Rusk University: All Lined Up Part 8

Dad dismisses the team, and Carson stands. Then the fury rolls in like a storm, filling the empty with emotions too raw to put a name to. I don't wait for Dad. I don't wait for anything.

I turn and start walking off the field, wishing I could stomp my feet hard enough to make the earth shake as much as my hands. There is thunder in my chest, and I know a scream won't release it. Not this time.

It's stupid. So stupid.

He's just a guy I spent one night with.

I should not be this upset.

I should not . . . I should not have been stupid enough to let him mean anything more than that. I mean, Jesus, the guy even ignored me all weekend! So why do I feel like my ribs are trying to curl in on themselves?

Stupid. I'm chanting the word in my head as I grind my teeth and escape out of the complex and into my little maroon sedan. I turn the key in the ignition, releasing a small sob only when I know the roar of the engine will cover it.

I slap the steering wheel, but that doesn't do the trick, so I punch it instead. The car gives a small whine, in lieu of a honk, and my knuckles agree in silent misery.

Furious, I put the car in drive and take off, not knowing where I'm going. I just know that I'm on the verge of losing control in a way that I don't ever let myself. I try to just shut it off like I normally do, like I promised myself only hours ago I was going to stop doing, but for whatever reason, I can't.

Yell, always. Scream, usually. Throw something? Frequently.

Cry? Never.

I turn the music up so loud that it actually hurts my ears. I drive and drive too fast until I'm past the university bubble, past the city limits sign, and eventually . . . past the danger of crying.

Thirty minutes outside of town, I pull over at an empty rest stop. I sit in my chair, eyes closed, and I dance in my head. I imagine what it would feel like to put movement to this anger, this frustration so deep and black that it's like a creature tearing through my bloodstream. Part of me is tempted to get out of the car and do it for real, right there in the sprawling Texas countryside. I ch.o.r.eograph a dance that's hard, maybe too hard for me to actually perform, but when I see it in my mind, I leap higher than ever and throw myself across the dance floor with no thought to whether it will hurt. There are no pretty pointed toes or soft, arched arms. There's no build, no highs and lows. I imagine someone like Dad screaming in my ear as I dance the whole thing at full speed, as I drag myself across the floor until I just can't anymore. There is desperation and pain and when it's over, I'm emptier than I've ever been.

And I didn't even dance it for real.

I get out of the car then, not to dance but to sit on the hood of my car and stare up at the bruised night sky. They say Texas has a big sky. But I've always thought out here where there are no buildings and no people and you can see for miles in every direction, it actually feels like the sky isn't big enough. Like it's been stretched out over the land, and just barely reaches each horizon. At any minute it might peel back or tear right open having finally been stretched just a little too far.

So Carson plays football.

So he plays football for my dad.

It's just another truth to face, and I've had plenty of practice with that.

I just have to accept that whatever childish, hopeful fancies I'd been imagining about how things might play out between us . . . that's all they are. Imaginings. He won't want to take the chance of dating me, not when it could endanger his spot on the team. And even if he does, I've already been down that road. And though some things about the next four years are doomed to be repeats of high school, this doesn't have to be one of them. I won't let it.

h.e.l.l, maybe he already knew. Maybe he's friends with Levi and Silas, and he just did a better job of fooling me.

I take several gasping breaths, all of a sudden in danger of crying again. I breathe and breathe and breathe and wrap my arms tight around my middle like my limbs are a corset, squeezing me in tight. I hold myself together by sheer force of will.

When I climb back into my car some time later, it's just past eight o'clock, and it's only then that I remember my dad. With a groan, I dig for my phone in my purse.

Thirteen missed calls.

What must Dad be thinking? I'd run out of there with no word, no excuse, nothing. It's been hours.

I unlock my phone, and my jaw drops.

There are thirteen missed calls all right. But only three are from Dad.

The rest are from Carson.

Chapter 9.

Dallas Dad's truck is missing and the windows are all dark when I pull up outside our house. I slap my hand against the steering wheel, now only angry with myself. There's only one other place I know that he could be, so I head back to the university and the athletic complex.

Sure enough, his truck is there, along with half a dozen other vehicles. My stomach churns as I climb out of my car and head for the entrance.

Dad might not always be the best father, but I'm just as awful at being a daughter.

