Chapter Thirty-Five
Todd
The minute I sit down in my seminar, I know I’m not absorbing a single goddamn word.
There’s a projector flickering somewhere in the front, and the professor keeps pacing back and forth, bellowing about brand partnerships and market disruption, but my brain has short-circuited—I can’t even pretend to care.
All I can think about is Chase holding up his end of the bargain by not telling Taylor how he found out about all the family drama.
A girl two rows up turns around and gives me a death glare, probably because I’ve been tapping my pen on the desk for the last fifteen minutes. I flip open my notebook. The page is still blank, except for a sketch I did in the margin, which I don’t even remember drawing.
The rest of the lecture blurs into a mix of PowerPoint slides and my own thoughts, which are so loud, it feels like the class should be hearing them too.
When the clock finally hits 11:50 a.m., I pack up my bag and zombie-walk into the hallway.
It’s one of those rare spring days where the grass is actually green and the sky is a flat, hopeful blue.
Students are everywhere, sitting on benches, drinking iced coffee, and pairing off in the shadow of the rec center like they’re auditioning for the college admissions brochure.
I hang a right, cutting across the quad toward the athletic complex to clear my head before practice.
After dropping my stuff off in the locker room, I head onto the court and start running suicides, not clear-headed enough to remember how much I hate them.
By the time I finally stop to catch my breath, sweat drips down my face, burning my eyes.
Jacob walks in while I’m chugging water. “You okay? You look like shit.”
I wipe my face. “Just tired, I guess.”
“Did Taylor keep you up all night?” He waggles his eyebrows, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I saw you two after the game. You finally making it official?”
My burning cheeks are no longer the result of exertion. “We’re just friends.”
“If you say so.” He shrugs. “Has she told you anything else about Emma?”
I choke on a laugh—I can’t remember the last time Taylor and I had an actual conversation that wasn’t about Emma and her pregnancy.
Maybe it was last night, when she tried to point out that kissing each other in front of half the student body could complicate things.
“You still haven’t heard from her?” I ask.
“Nope—all I want to know is what the fuck is going on.”
“Maybe she’s waiting until she sees a doctor.”
“Maybe . . .” He sighs, shaking his head. “I just want to know if it’s mine or not.”
“Wish I could help you, man.”
“Yeah . . .” He drops his bag. “You up for a little one-on-one?”
“Sure,” I reply, throwing him the ball.
We play a quick game, then head to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich and a protein shake before we head back to the gym for our official practice, which blurs into a cycle of suicides, passing drills, and half-court scrimmages.
I try to lose myself in the rhythm, in the repetition, but every time I check the clock, less than a minute has ticked by.
Finally the day comes to an end; I strip, roll my neck, and head for the showers. The hot water stings, a sharp reminder that I still have nerve endings. I scrub at my face, trying to erase the tiredness, the tension, but it only makes me feel hollower.
Outside, the breeze is still cold enough to sting my cheeks. I sling the bag over my shoulder and head toward the stadium to watch Taylor’s game. When I find Chase in the stands, I walk over to him, but he shoots me a look that says it wasn’t one of my best decisions.
“When you called me to talk some sense into Taylor, you forgot to mention you guys had started sleeping together,” he says.
“Compared to the other stuff, it didn’t seem all that important.”
He lets the silence stretch, his glare fully charged, until the players take the field and the stadium hums with college-town electricity. On the field, Taylor and her teammates do their warmups, and I try to read her posture, but she’s unreadable as always.
“You want to walk me through the plan here?” Chase finally asks.
“I’m trying to meet her at her level—she can’t see me as anything more than a friend when she has so much going on.”
“So that was the real reason you called me.” He leans back, arms folded. “You want me to take over caring for Emma and my mom so that Taylor is free to follow you wherever you’re drafted, get married, and have your freakishly tall babies.”
“That’s not it at all.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I care about her—I love her—and I hate seeing her struggle like she is.”
“And when do you plan to tell her that?”
“I told you—she’s not ready to hear it.”
Taylor’s name is called over the loudspeaker, interrupting our conversation. I look toward the scoreboard and realize I completely missed the top of the first, but there’s two out and one on for Taylor’s at bat in the bottom of the inning.
The pitcher throws her a junk slider, and she lets it zip past, gaze already tracking the next possibility. She doesn’t even flinch at the jeering from the opponent’s dugout—just glances at the coach, who gives her a conspiratorial nod.
Next pitch, she adjusts her grip and the sound of her bat connecting with the ball is so pure, it’s more shockwave than crack. The ball arcs, slow and high, an impossible curve. She sprints, body an arrow, as the outfielders scatter, and she makes it into second before anyone’s brain catches up.
I join in the cheering and clapping until Chase regains my attention.
“Todd?”
I look at him, my lips slightly parted.
“Just don’t wait too long to tell her.”