Page 62 of Catching Feelings

Avery: Kate said he’s going in for another surgery

Avery: if it goes well, he’s out for the season

Avery: (don’t threaten me with a good time lol)

Jared: Avery.

Jared: if it goes badly, he’s done playing for the rest of his life

Jared: wouldn’t wish that on anyone

Santi: we just wanted to be sure you’re okay, T. is any of this shit hitting Hamilton Lakes?

Do they think this is helpful? The new voices—all talking about me—just make the buzzing in my brain even worse. I shake my head, trying to quiet the noise.

This is the first I’ve heard from them in weeks, and the thought stokes my anger even higher as I grab my bag and stride through the twilight to the parking lot. If they really cared, they would be talking about other things. They’d know the absolute last thing I want is to hear all the ways people are assuming the worst about me.

“Hey.” Will’s leaning against his car, face impassive. “You need a ride?”

I hesitate. I was a jerk during practice—the last thing I ever try to be, but it’s like the rumors following me are a self-fulfilling prophecy. He doesn’t seem mad, though. And with things strained the way they are with Ryan and Sabrina, I could really use a lift…

“That would be great. Thanks.” I climb in before I can talk myself out of it, and we pull out of the parking lot in silence that I know it’s my job to break. So, after a minute, I say, “I’m sorry for my attitude in practice. I know that’s the last thing you need.”

“It’s the last thing you need,” Will says smoothly. “Whatever was wrong with you today, you were just feeding it. You know you choose your thoughts, right? You can’t give them that power. You were listening to something that’s really not the typical you today.”

I frown. His words touch an unexpectedly tender place inside me. Like he knows who the typical me is. “I know.” My voice is gruff. “Some stuff from my last school caught up with me, and it’s… well, it’s not good, and it messed with my head.”

“That sucks.” Will keeps his eyes on the road, not even shooting me a sidelong glance. I’m grateful for the sense of anonymity it gives this conversation, like he’s a priest in a confessional booth. I expect him to give me the same speech from the start of the season about keeping drama off his team, about his guys needing to stay focused. But instead, he says, “Whatever it is, you know who you are, and so do we. I trust you to figure it out.”

I turn to the window, unable to respond or even look at him. His faith is worse than a reprimand. Should he trust me to figure it out? Or do I owe him—and everyone—more of the truth than I’ve given so far?

“Can I ask about you and Kara?” Maybe my quarterback can at least give me some advice about Sabrina. “You’ve been together for a while, right?”

“Two years.” He nods.

“And you’re serious enough to be coordinating college plans, if you can? You…” I waver. “You trust what you have enough for that?”

Will looks over at me, eyebrows raised. I keep my gaze straight ahead. “Yeah,” he says easily. “I really do. It’s not like we haven’t had issues in the past. But we worked them out. Gotta hand it to Kara—no one’s better at sitting you down and forcing you to confront your feelings.” He chuckles, and the sound is imbued with so much love that it makes me ache. “If the college thing doesn’t work out, we’ll figure that out too. We always do. We’re building the future together.”

I nod silently, falling deeper into thought. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Sabrina and I could have had that too.

But she turned away from me. Believed a rumor before letting me explain. And maybe I don’t even trust her with the truth—maybe I shouldn’t. Who would want to be with a guy who hurt someone and hid it?

Maybe I actually don’t deserve this fresh start.

Will rolls to a stop outside the Thompsons’ and gives me a clap on the shoulder. I can only meet his eyes briefly, but there’s concern and invitation there. I nod in gratitude, unable to say anything else as I slip out of the car. I’m not sure if I feel better or worse after our talk. There’s something itching underneath my skin.

I used to be the one who gave advice to the guys on my team, not the one who needed to take it. I should know better: Football teaches you how to master yourself. That you’re only as good as your last play and that pain is always temporary. That there’s always another game, that as long as you keep fighting and get your attitude right, there’s a way through.

With the help of Sabrina, and Ryan, and Will, and the rest of the team, I’d started to find my way back to that old knowledge and the ease it brought. I’d started to feel safe enough to think about what could come next.

But I can’t seem to remember that right now. And when I walk inside the Thompsons’, the itching under my skin gets so bad, I wish I could claw it right off my body.

Uncle Mike is waiting at the kitchen island, an empty beer bottle in front of him and another halfway drunk. Seems like he’s been there a while. He’s not usually home this early—he works late hours doing some sort of financial trading thing I don’t fully understand. That was half the reason I got invited for senior year, after all—warm up the house a bit, give it some life while they’re out, etc.

Bile rises in my throat. I wonder if they regret their offer yet.

Seeing him here now has me immediately apprehensive.