“If this is about that New York school again, we’ve talked about this.”
It’s not about Barnard or even about dance, but for whatever reason, I can’t resist arguing whenever this subject comes up.
“Dad, I get more of a challenge out of my dance lessons with Mrs. Dunlap than I do out of these classes. Do you realize what a waste of time and money it is for me to do dance here?”
“So pick a different major.”
I jerk backward like he’s slapped me.
“Why is it that you talk to your players about goals and living up to their potential, but when it comes to me and my dreams and what I could achieve, I should just settle for something more convenient?”
Dad bristles, sliding his chair back from the table a few inches. “These young men have scholarships. They’re getting an education in addition to their role on the team. Some of them may have a chance at playing professionally, but the rest of them aren’t fooling themselves into thinking that success will be handed to them.”
“So you just think I’m not good enough, is that it?”
His cheeks go so red they’re almost purple, and just like me, I see his natural inclination is to jump to anger. “I didn’t say that, Dallas. We both know you’re very talented, but—”
“But I’m not getting the chance to prove it. That’s the difference, Dad, between your players and me. You never even let me apply to Barnard. You wouldn’t even listen to me when I talked about auditioning at any other schools. If you had, maybe I would have a scholarship, too.”
“And what would you do afterward? Hmm? Open a studio like your teacher? She’s barely keeping that place afloat, and you know it.”
My anger bubbles over because he’s right about that at least. Dunlap Dance Academy has definitely seen better days. I teach two classes a week there in exchange for free dance classes just because I know Mrs. Dunlap can’t afford to pay me, and she’s getting too old to teach the number of classes she used to cover by herself.
“Central Texas isn’t exactly a thriving dance environment, Dad. Why do you think I wanted to leave?”
His lips press into a thin line, curling down at the corners. He gives these tiny, hard shakes of his head, and I know he’s trying not to yell at me.
“I wasn’t about to let you go traipsing off to New York City by yourself. You’re too young. You’re not ready.”
In the end, it’s me who yells first. “You mean you’re not ready!”
I stand up before I say something I’ll regret. Before I say the one insult that always lurks on my tongue when these arguments get really bad. I’ve never said it, but in the very worst corner of my soul, I know it’s the one thing I could say that would put an end to these fights for good.
Dad won’t let me leave because he can’t handle a repeat of Mom.
I march toward the door and fling it open, but Dad’s not ready to let me leave. Even though Carson’s still sitting there in the film room, he demands, “You still haven’t told me where you’ve been tonight. You don’t just take off without saying anything!”
I clench my fists, and turn back to Dad because facing him is better than facing Carson. Knowing he’s here in the room, watching us, cools some of the heat in my blood. I know I’m not my most mature when I’m around my father. He treats me like a little girl, and sometimes out of habit, I find myself playing the part too well.
As calmly as I can manage, I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave like that . . . not today. I had every intention of going to dinner with you.” I can’t bring myself to say it’s his birthday out loud, too worried about what Carson will think of me if I do. “I . . . found out something that upset me.” My voice cracks ever so slightly. “And I just needed to be alone. I went for a drive, and I lost track of time.”
Dad comes to his senses then. Whether he heard the pain I tried to hide in my voice or realized we had an audience or something else, I’m not sure. But he backs off.
“Don’t worry about dinner. It’s fine. Are you . . . are you okay now?”
He takes a step toward me, and lifts his hands up like he’s going to take hold of my shoulders or hug me even, but stops and crosses his arms over his chest instead. There’s a softness in his eyes that I’m not used to seeing, and it makes the guilt rattle even louder in my chest.
I bypass his question and say, “Let me make it up to you. Tomorrow night. I’ll get takeout from Tucker’s and meet you at home after practice.”
My diversionary tactics do not go unnoticed, but Dad’s not any better at talking about emotional crap than I am. So he nods. He crosses the few feet between us, and we share one of those awkward side-hugs that are the only kinds of hugs we’ve ever really had.
Before I dart out the door, I say, “See you tomorrow night.” Then I make eye contact with Carson, and by the slump of his shoulders, I know he’ll be expecting my text message canceling our walk tonight.
I was planning to cancel that long before I ever fought with Dad.
Chapter 10
Carson
I sit stiffly in the moments after Dallas leaves, wanting to go after her. But considering her father is between the door and me, it might not be the smartest option. He stares at the door for a few moments, then huffs and starts toward me. He takes a seat on a plastic folding chair next to the couch and directs his eyes toward the film, which I have long since stopped watching.
Saturday is our season opener, an away game. And even though I’m not expecting to play, I’ve been squeezing in as much time watching film as possible. Hell, I don’t even know for sure that I’m going to travel. Coach has been playing me second string in practice mostly because James, last year’s backup QB, has been having knee problems since camp at the beginning of August. But there are four or five other quarterbacks on the roster, some of whom have been on the team for a couple years. I’m better than all of them, of that I’m fairly confident, but I don’t want to get complacent and assume Coach sees me as number two.