Still not familiar enough with the layout of the building to know exactly where I'm going, I head down a brightly lit, sterile white hallway, reading the plaques beside the doors. Toward the back of the building, I reach an open door and hear noises coming from the inside.

I step inside an expansive weight room, painted in Rusk University red, and then immediately wish I hadn't.

The room is empty except for two people.

One of whom is on the short list of people I would cut off my hand not to have to talk to at the moment.

Silas stands about ten meters from me, a bar filled with an impossible number of weights laid across his shoulders. He bends his knees in a squat, his face colored red with effort, and his eyes meet mine.

"You all right, pretty girl?"

His words are surprisingly devoid of flirtation, and they smack of something almost like concern. I reach a hand up to pat at my hair, wondering if he can tell by looking at me that I just had a breakdown of Britney proportions.

"Is my dad around?"

It's the trainer spotting him who answers. "He's in the office, I think. Through that door and then to the right."

I nod and head off in the direction he pointed. There's a door propped open, but the lights are dimmed inside. My feet stutter to a stop when I see Carson seated on the couch, watching game film. He has one ankle balanced on his other knee, a notebook perched on his leg, and a pencil tapping pensively against his lip. The sight of him stirs something in my chest.

I guess I didn't empty myself quite as well as I thought I had.

As if he feels my eyes on him, he glances away from the television briefly, his eyes darting back to stay when he registers who I am. He sits up straighter, dropping his propped-up foot to the floor, and the notebook follows with a thud. He's showered and changed into sweats, and I can see the number twelve printed just below his hip.

Number twelve.

I suck in a breath. The thought of him out there on that field still stings, but when I think back to the way he dropped the ball, I know that he didn't know who I was until today. I didn't realize how much that was still bothering me until I felt the relief wash over me.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes flick to my right.

I can guess who's standing there by the split second of fear on his face before he shutters his expression completely. I turn to see my dad leaning on the doorjamb to his office, the bright light behind him pouring into the dim room.

I don't know what to say . . . not to either of them.

So I stalk past Dad into the coaches' office in silence, and Dad closes the door behind us a few seconds later. The office is large, with a table in the middle, rolling chairs, a few computers, and a couch shoved into the corner. Though the comfortable couch beckons me, I take a seat at the table. It feels safer somehow. Dad sits down across from me, and the frown he fixes on me tells me I've got a lecture coming.

"Would you care to explain to me where you've been? I called. Several times."

Yeah, and you're not alone there.

"I-I'm sorry, Dad. Something came up, and I needed to . . ."

"Something came up?" he asks sternly. His elbows come down hard on the table, and he lays his forearms down flat, leaning toward me.

G.o.d, that sounded insensitive. Like running errands was more important than his birthday. Let's try this again, Dallas.

"I, uh . . ." I'm surprised to feel my chin tremble, and I'm reminded of why Dad and I don't talk much. He's the only person who gets under my skin, the only person I can't seem to keep my cool around. "Things haven't been easy. Starting at a new school, starting at Rusk."

"If this is about that New York school again, we've talked about this."

It's not about Barnard or even about dance, but for whatever reason, I can't resist arguing whenever this subject comes up.

"Dad, I get more of a challenge out of my dance lessons with Mrs. Dunlap than I do out of these cla.s.ses. Do you realize what a waste of time and money it is for me to do dance here?"

"So pick a different major."

I jerk backward like he's slapped me.

"Why is it that you talk to your players about goals and living up to their potential, but when it comes to me and my dreams and what I could achieve, I should just settle for something more convenient?"

Dad bristles, sliding his chair back from the table a few inches. "These young men have scholarships. They're getting an education in addition to their role on the team. Some of them may have a chance at playing professionally, but the rest of them aren't fooling themselves into thinking that success will be handed to them."

"So you just think I'm not good enough, is that it?"

His cheeks go so red they're almost purple, and just like me, I see his natural inclination is to jump to anger. "I didn't say that, Dallas. We both know you're very talented, but-"

"But I'm not getting the chance to prove it. That's the difference, Dad, between your players and me. You never even let me apply to Barnard. You wouldn't even listen to me when I talked about auditioning at any other schools. If you had, maybe I would have a scholarship, too."

"And what would you do afterward? Hmm? Open a studio like your teacher? She's barely keeping that place afloat, and you know it."

