34. Cecelia
THIRTY-FOUR
CECELIA
It’s a beautiful day to play soccer. The sun is out, the sky is blue, and the breeze is just strong enough to help keep me cool out on the field.
But no amount of perfect weather can do a thing to touch the turmoil coursing through me.
“You’ve got this,” Cade says, nudging my shoulder as I walk with the Littles toward the athletic complex. “You already beat this team this season.”
“Didn’t you score against them twice?” Vega asks.
I did score against them twice in that game. But that was before. Before I had my ACL scare. Before I had to spend the last three weeks of the season on the bench.
Before everything that happened with Solomon.
We’re not thinking about that today, I tell myself. It’s the first game of the conference tournament. Winning the conference automatically sends us to the NCAA tournament and the chance to win the College Cup. This is what the team has been working toward all season.
So why the fuck can’t I get my head straight?
“You wanna talk about it?” Violet asks, eyeing me warily.
I shrug. “Not much to say. Just need to get in the zone.”
I can tell she isn’t buying it. None of them are. They can read my disquiet a mile away. It’s the whole reason they all offered to walk me to the game. They can tell my head is a mess.
“Maybe if you talk to him,” Vega starts, but I glare at her.
“This isn’t about Solomon,” I snap.
Of course it’s about Solomon. The last two and a half weeks have been awful.
I miss him more than I ever thought possible.
How did I let him get so completely enmeshed in my life in such a short amount of time?
Nothing feels the same without him—not training, or sleeping alone in bed, or eating lunch in the commons or even watching TV.
I pick up my phone at least a dozen times a day to tell him something before remembering that we’re not doing that anymore.
And underneath all my heartbreak is a consistent worried ache because I don’t know how he’s doing. Has he seen his parents again? Has he been isolating himself? Does he still feel as awful as he clearly did that day his dad came to his apartment?
Has he been to the ranch? Did it help, riding his horses?
Jay approached me a few days after the run-in with Sol’s dad and told me that Sol was okay, and to try to give him time.
Sitting back and being patient has never been my strong suit, but what else was I supposed to do?
I couldn’t force him to take my support any more than I could force him not to leave me.
The first week was the worst. Every time I saw him on campus or at the soccer facility, he still had that blank look on his face, the one that told me he wasn’t really there.
The second week, it seemed a little better.
I saw him laughing with the other student trainers at practice, and the relief that went through me was so strong my knees went weak.
Another time I saw him sitting with Em and Jay at lunch, the three of them talking, and his expression almost seemed normal.
But he hasn’t talked to me. Not a single time. I’ve noticed him watching me during practice or weight training sessions, but he always turns his head before our eyes can meet.
“Ceece?” Vi says softly, and I realize I’ve been lost in thoughts of Sol for who knows how long. I try to force a smile, but her worried expression remains unchanged.
“I’m just nervous for the game,” I tell her.
None of them point out that I’ve never been nervous for a soccer game ever in my life, but I can tell they’re thinking it.
We stop at the doors to the complex, the four of them surrounding me. “It’s just going to be us, your parents, and your brothers,” Vega tells me. “We figured you didn’t need the whole family your first game back.”
“Thanks,” I say, genuinely relieved. The last thing I want is more concerned eyes on me while I’m playing for the first time since my injury scare.
Cade grips my shoulder. “Go kick ass.”
“Be the little menace we know and love,” Vega agrees, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.
Ash tugs on the end of my braid, giving me a steady look, before Vi moves in for a hug.
“Just try to get out of your head and have fun,” she says in my ear. “You always play your best when you’re having fun.”
It’s silly to feel emotional, so I swallow hard and give them the most confident smile I can manage. “See you guys after.”
I feel a little better once I get into the locker room. The vibe is excited and there are lots of welcoming cheers when I walk in. “I’m so glad you’re back,” Helen says, punching me on the shoulder. “We missed you out there.”
“Not as much as I missed playing,” I tell her.
I try not to look for Solomon, as much as my eyes want to seek him out. Instead, I focus on my pre-game routine. Hydration, stretching, talking to the girls while someone blasts music. I need to keep things loose, keep the pressure low as much as I can.
