52. Corey

“Was that Fallon?” Palmer asks as I pocket my phone and turn to where he and Nolan are waiting.

“Yeah.”

“How’s she doing?”

I run a hand through my hair, still unable to process our conversation, except to feel like I’ve just been kicked in the chest. “She might need to stay longer.”

Nolan slowly leans his chin back, like he feels the same blow I did. “How much longer?”

“A month.”

Sympathy has the skin around his eyes tightening.

“We’ll keep you out of trouble,” Palmer says, bumping his shoulder against mine.

I woodenly nod. “Do we know what the meeting is about?”

Footsteps have us turning as Grey steps into the room with a curse. “It’s a fucking sauna.” He stops several feet away from us.

Nolan settles on the nearest bench. “Tell me about it. I’ve got a fucking swamp between my legs, and we haven’t even worked out.”

Any other day, jokes would follow that statement, but it feels like we’re being boiled alive by our own blood as we wait for Hudson.

“It’s hotter in here than outside.” Palmer fans himself with his locker door.

Hudson rounds the corner then, eyes bright like he’s unaware of the stifling heat that canceled our morning practice. He glances around and then calls Grey over from where he’s sprawled across the bench.

“Did you contact someone about the air? I don’t know how we’re going to run afternoon practice. Guys are going to be passing out like fucking flies if we put them in the gym,” Grey says, moving closer.

“My dad just called and said he heard a rumor that Cincinnati picked up Peters.” His voice is low, ensuring no one can overhear the news about our head coach.

“Does he think it’s credible?” I ask, forgetting the oppressive heat.

Palmer clasps a hand to his chest. “Don’t tease us, Hudson.”

Hudson nods. “My dad said he’ll call a few people and see what else he can learn, but he thinks so. After the way things ended last year, I’m sure Peters sees the writing on the wall. The boosters are more involved than in previous years. They’re looking for accountability and results. Peters destroyed our chances of going undefeated last year.”

“Because we broke his mold,” Palmer says.

Hudson nods before his gaze skirts around the locker room again, confirming again that no one walks in on the conversation. “Keep this between us until an announcement’s made.”

Lenny and a couple of other guys on our offensive string walk in.

“Captain, I’m going to sweat half my body weight in this heat. Tell me this is short-term,” Lenny says, running a towel across his face.

Hudson stands. “Practice is canceled tonight. I’m heading to the athletic director’s office now to resolve the air.”

Lenny nods, then looks between us. “Are we having a team meeting or something?”

“No. We’re just figuring out what to do for weights if the gym is closed for a few days,” Grey lies.

Pops stalks inside and kicks a laundry hamper. It crumples before skidding across the floor.

“Who in the hell’s that, and what did they do with Pops?” Nolan asks.

Lenny shakes his head. “He’s taking the breakup with Aiko pretty hard. I’m going to take him out tonight since practice is canceled.” He winks and turns to catch up with Pops.

None of us says anything. I’d been pissed at Aiko for not sticking up for Fallon, but now, watching him feels like seeing a glimpse at my own future.

Grey sighs. “Let’s give him a few days.”

Nolan drums his fingers across the bench. “Not to dismiss Pops, but assuming what your dad heard is true, does that mean Krueger…” Nolan’s words fade off, trying to remain discreet about asking if our assistant coach will become our head coach as a couple more guys from the team file by.

Hudson lifts a shoulder. “Let’s hope so.” He shifts. “Tell the others practice is canceled. I’m going to head to the athletic director’s office.” His voice is louder, dismissing us as more trickle in.

Time crawls again without football to distract me. I can’t stop thinking about how my move to Oleander Springs was the hurdle that changed everything between Breanne and me and how I couldn’t give her half the things she needed or wanted.

A text has me practically lunging for my phone, only to find a message from Hudson to our team chat.

Hudson: The facility is fixed. I’ll see you at 7.

I run through the circuit again, wishing we were in pads and running a contact practice so I could slam into someone this morning.

Fallon was already at tryouts when I woke up, returning us to the days of missed texts and calculating time zones.

Palmer tries to catch my eye as I get back in line, but I avoid him. I’ve been ignoring everyone today.

Hudson says something I don’t hear between the blood rushing in my ears and my thoughts that are so heavily plagued by the possibility of Fallon staying in Spain for a month—or longer—that it’s a wonder I can move or function.

The sound of clapping and a cry of “Knights!” has me realizing practice has ended.

