He’s drawing things on the whiteboard, and I nod when he speaks my name. But I’m not hearing any of it. It doesn’t matter—I will know what I’m doing on the field, whether I hear his plays or not. It’s a friendly—a match up with an OSU club team. Nothing counts here. Except everything counts for me, if I want to erase it all—get back on my map. I need to perform here. Forty-five more minutes. I can do this. My body feels strong.
I can shut this out just long enough. I can do it, because I deserve it. And he doesn’t get to take that away from me. When it’s all over, I’ll call my dad, and figure out what I’m going to do about breaking a faculty member’s nose.
The game stays on course. My mind stays sharp. The walls stay in place. And his voice—Mr. Cotterman’s, Paul Cotterman’s—it disappears long enough for me to do what I need to do.
I’ve learned her name—the girl with the jet-black hair. It’s Chandra. She’s good, as good as I assumed she would be. We’ve been playing opposite most of the game, and we work well together. The only flaw being that I’m pretty sure we share a mutual hatred for each other.
She hates me, because I’m better than her—a disruption to her comfort. I hate her…because she’s a bitch.
She knocked my water over when I set it on the table to adjust my shin guards. And she pushed her sharp cleats into the top of my foot a few times, just convenient enough to make it look accidental. But it’s not. I can tell. I can tell, because I would have played it the same way if I were strong enough to follow through with such a move. I’m getting there—strong enough? I was well on my way before this morning. But I’ve had a setback. Today, I’m only strong enough to get through a short soccer match.
I want my shower. I don’t want to stay and bond with the girls. I just want to go home and bury myself, hide. And I want to call my father. But coach has other plans. And Ty is waiting for me. And I want to go back to the space in my head when I was flirting with ways to tell him I loved him. But now I just want to be alone. I’m afraid if he touches me, I’ll recoil—for entirely wrong reasons. And I don’t want to explain them.
I don’t want him to look at me and see anything other than the beautiful girl in his drawing.
“You looked at home out there,” Coach P. says. “I would never guess that you have MS.”
Shit. He knows. Of course, he knows. I bet that’s why he gave me this chance in the first place. I bet that’s how Ty sold me trying out. Everything feels cheap now, like a gift I didn’t earn.
“Yeah, well, you can’t really see MS,” I say, and I know I sound snarky. I can tell because Ty is here now, and he’s making wide eyes at me from behind coach. Tone it down, he’s saying with that face. Oh Ty, you have no idea how close Bruce Banner is to turning into the Hulk right before your eyes.
“I know. I didn’t mean…I…sorry, that was insensitive,” Coach says. “I just meant you look like you’re in top condition, like you haven’t taken any time off at all.”
“Yeah, well…that’s not what you said,” I say back, and hearing myself, I wake up a little from my trance. I might be overreacting. I need to breathe and remember where I am, what I want. And then take it. “Sorry,” I apologize quickly, but he shakes his head no and just pats me once on the shoulder, his touch heavy and sharp and as hot as fire. I shudder uncontrollably, but I cover it up fast.
“Bruise. I took a mean collision,” I lie. He buys it, nodding and crossing his arms while he looks down at his feet.
“There’s some paperwork involved. We’ll need to get some additional records. And real workouts don’t start until December. But I’d like to have you on the squad, Owens. Honestly…you’d be doing me a favor,” he says, and I let myself enjoy every word. He’s being genuine. And I was good. No…I was great!
“I’d like that,” I say, allowing myself this little break. I shake his hand and catch Ty’s smile behind him.
“Good. Well, we’ll see you next week. We work out on Wednesdays and weekends,” he says, patting me once more, but this time lightly, as he passes. The light touch—it’s actually worse. But I hold my breath and leave my smile in place, my teeth meanwhile grinding against one another at the memory of Cotterman’s hand, and how far up my leg it traveled before I stopped it. One hand had erased months of progress.
I’m still that girl—the dirty one. Just like the girls in the locker room said. And that’s all anyone’s ever going to see.