The guys busted up laughing and Chance’s wide, ruddy face broke out into loud guffaws. He acted tough with me, but by some twist of fate—or maybe because I helped win us games—at Central High, I was king.
When the other guys went back to their business, Donte sidled up to me. “Hey, man. You okay?”
“I’m good.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, grinning. “The gentlemen among us Neanderthals. If you’re really into pretty Miss Violet, just say so. We’ll cut the shit talk.”
“I’m good,” I said again. “It’s stuff with my mom that’s rough, you know?”
“I hear you. Sorry, man.”
“Thanks,” I said, and for a split second, his earnest tone and serious eyes made me think I could have a real conversation with him. Then his face broke into a wide grin—the charming, mega-watt smile that made him so popular with girls.
“Chance’s rager is just what you need,” he said. “Get fucked up and forget shit for a while.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Maybe that sweet Violet McNamara could help you in that department.”
“Yeah,” I said, my shoulders sinking. “I’ll see if she’s interested in the job.”
Donte whacked me on the back. “There you go! See you bright and early in the a.m., my brother.”
I lingered until the locker room cleared out, then walked to my Silverado alone. The sun wasn’t even thinking about setting; amber rays fell across the black asphalt. I revved the engine and then sat in the AC before driving home.
Home.
The word had taken a new meaning since Mom got sick. I’d grown up in that house. In this town that I loved. It had seemed safe; a place where nothing bad could happen. And it had betrayed us all.
My last refuge was the shop, fixing something broken and making it work again. I wished there were something—or someone—who could do the same for me.
Dinner was starting as I came into our spacious kitchen. Dazia Horvat, my mom’s best friend, was stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce and humming to herself. She’d flown in from Washington DC the day after Mom’s diagnosis and hadn’t left since.
Dad was already in his seat, scrolling his phone while Amelia set the table. My fourteen-year-old sister glanced my way, then went back to the knives, forks, and spoons. She’d been a sweet, vibrant girl up until two months ago. Now she hardly spoke, barely ate, rarely smiled.
“How was practice?” Dad asked, looking up from his phone eagerly, his eyes lighting up as they only did when talking football these days. The bulk under his grease-smudged overalls showed the remnants of his own football career, muscles packed onto his stocky frame. “Coach Kimball told me he has a few new plays for you and Weatherly tomorrow.”
I gritted my teeth. Dad had a direct line to Coach, always texting and talking about my progress, especially now that my last year of high school had arrived and it was time to choose a college.
“Yeah,” I said, grabbing napkins from the shelf near the table to help Amelia. “He mentioned that.”
“River, darling,” Dazia cut in, her words colored with a faint Croatian accent. “You must be starving. Two practices a day is too much!”
“It’s not too much at all.” Dad beamed proudly at me. “It’s what it takes to make a champion. Isn’t that right, River?”
“Sure.”
“And this year is it. The year.”
“What does that mean?” Dazia asked. “What is so special?”
“Next month, scouts are coming to watch River play,” Dad said. “College applications come after that, and then we decide which university will highlight his talent best and propel him to the NFL.”
“Oh, is that all?” Dazia shot me a wink.
“It’s what we’ve been working for since River was old enough to hold a ball. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”
I smiled thinly. “Sure, Dad.”
Amelia let me take over setting the table and sat down, phone in hand. Her long dark hair formed a curtain, shutting the rest of us out.
I nudged her shoulder. “What’s up with you? Do anything fun today?”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
“Are you looking forward to starting at Central High, Amelia?” Dazia called over her shoulder. “Freshman year is a big deal. Like senior year. Must make them special.”
“I don’t know what’s so special about it,” Amelia muttered. “It’s going to suck.”
I set down the last napkin and my sister lifted her eyes to mine. She was right. Mom wasn’t likely going to make it to Christmas, so I didn’t bother telling Amelia she was wrong or that she needed to cheer up. I never let myself have any of my own feelings, which ironically made me protective of everyone else’s right to theirs.
“Hey,” I told her. “If you get Ms. Sutter for math, you’re golden. She never collects homework.”
Amelia smiled gratefully at my change of subject. “And if she does, you can do it all for me. Nerd.”
“Sure, I will,” I teased, desperate to keep that smile on her face. “For a small fee. Your allowance, maybe? Even better—your collection of painted doll things would get me a buck or two on eBay…”
“They’re Russian nesting dolls, doofus, and you’d have to do my homework all through college before I’d even consider letting you put your huge, grimy hands on them.”
We exchanged playful, challenging looks. I knew perfectly well what they were called, and she knew it. The shelves in Amelia’s room were lined with the brightly painted wooden dolls, each holding a small doll inside the other, smaller and smaller, until the smallest was the size of a thimble. She saved her allowance to buy sets from different sellers all over the world and received them as gifts at every birthday and Christmas. They were her prized possessions.
“You sure?” I asked.
