I can’t help but lash out. I didn’t mean to take it out on her, though.
“Vaughn, I just want to be there for you,” she says softly, her voice quivering. “I’d like to know what’s going on in your life. I want to help.”
I snap, “I don’t need help,” and the words leave my mouth before I can take them back. I can feel her disappointment—the weight of my words between us, like a chasm.
“Maybe what you need is to let us in,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
But I can’t. They can’t see the cracks in me, the doubts I have. I won’t let them make me feel like I’m not doing enough—that I’m not enough.
Heavy as it is, the silence stretches between us. I can feel my mother’s disappointment in her eyes and the pain in her face. I’ve seen that look before, but this time, it twists like a dagger in my gut more than ever.
She suddenly loses her composure. She steps back, and her voice shakes, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Her words come thick with emotion. “I’ve cried for you, Vaughn. I heard about the plane crash, and I’ve been terrified since then. I thought I lost you.”
Her words feel like a punch to the gut. I’ve been so caught up in my own struggles and frustrations that I forgot that my actions affect the people who care about me. It’s a knife to the gut. My mother is not just the voice of pressure; she’s a person who loves me and worries about me every day.
“Mom, I . . .” I start, but the words catch in my throat. A flood of regret and emotions threatens to burst. I’ve let her worry become a burden, and I’ve taken her love for granted.
Her voice breaks as she continues, “I don’t know why you push us away. What I want is to be right here with you. I want you to know you’re not alone in this. You do not have to bear everything on your shoulders.”
Her tears hit me like lightning, igniting a flame of realization. I’ve been so focused on my career and the expectations I put upon myself that I haven’t paid attention to the relationships that matter. I’ve put walls around myself, believing I had to build everything on my own, but that isolation has become too much.
The emotions overwhelm me, and my voice breaks as I apologize, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to keep you out. I just . . . I was convinced I could handle it all.”
Waves of sorrow and frustration cross her face as she shakes her head. “Vaughn, it’s not easier. It’s just lonely. And every time you push us away; it breaks my heart.”
I feel my chest tighten as her words sink in. I want to reach out, draw her into my arms, and tell her how grateful I am for her love and concern. But that doesn’t happen. I stand there, frozen, as she wipes her tears away with the back of her hand, her disappointment clear.
“I need to go,” she says, her voice soft but resolute. “I can’t watch you do this anymore.”
I beg, desperation oozing from my voice, “Mom, please don’t leave. I didn’t mean it. I’m just . . . I can’t figure out everything out.”
She shakes her head again and walks toward the door. “You have to figure it out, Vaughn. I can’t be the one to fix it for you. You have to want it for yourself.”
The door clicks shut as she leaves, and I’m alone in the quiet of my empty apartment. I feel her absence—a void, a chasm of failure to connect, to talk. I run my hand through my hair, the weight of regret finally pressing me down.
I breathe, and harder than any tackle on the field, it hits me. I’ve gotten everything with my family all wrong. All this time, I’ve painted them as unsupportive, as forces that hold me down when all they want is to be in my life. I’ve pushed them away, telling myself I could do it alone, but they want to be there for my successes, my struggles, and my joys.
I replay the conversation in my mind, her tears making me sink onto the couch. Until recently, I viewed my family as a source of stress—my mother’s expectations, my father’s absence—but now I see them differently. They’re not enemies. They’re my lifeline, and I’ve been too stubborn to see it.
My fingers hover over the phone screen as I hold it in my hand, thinking of reaching out to her again. I’m sorry. I want to explain how wrong I’ve been. I hesitate because I don’t know how to bridge the gap I’ve created.
Finally, I type out a message: I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to push you away. I want to do better.
I hit Send, and it’s a step, but it’s a step, nonetheless. I can’t fix everything in one day, but I need to start tearing down the walls I’ve built to keep my family out, even if it makes me afraid.
The weight of my emotions suffocates me. I sit in my apartment, silent and waiting, and I feel a flicker of hope. Perhaps this is the start of something new—a chance to come back to my family, to let them see the real me, and to accept their love without fear.
I stand up with renewed determination, hoping to overcome the challenges ahead. I’m ready to take my career in my hands but also to take my relationships in my hands and embrace the support that has been there all along. It’s going to be a hard road, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel ready to take that first step.