I know Coach has been over and over these films. It’s his first game, and I know he wants . . . needs to make a strong showing. He’s got just as much to prove as me. But even so, he sits there and watches with me. I have in the tape of last year’s game against our next opponent. It’s not a conference game, but they’re a light team that shouldn’t give us too much trouble as a warm-up.
Coach sits in silence for a long while, and I resist the urge to check my watch for the time or pull out my phone to text Dallas. I’m sure that he’s not even really watching until he points at the screen and says, “You see that?”
“Um . . .” I look back at the screen, totally caught unaware. “That sack?”
I try not to sound like I enjoy the sight of Abrams being flattened, but it’s not an easy task.
“Do you see why, though?”
He rewinds the tape, and we watch it again.
“The safeties have his receivers covered. Moore is busy blocking for him, so he can’t pitch it to him. He ran out of options.”
“Except?”
“Except to run it himself, but he hesitated too long to take advantage of the gap. He relies too much on his arm, and the defense knows it. They’ve got his number.”
“Damn right, they do. The whole damn conference has his number.” I nod in understanding. No one would say it outright, but that was a big part of why they only got three wins last year. Abrams has had a great arm for most of his career, and he’s gotten lazy about all the other aspects of his game.
“He doesn’t have your feet,” Coach says.
I clear my throat because I’m not sure if I imagined his last words. Coach Cole has already said more words to me today than in the entire last month combined. He’s apparently been watching, though. He knows me by name. He pushes me in practice.
As far as I’m concerned, that means I have a shot.
He stands and claps a hand on my shoulder. He answers my unspoken question. “I see you more than I see some of my
own damn coaches, son. You’re a good runner with good instincts, but you’re green and your arm could be stronger.”
“Yes, sir.” It could. That’s why I spend more than my fair share in the weight room.
“Tell me, McClain. Why Rusk? Why not stick with Westfield, where you’d play nonstop? You had a scholarship there, and you don’t here. Why take all this risk?”
“Because I want to play football, sir. Really play.”
“You think you can go pro?”
That’s a question I try not to answer even though I get asked a lot. Truthfully, I don’t, though I’ve never admitted it out loud and never will. But that’s been the plan my father and I have had since long before I graduated high school or went to Westfield or transferred to Rusk. That’s been the plan since the moment my dad realized I could play football better than I could do anything else.
“I think I can work as hard as my body allows, and then see what happens. Things might work out. They might not, but at least I’ll be making a go at something I love.”
My parents didn’t ever say sports were all I was good at, not in so many words, but they were always pushing me toward football, always placing it above everything else. No point busting my ass to be passable at math or science when I can bust it to be great at sports. I’m not that smart, but I can run.
Neither of them went to college. Dad worked on the ranch with Grandpa until he died. He and Mom got married right out of high school. Normally, Dad would have been pushing me to do the same, but too many years spent with too little money had changed his mind on what was best for me.
“You sound like my daughter,” Coach says.
I don’t reply. I only heard bits and pieces of their fight, but it’s not something I have any intention of weighing in on.
After a few moments of silence, he claps me on the shoulder once more.
“Go home, McClain. Get some rest. Today was supposed to be an easy day.”
I resist the urge to laugh at the thought of a bleeding day being called easy just because it was shorter than normal. Somehow I don’t think he’d take that too well.
“There are no easy days, sir.”
He smiles grimly. “You are right about that, McClain. Too right.”
I SHOW UP outside Dallas’s dorm even though she texted me to cancel. I don’t know what I plan to do there or how I’ll get her to talk to me, but I can’t make myself just roll over and pretend none of it ever happened.
I stand outside, watching a few people smoking just outside the doors, and I text her.
I’m here for our walk.
She doesn’t reply, so after a few minutes, I call her instead.
It rings, three, four, five times, and I’m getting ready to hang up when she answers, “What?”
“I’m downstairs.”
I’m coincidentally looking up at the building when I notice a set of blinds on the third floor being pulled up, and a familiar face peeking out of the glass. I wave, and she steps back from the window until I can’t see her anymore.
“You didn’t get the hint when I didn’t answer any of your calls or when I texted to cancel?”
“I just want to talk,” I say. If I’d had a dozen reasons before that we couldn’t date, I had a hundred now. But I keep hearing what she said outside her dad’s office.
I found out something that upset me.
I keep hearing the break in her voice when she said it, and it’s eating me from the inside out.
“So talk.”
“Can you come down?”
“No.”
I sigh, but she steps up to the window again, her arms crossed over her chest, and I guess that will have to do.
Now . . . I just need to figure out what to say.
The silence stretches on for several long moments and she adds, “This is you talking?”
I snap, “I’m sorry, okay? You’re not the only one who got a shock today.”
“If you’re worried that I’m going to tell him, don’t. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“Dallas, that’s not it. I don’t care about that.”