I make my way into the facility, hitting the showers and planning to spend the evening here. Hell, now that the air is back on, maybe I’ll spend the whole goddamned night. I’ve done it before. We all have. Nutritionists are here to prepare us three meals a day, and there are sleeping rooms, TVs, couches, every videogame made, a theater room, and more. I don’t know why Camden didn’t just build our team’s dorm rooms here.

I’m getting dressed when my phone rings. My breathing stops, and my heart jumps, but I lose a sigh when I see Anna’s name.

If there was ever a terrible time to talk to my overly observant, empath of a sister, it’s now. Still, I accept the call as I straighten my tee.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Corey.” The sound of Vic’s voice has my heart skipping a beat. Vic clears his throat and sniffs.

My pulse goes into overdrive, racing with fear. “What’s going on?”

Vic clears his throat again. “Anna’s caught some kind of bug. She didn’t want to go in and insisted she was feeling better, but she started going downhill fast. I brought her into the ER yesterday because her fever spiked, and she was getting delirious.”

“Is she okay? What happened? Do they know what’s going on? Where are you?” The questions pour out of a chasm of fears made a decade ago.

“She has a bad case of pneumonia. They put her on a ventilator. Your parents arrived about an hour ago. Your dad wants her flown to New York, and your mom keeps suggesting we remove the ventilator. She’s insisting the medical devices make her weaker.”

I curse. “I’m on my way.”

“I’m sorry, Corey. I know you have shit to do there. I just can’t fight them off and help Anna.”

I shake my head. “No. I know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I stare in wonder at the blonde from Poland in front of me. She has some of the best ball control I’ve ever seen. She reminds me of Coach Mackenzie, who was one of the best forwards in women’s soccer, drawing attention and putting the sport on the map in the US.

“There. Go. Yes!” The assistant coach punches the air.

It’s exactly what I need to see and hear to raise the stakes and prod my competitive spirit. I sprint from the line of cones and weave, then cross over before sprinting faster. I don’t have time to think, only react, but once again, my muscles know every step.

The head coach elbows the assistant coach and nods in my direction. It’s near the end of the second day, and I’ve caught her attention.

But I’m not the only one.

I’ve watched her curate a short list throughout the day, impressed by those who can react fast and move faster. Speed is her favorite commodity, and luckily, it’s one of my greatest assets. All the extra practices I’ve spent trying to be good enough at Camden are finally paying off.

“You’re so fast,” the blonde tells me with a smile and a gentle shake of her head. Her accent is thick, but her English is easy to understand.

“Your ball handling is flawless,” I tell her.

Her smile stretches. “I heard this is your first tryout.”

I nod. “I’m still in college. This is supposed to be my junior year.”

“It’s hard to pass up this chance.”

“Do you play?”

“I play in the Second Division.” Madrid is a higher bracket, offering more notoriety and likely a little more pay. “Who is your coach?” she asks.

“Kemplar was my coach, but I transferred and will… would be playing for Coach Mackenzie.”

Her eyes flare with recognition. “She’s my idol.” It’s not surprising. She’s every forward’s idol. “I keep hoping she’ll want to coach over here so I can play for her. Is she great?”

“Ready?” the head coach calls before I can explain that I have no idea because one dream has been eclipsed by another.

A stitch of remorse runs through my thoughts as tryouts conclude for the day. I don’t know if it’s from thinking about Coach Mackenzie or my old teammates at Westfield or new ones at Camden, but as I see a text from Kelly, that guilt becomes more pronounced.

Kelly: How are you feeling?

Once again, I wonder if Kelly is my friend or theirs. At this point, I’m not sure she can be both, which has me questioning if she’s trying to find out if I’m lying about being sick.

I am, of course, but I’m not about to tell her that.

I’d rather not further the lie, but I don’t know what she’ll do if I don’t respond.

Me: I’m feeling a little better.

Kelly: Do you need anything? Soup? Crackers? Juice?

Me: I’m good. Thanks though.

Kelly: K. Let me know if you change your mind.

I don’t think I would even if I were sick and truly needed something. My trust after the beach fiasco is at an all-time low.

While I don’t blame Kelly for my car being moved or being accused for causing the bar fight, her suggestion that I leave the beach house felt momentous, like she had finally chosen which side of the line she stood on, and it wasn’t mine.

I don’t reply, skipping down to Corey’s name to text him instead.

Me: How was your day?

I wrack my thoughts for something more profound to say or ask because I don’t want to ask mundane surface questions. They aren’t us, but I can’t think of anything more creative. My thoughts are tied to this impending decision to stay or go home on Saturday.

