Page 1 of Made Better Together

PROLOGUE

CONNOR — JULY 4, THREE YEARS AGO

No new emails.

I chuck the inanimate bearer of bad news on the bed as my heart rate picks up.

Fuck you back, phone.

The absence of the email I’m hoping for isn’t necessarily a surprise. But it does reinforce the constant press of anxiety that’s been alive in my chest since last year.

Last year, when I wasn’t invited to the US national soccer training camp in my age bracket. At the time, U19—under nineteen years old.

It was the first time I’d been left off a roster during all my years in the US Youth program.

My dream of being a top-caliber, World-Cup-worthy soccer player? Poof, it disappeared in a matter of seconds, like an ice cube on the Florida pavement in July.

Fast forward to now, one year later—I’m fighting to fit together the puzzle that is my future. Flailing, and failing.

The email I was hoping for today? Confirmation from my Name, Image, and Likeness agent that my modest NIL deals will continue this fall, when I’ll be a sophomore on the Princeton soccer team.

Instead, there’s radio silence. Which may mean not having enough money for my living expenses at school, unless I ask for help from my oldest brother. Or even worse, my mother.

Calm down, Connor. It may be a matter of waiting another day or two. It’s a holiday after all.

A few forced breaths to recenter myself follow that internal command. Then I slip off my glasses and walk into my bathroom to put in my contacts, which I use when working out.

You got this. Soon you’ll be on the field, and you can take it out on the ball.

Once my contacts are in, I grab my duffle and softly open the bedroom door, praying I don’t bump into either of my brothers before I get out of the house.

Because in the interest of deciding my future trajectory, I’ve been trying something new this summer, secretly.

It’s not a soccer ball I’ll be kicking today, but a football. As in American football, like my international soccer friends would say.

I step as faintly as I can, passing my older brother Rawley’s room down the hall. The second I think I’m safe, his door swings open, and I freeze.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Where you headed?”

“Stepping out for a bit. I’ll be back.”

He peers at me for a beat. It’s clear from my lack of glasses I’m working out, something we often do together.

Luckily, he doesn’t press for more answers. “Whatever. I’ll save you a plate of food.”

Truthfully, I’m considering revealing my new quest to him soon. We’re a couple of years apart in age, but we connect as if we’re two sides of the same coin. He’s the charismatic, self-effacing giver, and I’m the dry, restrained processor—complementing each other.

Also, I know he’d never tell me what to do, just listen and support me. I’ve done the same for him as he gears up for his rookie season with the local NFL team, the Orlando Waves.

“Thanks, Rawls.” I give him a quick smile and head toward the main part of the house, hoping to avoid our oldest brother.

Now Landon—he’s a “fixer” all the way. Give him the hint of a problem and he’ll whip off solutions in three seconds flat, making phone calls to every mover and shaker in his contacts before you finish your sentence.

Sure, he’s only twenty-four years old, but you can’t fight who you are, right? He thrives in his role as our substitute “dad.” Case in point, he has this huge house Rawley and I are crashing in.

Which means it’s hard to miss him as I’m coming and going. Turns out, today included.

“Morning,” he says as I walk past the living room toward the front door. He’s on the couch, sipping a coffee. “Headed to a workout?”