Chapter 14 TJ
She’s got to think I’m the world’s biggest moron, not knowing how to operate my own dryer.
I want to explain, but she changed the subject, and now I don’t know how to get it back to why appliances flummox me.
She’s met my mom, but maybe she didn’t get the full picture.
With a woman like Maureen Doyle, it’s easier to let her bulldoze over you than stand up to her.
She wants to do my laundry? I’m gonna let her.
It’s easier than fighting with her about it and being on the receiving end of her disappointment.
I’m her failure-to-launch child, and I’ll never get over letting her and my dad down like that.
When she brings up her sister again, it makes me think about the list. She’s still holding it in her hand. I try to take a peek. "Is that what she said on the list? The number eight thing?"
Rachel shakes her head. "No, but I know—knew—my sister better than she knew herself."
I slide onto one of my kitchen counter stools, and Rachel does the same. "So you knew about the list then? Did you try and do anything with your sister before she died, or was she too sick?"
I wanna ask her why I made the list. Why did her sister think I was that special?
Rachel looks away, her gaze focused out the window, shaking her head slightly.
"My grandmother blindsided me with it a few weeks ago. Just after her birthday." She turns back to me, her gaze sharpening. "I can’t believe she did this to me. She knows I’m going to have to do things for her, but she also knows I’m going to hate every single one of them. "
Like meeting me. Ouch. I can’t control the expression on my face, my eyes and mouth immediately drooping. My thoughts are no doubt written all over my face.
"Oh no, I don’t mean you!" She attempts to backpedal. "I meant, I’m pretty introverted, and going out and hunting down a professional athlete is not anything I’d ever do. Anything that involves me leaving my bedroom is a stretch for me."
If she were any other woman, I’d probably make a flirtatious comment about never leaving her bedroom. Even I know that is the wrong thing to say right now. Instead, I offer her a small smile. I 100 percent believe that she spends very little time talking to people. It shows.
Yet somehow, it’s endearing.
"I think that Richie knew I was going to be even more of a recluse after, and so she put the most absurd things on the list to try and get me to live a little."
I offer a different perspective. "Maybe she didn’t want you wasting the gift of your life when hers was going to end so soon."
Rachel stares at me, wide-eyed. I don’t know what I could have possibly said that upset her, but unless she blinks soon, I’m afraid her eyeballs are going to fall out of her head. Then her eyes narrow. "Are you sure you never met her? Are you sure she didn’t put you up to this?"
I’ve met a lot of people in my life. While I can’t guarantee I never met her sister, I can honestly say I’m not in cahoots with her. Or anyone else, for that matter. I shake my head. "There is no great plot. She’s doing this on her own."
Curiosity is gnawing away again. I have to know what’s on her list. "What else is on there? Maybe there’s something you can do that’s not as bad as you think."
Rachel’s lips become a thin line for a moment. Then, she folds the top of the paper back and slides it over to me, her hand remaining on the paper. Only the list is exposed.
Some of the items are simple. Some are totally ridiculous. Nothing makes sense together, and none of them has anything to do with each other.
"This is pretty … random." I struggle for something to say, hoping to break this uncomfortable silence.
Rachel appears to be studying the list upside down.
I’m sure she’s read it so much already that she has it committed to memory.
Her hand contracts, pulling the list back.
She quickly folds it and places both her hands on top of it.
"Yeah, well, she did have a brain tumor, so that could be part of it. "
"She died of a brain tumor?" I ask before I can help myself. "That sounds awful."
Rachel nods. "She didn’t fit the demographic for the type of cancer she had, so it shocked everyone. She’d just finished PA school. So for her, delivering a baby makes sense. She really wanted to do that. Me, not so much."
I think about the list for a minute. I don’t know much about Rachel at all, but none of it vibes with the woman sitting across from me.
Rachel slaps her hands down on the counter, making me jump.
"That’s it!" she declares. "That’s it. I’m sick of being sad.
I’m sick of grieving. I’m sick of being afraid all the time.
I just want to be. I want to be happy. I don’t want to be the girl with the troubled mom and the dead sister and the panic attacks.
I want to be me. But I don’t know who that is. "
Her statement strikes a chord with me. I want to be me, too. Not my brothers’ stupid little brother. Not my mother’s man-child, whom she still has to parent. Not just a soccer player. Not just eye candy on the internet.
Except I don’t know what or who else I am, either.
Our deep thoughts are interrupted by the musical intonations of my dryer. It’s full-on playing an entire song that goes on forever. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that before. "Is it supposed to sound like that?"
"If it’s a Samsung, yes. That’s what they all sound like."
How does she know this? Is there a secret dryer-sound cult, and is she a part of it?
"Really?" I ask.
"Yeah. It’s actually a song, like a classical one. I think maybe Schubert? I feel like I saw a ClikClak about it one time." She pulls out her phone and begins scrolling.
"Oh, are you on ClikClak? What’s your handle?" I pick up my phone and swipe open the app. After a moment, I realize she hasn’t said anything. I glance at her. "What’s your handle?"
She shakes her head and stands. "My clothes are done." Abruptly, she turns and heads down the hall. I hear the dryer door open and close. Then the same for the bathroom door. A moment later, Rachel returns, dressed in her bright pink T-shirt and shapeless gray shorts.
She looked better in my clothes. I bet she’d look pretty damn good without any clothes on.
"Well, thanks for everything. I should be going now." She jerks her thumb toward the door. "I’ll just see myself out."
