Page 17 of Play For Me

I sometimes wonder if my mom would have preferred me to quit soccer after my injury. She’d never admit it—unlike Dad, who flat out begged me to stop playing after my surgery—but it was there in her eyes all the same.

Quitting was never an option for me. Did the injury suck? Absolutely. The ACL tear was a pain like I’d never experienced before. The surgery was just as rough, and the subsequent physical therapy had been a bitch.

But none of the physical pain had compared to the emotional gut punch of sitting out the conference tournament last year. Or having to forgo my place on the national U-20 team. Ever since I first touched a soccer ball, my goal was to make the Women’s National Team someday. To play for the World Cup and the Olympics. Maybe go pro after college.

I didn’t blame the coaches or management. Competition for spots on the U-20 team is extremely high, and everyone who plays at that level is hoping to make the senior team and play for their country. Of course they couldn’t hold a spot for a girl who could barely walk, let alone play.

But I refused to let that be the end of my story. I worked my ass off in PT. Convinced Mom and Dad to hire private rehab. Fought my way back into my starting spot on my college team.

I’ve been single-minded in my determination to get back to the level I was at before the injury. And there’s no way I’m going to let the occasional little twinge get in my way.

“Practice has been fine,” I tell Mom. “I have some soreness.” I shrug. “That’s what ice is for.”

She sets my foot back on the grass, her gaze never leaving my face. My mom has a way of looking at me like she can read my every thought. It doesn’t usually bother me, but today I’m feeling on edge.

“What?” I snap, then immediately feel bad.

“I’m not worried about your knee, CeCe,” she says calmly. “I do worry, however, that you’re too stubborn to tell me if somethingwaswrong.”

“Nothing is wrong,” I insist. “It feelsfine.”

I can tell she’s unsatisfied by my answer, but I don’t know what else to tell her. If I was feeling real pain, I would admit it.

Probably.

“Okay,” she finally says, when it’s obvious I don’t have anything else to add. “Shall we talk about the other issue?”

I meet her gaze to see her eyes are shining in amusement and I groan, knowing what’s coming.

“That kid was a punk,” I say. “He had it coming.”

“You can’t go around kicking people, Cecelia. You know this.”

“Mom—”

“It might have been cute when you were a kid,” she presses on. “But you’re an adult now. Dad and I can’t get you out of messes by coming in and talking to the principle.”

“He deserved it!”

“I’m sure he did,” she agrees, and I can’t help but laugh. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you have a temper, baby girl. And one of these days it’s going to get you into real trouble.”

I grumble under my breath, but I have no response for that. Should I have kneed Travis the Asshole at that party? Probably not. Would I do the exact same thing if I had the chance? Definitely.

She laughs, and slings her arm around my shoulder. “Just try to control yourself, okay? I’ve managed to raise three boys without any arrests. I don’t want you messing with my streak.”

“Not my fault the boys are sissies,” I shoot back, making her laugh again before placing a kiss on the top of my head.

“What am I going to do with you, girl?”

I lean into her. “I have no idea, Momma.”

SIX

SOLOMON

It’s Sunday evening, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to murder my best friend.

“You can stop huffing and muttering shit under your breath,” Jay says brightly. “We have plenty of time.”