Page 67 of Play For Me

I’d honesty thought he was probably an orphan, right up until he told me I’d just come face-to-face with his mother.

But even if I had known she was alive, I never would have guessed that woman was related to him. What kind of mother would talk to her kid like that? She didn’t even say hello.

I think of my own mother, so warm and funny, with that mischievous glint in her eye. How sometimes when I’m at home and pass by her, she pulls me into a hug for no reason. If we’re sitting together, she’s usually making contact of some kind—a nudge of her shoulder, her hand on mine, her fingers absentmindedly playing with my hair. My dad is the same way. Actually, he’s worse. The man is the king of spontaneous hugs.

I’ve always known that I have exceptional parents, that I’m luckier than most people. But now, comparing them to the woman who apparently raised Solomon makes me want to cry.

I try my best to put the interaction out of my mind when we board the team bus for the drive to the opposing team’s stadium. Our opponents knocked us out in the NCAA tournament last year, and their record is better than ours so far this season. There’s a nervous tension on the bus and it’s my job as captain to try to alleviate that.

Even if I would much rather sit up front with Sol and try to wipe that awful, blank expression off his face.

It’s a little easier once we get to the stadium. Locking in is basically second nature for me this close to game time. I go through all my pre-match preparation—the deep breathing and visualization Violet’s older sister Rose taught me, and warm up with the team. And the whole time I try not to look at Solomon’s blank face while he moves through the locker room, helping players with last minute training needs.

He avoids me, too.

I try not to let that sting. Did I expect a little more attention to my injury, particularly after the swelling and pain I dealt with yesterday? Yeah, I did. Solomon has been nothing but attentive to the issues with my knee since the day he started working with the team. I figured he’d at least check in with me.

But as I watch him applying tape to Jenny’s shoulder with a flat expression on his face, a realization settles in my chest. Whatever is going on in his head must be really bad if he can’t even bring himself to come within five feet of me.

Finally, when there’s only a few minutes until game time, he comes over. “Knee feeling okay?”

A month ago, this would have pissed me right off. Him talking to me in that flat, uninterested way, without so much as a hello. I would assume he was being rude, just like I did after the frat party. But I know better now. When Solomon acts like this, it’s because there’s something wrong.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, aiming for my gentlest tone. If he can tell that I’m talking about more than my knee, he doesn’t show any sign of it. He merely nods, not making eye contact, and says, “let someone know if you need anything.”

I force myself to focus when Coach Carla comes in for her pre-game speech, then join the other captains in getting the girls hyped up before we head out to the field.

It’s not my best game. We still win, and I get an assist on Helen’s goal, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little distracted.

It doesn’t help that my knee is killing me.

Solomon is waiting for me when I get off the field. He still doesn’t look like himself, but at least he’s not ignoring me. “Treatment room after coach’s talk, okay?”

Relief rushes through me. “Okay.”

Coach doesn’t keep us too long, thankfully. I really need to get ice on my knee, and of course I’m too stubborn to skip her talk in favor of going straight to the treatment room. I wouldn’t get in trouble—obviously the coaches put our health above post-game lectures—but I don’t really want anyone else to know how much it’s bothering me.

I grab my phone from my locker, knowing my parents will be calling soon, and head to the treatment room as soon as Coach is done. Solomon isn’t there yet, so I pull myself up onto one of the tables and wait.

Sure enough, my phone starts ringing with an incoming video call. When I press accept, I’m only a little surprised to see about ten heads crowded together on the screen. My parents, uncles, and aunts are all pushing to get their face in the shot. They erupt in cheers when they see me and I roll my eyes, though I can’t wipe the grin off my face.

“Great game, baby girl!” Dad shouts over the noise.

“I take it you all watched?” I ask.

“Uncle Levi hooked up the internet to the TV so we could livestream it,” Dad says, and I bite back my laugh at how impressed he sounds, like getting internet on the TV is some major technological accomplishment.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Uncle Levi calls, his face nudging past Dad into the frame. “Nice assist.”

“Shoulda gone for the goal yourself,” Uncle Reed says, pushing Levi out of the way. “You could have made it.”

Dad smacks him. “She was being a team player!”

“You looked so awesome out there, sweetheart!” Aunt Paige calls. “So fierce and pretty at the same time. I love when you braid your hair like that.”

“She doesn’t care about looking pretty,” Reed scoffs. “She cares about being a badass. Which she was.”

They all cheer some more. Since none of them actually know anything about soccer, I just shake my head and find my mom’s face in the crowd. “Only one foul,” she says drily. “An improvement.”