"Hang on, I’ll walk you home." My mom would be proud of me for being so chivalrous. As we head toward the door, I catch the time on my microwave. "Oh shit, I can’t. I’ve got to get to practice." I’m going to have to hurry or else I’m going to be late. Again. "I’m so sorry."
Rachel offers me a small smile. It’s one of the few I’ve seen grace her face this whole time. It does something magical to her. It makes her seem years younger and lighter. She’s pretty. "No, please. I’m sorry I took so much of your time. Thank you for being kind and not thinking I’m a weirdo."
I laugh. "Well, I never said that."
Her smile grows. "Now I know why Richie liked you. I hope she can see this. I hope she knows how great you’ve been to me."
I don’t think I’ve been particularly great or even anything special.
I wonder who Rachel’s been spending time with that makes her feel so small.
"Well, we’re bound to run into each other at the coffee shop, or somewhere else in the neighborhood.
If you ever want to teach me how to do laundry, hit me up. I’m usually free."
She raises an eyebrow.
"Right, I mean, except for the whole soccer thing. But other than that, I have some time." Jesus, I sound like the bumbling idiot I am. I’m not even trying to hit on this chick. Something deep within screams to me that she, above all else, needs a friend.
Or maybe I do.
I’m not sure I’m friend material, but I can be nice. My parents raised me to at least be that. I think about number ten on her list about her mom. I wonder what that story is? Not everyone is as lucky as the Doyle brothers.
After I close the door behind Rachel, I scramble to get ready for practice. I haven’t eaten enough to fuel me for the upcoming workout, so I grab two protein drinks and swallow them down as I’m driving. This is bound to cause stomach cramps, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I pull into the field house, grab my bag out of the back seat, and make it in with one minute to spare. No one can give me shit for being late today.
Except I’m the last thing on everyone’s mind when I walk in. Brandon Nix is out.
I drop my bag on the locker room bench. "Was he fired for pounding O’Marra? Dude deserved it."
Maliq Miller’s at his locker next to mine. "I heard he quit."
Merriweather Hayes calls from across the room, "That’s stupid. Why would he quit? He’s our top scorer."
I glance over at Landon Stubbs, who’s suspiciously quiet. I wouldn’t say Brandon Nix has many friends on this team—it’s hard to make friends when you’re a blowhard—but if he did, Landon would be one of them.
"Stubbs, you’re awfully quiet," I call. He knows something. I can tell. "What’s the real story?"
And once again, I cannot figure out why I’m so damn nosy about other people’s personal lives. I just have to know.
Landon won’t meet my gaze. He’s looking down at his feet and pretending to be busy rearranging something in his bag. He didn’t even look this uncomfortable when he came out and introduced us to his boyfriend, Carlos.
"Come on, Stubbs. I know you know," I goad.
"Shut up, Doyle." Callaghan Entay practically growls. "Leave Landon alone."
"Listen up," a voice booms from the entrance of the locker room.
We all turn our attention to Coach Janssen.
"As you may be aware, Brandon Nix has left the Boston Buzzards organization.
Not that we need to provide you with any information at all"—he glowers right at me—"but we can’t have any of you spreading rumors about your former teammate. " His gaze remains trained on me.
"I can’t believe I have to have this conversation, like you’re a bunch of preteen schoolgirls," he mutters, running his hand through his graying hair.
One of the assistant coaches hands him an iPad, and he reads off it in a monotone voice: "This is the official statement from the front office.
Commenting or posting anything besides the official statement will be subject to disciplinary actions.
" He takes a deep breath and continues. "The Boston Buzzards have announced that Brandon Nix left the team, terminating his contract, of his own accord with no punitive actions pending, and the organization wishes him well in his future endeavors.
The Boston Buzzards stand firm that all employees of the United States Soccer League and the United States Soccer League Referee Association should be treated with respect and dignity, including freedom from harassment and assault, regardless of gender, orientation, or race.
" With a curt nod of his head, he spins on his heel and is gone.
The team sits in silence for a moment. There’s a lot to unpack and process.
It’s obviously a dig against Seamus O’Marra and his touching of the female referee.
That’s totally bullshit. You can’t grab a woman’s ass, and everyone knows that.
Especially when she’s officiating a game. The referees are totally off-limits—
"Wait a minute!" I yell, the pieces falling together. "Are Nix and Andi Nichols hooking up?"
That would explain why he went after O’Marra the way he did. There have been rumors swirling around on ClikClak ever since that video of her red-carding him went viral.
What I wouldn’t give for that sort of traction.
But also, there was that warning about punitive actions, like that can keep the gossip mill down. Not in this day and age with social media.
"Okay, guys, enough of this. I need you ready to go for warm-ups in three," Claude Kenley, our strength and conditioning coach, calls.
Walking out to the practice pitch, I realize that if I can’t talk about this on social media, there’s no one I can share it with.
Fuck, that’s depressing.
That thought rams around my brain throughout the entire practice. Sure, I could call my brothers or even my parents. They have to take my calls. It’s family code. But aside from that, I only have four million strangers to talk to.
Shit, I need to figure this out. I should probably go talk to our team shrink, Watson Ross. I can only imagine what he’d have to say about me. Yeah, I probably don’t want to hear that.
How did I get this alone?
Immediately, Rachel pops into my mind. She’s totally alone, too. She seems super sad about it. I’m not sad. I’m just … I don’t know. Ambivalent, I guess, if ambivalence feels like itching in the bottom of my feet and restlessness in my legs and uneasiness in my stomach.
I feel like ambivalence should feel like less, not more.
Funny, I didn’t feel this way when Rachel was here.
Weird.