I wait several minutes for the little dots to appear beside his name as I glance at the time and realize it’s noon there—Corey’s in class.

My sigh gets lost in the soft shushing sound of the elevator doors closing. I press the button to take me up to my suite and text Lexie.

Me: Are you around?

Lexie: Impatiently waiting to hear ALL the details…

Me: I’ll call you in ten. I’m heading back to the hotel now.

The moment the hotel door closes behind me, I call Lexie.

“How is it? How’s the food? The weather? The team? I want to hear about it all.” she fires off, her voice filled with the same level of anticipation I wish I had for this experience.

I smile, but tears are already tracking down my cheeks. “It’s so beautiful, and there’s no humidity. You’d love it.”

“You hesitated,” she accuses, or maybe simply acknowledges.

I sniffle as more tears slip down my cheeks.

“Fallon? Are you crying? What happened? What’s wrong? Who do I have to kill?”

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I admit. “I can’t stop.”

“It’s a lot to process.” Her voice is filled with sympathy and compassion, inviting me to share my conversation with Janessa again, and how I might have to stay for a month if I want a shot at this position.

“Am I giving up on my dream if I leave? But what if I stay? What will I lose then?” I sniffle again, wiping at my running nose as my words trail off. I don’t have to tell her. She already knows what I risk losing by staying.

“You wouldn’t be giving up on your dream if you decide to come home, Fal. As hard as you work at soccer, you’ve worked just as hard for your education. That’s why Camden gave you both scholarships. And you already know how impossible it would be to play professionally and do online school. You already considered that route and realized it wasn’t feasible. You deserve to bet on yourself and take risks like trying out, but it doesn’t have to be now, and it doesn’t have to be with Spain. You can come back and do the combine in two years as planned, or bet on yourself with your graphic design company, or with Corey, or by trying out for the league you want to be in when they hold tryouts. Or you can stay and bet on this and fast-forward your dream like the overachiever you are.”

“What if they don’t pick me?” I ask, ignoring her attempt to make me laugh.

“If they’re stupid enough to overlook you, you’ll move back in with me, and we’ll figure shit out together because if there’s one thing we excel at, it’s figuring shit out.”

I smirk through my tears as I grab tissues to wipe my eyes.

“Neither option is wrong or bad, Fallon. That’s why the decision is weighing on you so heavily.”

She’s a hundred percent right. I’ve wanted to play pro forever, but I’ve also worked tirelessly for my scholarships and to play for Coach Mackenzie—two things I won’t complete if I stay. Corey again pops into my thoughts, a subject I don’t voice but can’t forget.

“You’ll figure it out,” Lexie assures me.

The line is quiet for several seconds as I breathe through my storm of emotions. “Do you regret not telling Asher how you felt?”

Lexie releases a deep sigh that prepares me for a long conversation. “No,” she says instead.

“Why?”

“Because I want what you and Corey have. I want a guy to stare at me like I’m a peanut butter waffle.”

We fall into giggles that feel cathartic after the past twenty-four hours.

“In all seriousness, though. I don’t have any regrets. Telling him would have destroyed what relationship I have with Adelaide, and his rejection would have shattered my heart. I liked him—the idea of him—” she corrects, “way too much.” She sighs again. “Time to find another man who wears a suit.”

“Did you know football players wear suits on game days?” I ask.

“We both know athletes aren’t my type.”

“You and Palmer were really hitting it off.”

She sighs deeply. “I was drunk. Drunk-drunk. Barefoot in public drunk. I would have gotten along with anyone. That… no.”

“You talked about how hot he was after they dropped us off until you passed out.”

She grumbles out a swear and promises to torture me if I took pictures. “I’m not saying he’s not hot. I’m just saying no.”

“Why?”

“Because I aired all my dirty laundry to him. One does not come back from that.”

“It was a rough night. He’s not holding it against you. Plus, he’s a really good guy. And did I mention how obsessed you were with his muscles?”

She releases an embarrassed groan. “Please tell me I didn’t tell him that.”

“You petted his arms and chest. More than once.”

“Oh, God.” She sounds mortified.

“And he didn’t act on it. No gross predator vibes whatsoever. But if not Palmer, I met their friend Callum this week, and he has that total bad boy, rough around the edges, mess with me and find out kind of vibe.”

“That’s not my type.”

“Or maybe it is, and you just don’t know it yet because you haven’t had your chance encounter yet.”

“Mmhmm, mock me, but try and tell me that Corey hasn’t profoundly impacted your life.”

Once again, the line is silent.

“See?” she says. “Sometimes, the stars are right.”