Chapter Eight
It was such a bad idea. Truly.
Marcee knew it as soon as she typed Eli’s name into the search bar on Instagram, but it was as if she couldn’t help herself.
Camp and the start of school had brought back so many memories of their time together.
She had to know if he was okay. For years after the accident her only coping mechanism was denial.
Refusing to think about any of it was the only way she kept sane.
Things were better, though. Marcee was better.
His profile appeared immediately, and the breath caught in her throat.
Eli.
He was stunning, just as she had always known he would be. Dark blond hair, light blue eyes and cheekbones women paid thousands for at the surgeon. She stared at his picture, his genuine smile cracking open her heart and gluing it back together all at once.
A text from an unknown number popped up on her phone and she swiped it off the screen immediately, but it broke the spell, nonetheless. She had mere minutes to get inside to her therapy session.
Before getting out of the car, Marcee pulled up the text.
How’s the school year treating you, Pemberton? Are you counting down
the days until we face off on the pitch again?
It was comical, really, how her mouth dropped open and she stared, dumbfounded yet transfixed, at the screen. She didn’t need to recognize the number. The nickname and tone could only be from one person: Remy.
How the hell did you get my number?
She texted back, fingers flying over the keys.
As if he waited with his phone in hand, he replied.
The staff from camp are so accommodating to coaches looking to set up
scrimmages, did you know?
Unbelievable. The gall!
Marcee replied, As if that would ever happen. Delete my number, superstar.
The clock on her dash changed and she cursed under her breath, lurching out of the car with her purse on one shoulder and her phone and keys in hand. Now she was late. Add that to the list of things Remington Lockley had to answer for.
As she rushed inside and checked in, Remy’s reply came through.
If I do that, who will I have to brag to about my wins? Just admit
it, Marcee. You missed me.
The girl at the check-in desk called her back for her session, so she put her phone on silent and slipped it back into her purse without responding.
The only person who was going to be bragging was her.
Marcee was convinced the lavender armchair in Dr. Jennifer Crowley’s office was infused with catnip or whatever the human equivalent was. As she sank into it, her muscles immediately relaxed.
“It’s been quite some time since you’ve scheduled an extra session. Is everything okay?” As usual, the sound of her even, kind tone made Marcee’s shoulders relax and the anxiety churning in her gut settled to a simmer.
She dragged a hand through her hair and grimaced at the residual dry shampoo she’d been living off for three days. Her pace with the team had been grueling that week, and if she kept it up, she needed to do better with her time management.
“Well, I guess it all depends on how you look at it.” She launched into the story of her meeting with Wilkes and the rough week, making sure to include her social media sleuthing and the text from Remy.
She was enough of a therapy veteran to know it was pointless keeping anything from Dr. Crowley.
It didn’t help her to hide things, and besides, she’d sniff it out, anyway.
The rehashing of it all gave her restless legs, so she stood and paced to the window, tugging her hair into a high ponytail as she stared outside.
“This is your first head coaching job. That’s a lot of pressure.”
The doc loved her open-ended statements. She always led Marcee to her own epiphanies. Her reflection frowned back at her in the windowpane before she responded. “It is. I love that, though—the challenge of making a winning team. If that were all of it, it would be fine.”
“But it’s not?”
“No. It’s like I lost before I even started.
Alpha has Remy. It doesn’t matter what my resumé says, because it will always pale in comparison to his career.
If I beat him, it’ll be a fluke. And after what happened at camp, it’s all Wilkes will remember, no matter how good we do.
I messed up at camp. I know that. It shouldn’t be the thing that costs me my job, though. ”
When she was applying for Pemberton, it took her two months of interviewing, background checks, and more interviews before the school board signed off. What if she’d screwed everything up because her hot head couldn’t control itself around Remy? All that work for nothing.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the doc making a note in her journal. A few years ago, she would’ve agonized over what the doc wrote and what she said to prompt it, but now, she registered it and moved on.
“Even though I hear you making statements to account for your actions, you seem resigned to loss, as if it’s fate you’ll lose your job no matter what you do.”
Marcee pulled away from the window and dropped back into the chair, cat hair stuck to the cushions dislodging and drifting into the air.
“I guess it feels that way.” No one rolled out the welcome mat for her at Pemberton. Wilkes was disgruntled from the moment he called her offering the job. Up until she found out Remy was coaching at Alpha, she was too determined to prove him wrong to think on it any more.
Dr. Crowley set down her pen. “Then what do you have to lose if you’ve already lost?”
“Nicole’s job, for starters,” Marcee replied. “And, well, you know the situation with my parents.” They’d discussed her parents and childhood more times than she could count. It still made her squirm with embarrassment.
“Marcee.” Dr. Crowley’s voice was gentle as she set aside her pad and pen, leaning forward with her hands clasped. “Your parents will take care of themselves. Didn’t they always, even when they didn’t take care of you?”
Marcee knew she didn’t say it to be mean. It was a harsh truth that, apparently, she needed to hear over and over again. It still stung like a bitch.
She blinked back two fat tears welling up in her eyes.
“Your parents are who they are. Killing yourself to reach perfection didn’t make them neglect you less. You need to accept your parents are giving you all they’re capable of as narcissistic human beings. Your actions will not change them at their core because they do not want to change.”
It took Marcee months to cry like this in front of her—unchecked and unabashedly.
She wasn’t sure anyone aside from Dr. Crowley and Alex had ever seen her cry.
Well, maybe Eli. The night of the accident, she thought she would drown in her tears.
Weeping over him in the hospital room, wondering if he would be okay, was a memory that still haunted her in her sleep.
Aside from her parents, Eli was a decidedly brutal reminder of the power love had to break you.
“I still want to win,” she said finally, voice thick and nasal. “I want my girls to know what it feels like to beat the odds and rub it in everyone’s face.”
Dr. Crowley let out a boisterous laugh, her grin deepening the lines by her mouth and creasing her forehead.
“Then forget about the stakes. Forget about hotshot pros and the good ol’ boys’ club. Forget about everything but the game. Go back to the basics and what you love.”
And there was so much to love. Every angle, every play, every inch of turf and grass… it was her slice of heaven on earth. She wasn’t willing to give it up yet, for anyone.
At the end of the session, Marcee grabbed her purse and stood, feeling lighter. “Thank you again.”
“Please don’t hesitate to call me if you feel yourself slipping, Marcee. It’s easy to lean into old habits for the sake of security when the world around us is changing. I worry about what’s going on with your job affecting your eating patterns.”
Marcee froze at the door, heart skipping a beat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve slipped, doc.” She wouldn’t let Remy, or her job, be a reason she relapsed.
When Dr. Crowley didn’t respond, she pulled open the door to leave, but the doc’s voice caught her as she entered the hallway.
“One day at a time, Marcee. One day at a time.”
One day, one practice, one game.