“You should. You think he’s tough on you in practice now? It can get much worse. Trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
She makes a noise on the other end that I can’t quite identify.
“This is complicated, I know.”
“Let me uncomplicate it. Whatever might have been going to happen between us, isn’t. I don’t date football players.”
“I don’t want to date you.” I wince. “That came out wrong.” And I realize when I say it, just how much of a lie it is, too. “I like you, have liked you from the moment I met you. But the whole reason I wanted to go on a walk tonight was to explain that despite wanting to date you, I can’t. I decided that long before I knew you were Coach Cole’s daughter.”
“I have a name, you know. God, I’m so sick of just being Coach Cole’s daughter.”
“Before I knew you were Dallas Cole, then. I’m not a scholarship player, Dallas. I could be cut at any moment. And I’m not the best student in the world, which puts me even more at risk. If I want to stay on the team, I have to stay focused. I have to work hard. And for now at least, that means no dating.”
“Isn’t this kind of a moot point now? We’re both well aware that no dating will be taking place.”
I sigh. “I wanted to go for a walk and explain things because I hoped we could still be friends.”
She disappears from the window. I wonder if she’s pacing or just tired of me when she says, “Seriously?”
“I know it sounds stupid. But I told you the truth on Friday night. I’m a transfer. I’m nonscholarship. I’m an outsider on the team, and at this school. I think you’re pretty great, and I’d hate to lose that because our situation is . . . complicated.”
She snorts. “Complicated. Right.”
I wish she would come back to the window so I could see her face.
“Is that a no?”
She doesn’t say anything, and it drives me crazy not being able to know what she’s thinking. Damn it, why don’t dorms have balconies?
“It’s an I don’t know.”
“Can I help you figure it out?”
“No. Not tonight. I’ll text you or something.”
She hangs up the phone, the blinds drop, and I have no choice but to drag myself home.
I DON’T SEE Dallas again that week, not even when I stick around the environmental science building trying to catch her before whatever class she has there. She sure as hell never comes back to practice, and even though I want to obsess over it, there’s no time.
On Wednesday, Coach tells me I’m traveling with the team, and the rest of the week speeds by, until I walk out on a football field in a Rusk University jersey for the first time. Mom and Dad are supposed to try to come since this away game is closer to home than Rusk, but Granny is sick again, so they don’t make it after all.
It’s just as well because as expected, I ride the bench the whole game, and now in the dark quiet of the charter bus on our way home, I finally have the space in my head to think about Dallas again. I sit and stare at the few texts we exchanged before everything went to shit, while the rest of my teammates are sleeping or listening to music. Most of them have a reason to be tired, though. They’ve actually worn themselves out playing, and I’m still keyed up with nowhere to burn that energy off. We managed a narrow victory for our first game of the season. The win wasn’t pretty, especially considering it should have been a fairly easy win for us, but it didn’t feel nearly as ugly as the feeling in my chest reading those damn texts.
Why can’t I stop thinking about her?
Why does the one night I had with this girl suddenly hold more weight in my mind than relationships that lasted months of my life?
When we get back to Rusk, we pile out—a long line of sleepy guys in sweatpants with duffel bags.
We all have Sunday off, and I know a few of the guys are going
out tonight despite their sleepy appearances at the moment. They’ll want to celebrate the win while they don’t have to worry about enduring an early morning workout with a hangover.
I stop to drop off a few things in the locker room when I hear someone mention Firecracker. It’s the team’s nickname for Dallas.
“Heard she and the Asian chick might be at that party on ninth tonight. You gonna try again, Moore?”
I am so sick of hearing them talk about her that I have half a mind to anonymously tip the coach off about Firecracker. Let him hear their conversations and take care of it.
Instead, I grab my shit and head out without saying goodbye. And once I’m in my truck I text Dallas.
You going to a party tonight?
She hasn’t answered by the time I make the five-minute drive back to my apartment. I didn’t expect her to, not really. But the thought of one of them making a pass at her for some stupid bet sends my muscles into a fit of rage that could rival tetanus for tension.
I’m not asking you out, Daredevil. Just
answer the question.
No. I’m not. Why?
Good. Just . . . Don’t let Stella drag
you to another party tonight.
Why?
Nothing. Just stupid shit going down.
You don’t want to be around it.
It’s a mostly honest answer.
Oh. Thanks.
No problem.
I’m pretty sure that’s the end of it as I throw myself down on my couch and turn on the TV. But my phone buzzes with one more text.
Congrats on the win.
And there’s my subtle reminder of my position on the team and everything that means for us. Too tired to put up a fight or feign gratitude, I don’t answer her at all.
Chapter 11
Dallas
Why don’t you just tell your dad?” Stella asks.
I sigh and haul myself up onto one of the uncomfortable stools in front of a library computer. “Because we had another argument, and I’d have to apologize to get him to buy me a new computer, and I’m not there yet.”