My anger bubbles over because he's right about that at least. Dunlap Dance Academy has definitely seen better days. I teach two cla.s.ses a week there in exchange for free dance cla.s.ses just because I know Mrs. Dunlap can't afford to pay me, and she's getting too old to teach the number of cla.s.ses she used to cover by herself.

"Central Texas isn't exactly a thriving dance environment, Dad. Why do you think I wanted to leave?"

His lips press into a thin line, curling down at the corners. He gives these tiny, hard shakes of his head, and I know he's trying not to yell at me.

"I wasn't about to let you go traipsing off to New York City by yourself. You're too young. You're not ready."

In the end, it's me who yells first. "You mean you're not ready!"

I stand up before I say something I'll regret. Before I say the one insult that always lurks on my tongue when these arguments get really bad. I've never said it, but in the very worst corner of my soul, I know it's the one thing I could say that would put an end to these fights for good.

Dad won't let me leave because he can't handle a repeat of Mom.

I march toward the door and fling it open, but Dad's not ready to let me leave. Even though Carson's still sitting there in the film room, he demands, "You still haven't told me where you've been tonight. You don't just take off without saying anything!"

I clench my fists, and turn back to Dad because facing him is better than facing Carson. Knowing he's here in the room, watching us, cools some of the heat in my blood. I know I'm not my most mature when I'm around my father. He treats me like a little girl, and sometimes out of habit, I find myself playing the part too well.

As calmly as I can manage, I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave like that . . . not today. I had every intention of going to dinner with you." I can't bring myself to say it's his birthday out loud, too worried about what Carson will think of me if I do. "I . . . found out something that upset me." My voice cracks ever so slightly. "And I just needed to be alone. I went for a drive, and I lost track of time."

Dad comes to his senses then. Whether he heard the pain I tried to hide in my voice or realized we had an audience or something else, I'm not sure. But he backs off.

"Don't worry about dinner. It's fine. Are you . . . are you okay now?"

He takes a step toward me, and lifts his hands up like he's going to take hold of my shoulders or hug me even, but stops and crosses his arms over his chest instead. There's a softness in his eyes that I'm not used to seeing, and it makes the guilt rattle even louder in my chest.

I bypa.s.s his question and say, "Let me make it up to you. Tomorrow night. I'll get takeout from Tucker's and meet you at home after practice."

My diversionary tactics do not go unnoticed, but Dad's not any better at talking about emotional c.r.a.p than I am. So he nods. He crosses the few feet between us, and we share one of those awkward side-hugs that are the only kinds of hugs we've ever really had.

Before I dart out the door, I say, "See you tomorrow night." Then I make eye contact with Carson, and by the slump of his shoulders, I know he'll be expecting my text message canceling our walk tonight.

I was planning to cancel that long before I ever fought with Dad.

Chapter 10.

Carson I sit stiffly in the moments after Dallas leaves, wanting to go after her. But considering her father is between the door and me, it might not be the smartest option. He stares at the door for a few moments, then huffs and starts toward me. He takes a seat on a plastic folding chair next to the couch and directs his eyes toward the film, which I have long since stopped watching.

Sat.u.r.day is our season opener, an away game. And even though I'm not expecting to play, I've been squeezing in as much time watching film as possible. h.e.l.l, I don't even know for sure that I'm going to travel. Coach has been playing me second string in practice mostly because James, last year's backup QB, has been having knee problems since camp at the beginning of August. But there are four or five other quarterbacks on the roster, some of whom have been on the team for a couple years. I'm better than all of them, of that I'm fairly confident, but I don't want to get complacent and a.s.sume Coach sees me as number two.

I know Coach has been over and over these films. It's his first game, and I know he wants . . . needs to make a strong showing. He's got just as much to prove as me. But even so, he sits there and watches with me. I have in the tape of last year's game against our next opponent. It's not a conference game, but they're a light team that shouldn't give us too much trouble as a warm-up.

Coach sits in silence for a long while, and I resist the urge to check my watch for the time or pull out my phone to text Dallas. I'm sure that he's not even really watching until he points at the screen and says, "You see that?"

"Um . . ." I look back at the screen, totally caught unaware. "That sack?"

I try not to sound like I enjoy the sight of Abrams being flattened, but it's not an easy task.

"Do you see why, though?"

He rewinds the tape, and we watch it again.

"The safeties have his receivers covered. Moore is busy blocking for him, so he can't pitch it to him. He ran out of options."

"Except?"