I need to not think about the dark, serious eyes I have yet to see today.
But that becomes impossible when Gwen approaches me while I’m pulling on my shin guards. “Hey, do you know why Sol isn’t here?” she asks. “I wanted to ask him to tape my shoulder—he does it way better than Anne.”
My head snaps up. “Sol isn’t here?”
She looks confused. “I figured you knew that. You’re the player he works with the most.”
“I’ve been with Devon full time since the injury,” I mutter, my brain whirling.
I’m thinking about that terrible fight in Sol’s apartment, when he told me about his meeting with Devon.
Before I’d threatened to sit out, he told me that Devon would re-evaluate his position at the end of the regular season and decide whether he should be here for the playoffs.
Rage crashes into me, hot and strong. I’m up off the bench without even thinking about it, striding to the treatment room in search of Devon.
Luckily, he’s not working with one of the other girls. I’m not sure it would have stopped me even if he was. “Hey,” he says, looking up from his equipment when I enter. “I was just going to come get you for your—”
“You kicked him out?” I yell, not caring who hears me. “You seriously kicked him out before the tournament started?”
“Cecelia—”
“That’s bullshit, Devon, and you know it!”
He steps around me and shuts the door, but I’m not done yet.
“Solomon is the only reason I was able to get back into playing shape this season,” I spit out.
“You have no idea how much he helped me with my knee, with my confidence! I would have spent the entire season hiding any pain or issues I was having if it wasn’t for him and I probably would have gotten injured even worse because of it. ”
Devon holds up a placating hand, but his calm voice only pisses me off more. “No one is questioning how effective he was in your treatment.”
“Then what the hell is the issue? Just because you think there was something going on with us, you forget about all the work he did? You had zero evidence that he was behaving inappropriately. Besides, you took me off his schedule!”
“CeCe—”
“I can’t believe you would punish him like this after everything he did for this team. I can’t—”
“I asked him to stick with us through the tournament,” Devon finally cuts in, and my mouth snaps closed. “He chose to leave.”
“He…what?”
“He said he had a chance to do some work with the cross-country team, and he figured it would be good to get a more rounded experience with more than one sport.”
All the rage in me dissipates, leaving behind a numb feeling.
“He didn’t want to be here for the tournament?” I murmur, more to myself than Devon.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think that’s it.
Solomon is an exceptional trainer. You saw how much independence we allowed him working with the athletes—that doesn’t happen for just anyone.
He’s going to go far after he finishes his degree.
Getting some experience with another sport will only help him. ”
I nod, but I don’t believe a word he’s saying. Solomon didn’t leave because he wanted more experience. He left because of me.
Could he not even stand to be in the same locker room as me anymore? I think, an ache spreading through my chest.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Devon tells me, “the conversation I had with him isn’t going to affect the team’s evaluation of his work with us. We all know what a good job he did here.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, barely hearing him. I’m too focused on the hurt that’s radiating deep in my chest. It hurts that he would rather leave the team than have to see me.
And it really, really hurts that he doesn’t want to be here to watch me play.
After everything that happened, after all his effort with me this season, after the injury scare—I at least thought he still cared enough to want to support me in my first game back.
Devon is saying something about my pregame treatment, but I’m not really following.
I tell him I’m going to listen to my headphones while he works and then climb up onto the table.
Usually, my pregame playlist helps to get me focused and fired up, but today, I barely even hear the songs.
I just lie there on the treatment table with my eyes closed, ignoring Devon, and wonder how many times my heart can be broken by the same guy.
We’re barely ten minutes into the first half when I know I'm in trouble. We’re not losing—yet—and they’re not better than us. But I can’t seem to get out of my head.
Every time I touch the ball it feels wrong. I’m hesitating too much, overthinking every play. And every single time I plant my left foot, a tiny voice whispers, what if it happens again?
My ACL is healed. I know it is. The last scare didn’t do any permanent damage. I’ve been assured, over and over, that I’m fine to play, by the team doctor, by Devon, by Coach Carla.
But my brain doesn't seem to care.