Page 145 of Like a Power Play
I clear my throat and shift in my chair, suddenly very invested in pressing a perfectly circular cookie out of my dough. I can feel all three of them watching me. Even the dogs are watching me. Hell, even the gingerbread man I decapitated two minutes ago is probably watching me.
“It was an accident,” I lie. But if that’s what all the tabloids are saying, is it really a lie?
My mother cuts in. “Well, at least she’s not hurt,” she says. Then, as an afterthought, “The referee, I mean.”
I frown. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Well, you too, Peanut,” she adds quickly. “But youdidhit her really hard.”
“Really hard,” my dad echoes, almost impressed.
I look around. “Am I being ganged up on right now?”
Everyone says no, except Avery, who I can always count on to tell me the truth.
“Yes,”he confirms. He doesn’t even look up, just tediously scores the cookie dough with a knife. “Dad thinks you’re going through a crisis and Mom thinks you’re hiding an injury because she snooped through your bag and found printed-out articles about joint issues.”
Both of my parents’ shoulders drop. They exchange matching looks of guilt, then flash Avery an unsurprised but disapproving look.
Avery just shrugs, unbothered. “What? It’s the truth.”
“Okay, first of all,” I huff, turning to my dad, “I amnothaving a crisis.”
It’s not exactly the truth. But it’s not exactlynotthe truth.
“We’re just worried is all,” he explains. “You just didn’t seem like yourself on Friday. It was like you were a different player.”
“Maybe I am.” I shrug. “Is that alright with you,Father?”
I say it teasingly, but it’s not really a joke. In fact, my heart is vibrating right now, buzzing in my chest, sending a nervous tingle through every limb of my body. It’s like I’ve swallowed a pager, and I’m getting message after message warning me not to do this. Not to set myself up.
Because I already know what he’s going to say.
And it’s going to confirm the thing I’ve been trying really hard not to admit: that this stress, the pressure, the panic,none of itcame from him. Or anyone else. It’s me. It’s always been me.
He wouldn’t care if I never got drafted to a pro league. Or if I quit and became a tattoo artist. Or, I don’t know, one of thosepeople who farm worms. He’d still cheer me on like it was the Walter cup.
I know that. And yet, some part of me still doesn’t believe it. Some part of me still acts like letting myself down means I’m letting everyone else down too.
Just as predicted, a smile tugs at my father’s lips, and he turns back to his giant mess of cookie dough.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s quite alright with me.”
“Good.” I turn to my mom. “Andyou,” I fume, and she’s already shrinking a little, hands raised in defense. ”Acompleteinvasion of privacy—”
“I know,” she cuts in quickly. “You just haven’t talked to us about what happened yet, so—”
“—and also, awildconclusion to jump to. I’m majoring inexercise science. Wouldn’t your first thought be that it was for a class?”
She falters, considering it. In her defense, she’s wound tighter than a triple-knotted skate. Having one kid building model animal lungs at gifted-and-talented science fairs, while the other was bashing her head into the boards every weekend will do that to a person.
“That’s a good point,” she admits finally, averting her eyes. “So is it? An assignment?”
“It’s…” I trail off, trying to decipher how to explain this. I had planned to bring up AIHL to my dad later, when he’s full and mildly buzzed on too much peppermint mud pie and spiked eggnog, ogling his trophies like he does every year. But I guess now’s as good a time as any.
“Kind of,” I concede, taking a deep breath. “Basically, there’s this girl.”
As a collective, my family leans back in their chairs, all at once letting out a synchronized“Ohhh.”
