Page 1 of Cade

PROLOGUE

Fifteen years ago

Cade

Special.That’s the word that all the coaches keep saying to Mom and Dad. My little league baseball coach just told my dad, “Your son is special. He’s already playing league ball at a level higher than any other ten-year-old in the state. He could be a once-in-a-generation kind of player.” Last winter, my Pop Warner coachtold my dad I was special. He said, “He could be his generation’s Tom Brady or even go the two-sport route like Bo Jackson. I’m telling you that Cade is special.”

I don’t want to be special. I want to play games with my friends and be a kid. Mom tells Dad every night that she’ll let me quit if I stop liking to play. Dad says the same thing to Mom about Emma playing softball and her gymnastics. I hope I keep liking to play sports.

Hanna

Special.That’s the word all the doctors keep saying at every appointment we go to. I’m special because my eyesight is still really good. I can see everything with my glasses on.Retinitis pigmentosa. It’s two big words, but that’s what I have. The doctors keep telling my mom, dad, and pops that someday I probably won’t be able to see at all.

My regular eye doctor is surprised that my sight hasn’t gotten any worse since I started school. He has other eye doctors come in every time and calls me special. I just want to keep seeing so I can play with my friends and even my stinky brothers.

Around eight years ago

Cade

Special.I’ve been hearing that fucking word my entire life. The last couple of years, it's been from my varsity football and baseball coaches. They’ve had scouts out at every game, and they’re trying to get me to agree to go into the draft now and not go to college. Mom and Dad have both told me they support whatever decision I make, but each has also said that I won’t be able to play forever.

I haven’t decided for sure, but I’m leaning toward going to college. I haven’t decided about baseball or football. I like playing both, but I feel like the passion some of my teammates and coaches have isn’t there for me. Both are still just a game to me. I’m not obsessed with either, and I’m beginning to wonder if that’s the reason I haven’t picked one to focus on.

Today I’m going to go play with my neighbor, Carter. He started playing on a local rugby team a couple of years ago and has been trying to get me to come out. Well, for once, I don’t have a game or practice, so I’m gonna go see what it’s about. He talks about his games—or I guess they’re called matches—all the time. I don’t know jack shit about the rules or anything, but if it’s half as fun as Carter makes it seem, I’m gonna have a good time.

Hanna

Special. If I never hear that word to describe me in a doctor’s office again in my life, it will be too soon. With my diagnosis and what my eyes look like, my doctors have all said they’re surprised I still have any vision at all. I swear, if my body listened to doctors, I would’ve been completely blind by twelve.

Instead, I’m sitting in my doctor’s office, one month away from my eighteenth birthday, and I can still see. Can I see as well as I did at ten? Hell no. My night vision is pretty much nonexistent now, and my peripheral vision is getting worse each month. But I can still see, especially in daylight or a brightly lit room. My glasses prescription is super strong, but I can see.

Like most of my doctor’s appointments, at the last one, my eye doctor brought in other doctors. They all discussed my current vision and what they think might happen next. They brought it up to Mom, Dad, and Pops once again about sending me to a specialized school to learn how to live in a world that at some point I won’t be able to see.

The problem is, although I learn stuff because I still have a good amount of vision, I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. I don’t use a cane, and I don’t have an aid dog. I want to get a service dog, but seeing as I just turned eighteen and my parents have spent so much money over the years on specialists, sending me to conferences and all to help me as much as possible, I refuse tolet them pay for a dog. I want to do it on my own. I want to be normal. I don’t want that word,special,to follow me for the rest of my life.

CHAPTER ONE

The East Coast, especially New York, might have a lot of great food, but it doesn’t have Jojos. Potato deliciousness, plain and simple. Why the hell didn’t you tell me about them when I got here? Fucker.

~Text from Cade to Zane~

Cade

I sit down on the bench in the locker room, my jeans pulled on but not buttoned. The shower after practice took longer than normal because I’m pretty fucking sure I had mud…everywhere. Normally I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about it and just take a quick shower here and take a better one when I got home, but I ain’t going straight home for once.

Zane convinced me to go to a cookout his friends are having. It’s a drive, but he swears the home cooking alone is enough to make the drive more than worth it. Carter’s been before and hasn't shut up about the food.

I have to admit, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a good home-cooked meal. That reminds me to plan a trip home soon so Mom can cook like she keeps telling me she will. Mom and Dad come out a couple of times each season, and with it being my second season on the Axemen, they’ll probably make it out twice.

When I was playing in Queens, they came to almost every home game since it was just a few hours’ train ride away. I know my moving to the West Coast was an adjustment, but getting more playing time and having a real chance at the national team has made it worth it. Not to mention getting out of that stifling contract and the ownership that comes with it. And well, let’s just say the Axemens’ owner may not be someone I’m on a first-name basis with, but I know he’s not up to illegal shit and isn’t getting his team involved in that shit either.

“Evanich…Cade. Get your ass dressed so we can go. If we don’t hurry, the guys will eat all of Ma and Anna’s cooking. We may be teammates, but I would fuck you up if Anna made lasagna and there’s none left when we get there.” I look at the man who’s become a mentor and a good friend.

“It better be some amazing food to be stuck in a vehicle with you driving for that long. I’m putting my life in your hands, and that’s scary as fuck.”

The door to the locker room opens, and I’m instantly glad I’m almost dressed. I hurry to put on my shirt as Carol and Cindy come in. Although technically employed by the team to clean and put the catering out for us, among other things, the two of them are really just jersey chasers. Not successful ones, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try to get with all of us on an almost daily basis. Carol’s the worst one. She really doesn’t get the word‘no’ most of the time. I think Cindy primarily focuses on Carter and Zane. She and Carter had some sort of drunken interaction at the end of last season, but both are tight-lipped about it, and she’s pretty much ignored him since the season started, still looking for someone to add to her men she pays attention to since Zane tells her no a good chunk of the time.

I quickly put on my boots and grab my stuff, throwing my flannel over my t-shirt. Let’s get this car ride the fuck over. Zane can do a lot of shit, especially on the pitch, but drive an SUV safely? Not so much. He seems to think the lines on the road are mere suggestions, driving in two lanes at one time multiple times on a single drive. Speed limits are also irrelevant—sometimes going ninety-five in a seventy zone, but also when a good song is playing, I’ve seen him do fifty-five in that same seventy zone. If I survive driving up to his hometown, I’m gonna drive our asses back myself. This lasagna better be fucking out of this world.