First message
I’m panting on the turf after practice ended, still winded from all the running I did, sweat glistening down my temple, jersey damp. Despite my exertion, Coach—who happens to also be my dad—is chewing me out over my pivot foot again.
Yeah. I know. Keep my pivot foot down. I tune him out, my blue eyes downcast onto that unnatural green field. I’m not here. I’m thinking about you right now, my best friend since elementary. You’re picking me up today. My truck is broken and I’ll be damned if I sit in the car listening to my dad’s AM radio drone on about politics for 15 minutes again. My dad’s eyes narrow.
Are you even listening, Colton? What the hell is your deal today? Do you think we’ll win State with that attitude? His voice is stern, and he’s so close I can smell the Copenhagen on his breath.
I jerk my gaze up to the asphalt parking lot, the stadium lights burning my retinas as I hear your janky, beat-up Prius pull haphazardly into a parking spot. You grin and wave at me. My father swears and hisses under his breath about how I don’t need to hang around those types of guys.
Dad, let’s talk about technique more at home. My eyes are trained solely on you now, wide with adoration at how you’re blaring some Britney Spears song without a care in the world even knowing very well my dad hates you more for it. I’ll be back soon. I swear. Coach glances over, lip curled in disgust.
Fine. But soon means soon. That kid is bad news, he growls, stalking off angrily.