THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE up alone in my bed. Tanner came home late last night, so that was a big reason I didn’t invite Indie back to my flat. Or stay at hers. I don’t need questions about where I am or what I’m doing right now.
Because I’m not even sure I know what the fuck I’m doing.
This Penis List of Indie’s has my stomach in knots. I’m not sure if it’s just the jealousy factor, or if it’s the fact that I’ve always loved a good challenge.
I don’t even know what this is between Indie and me, but I know I have a strong intensity with her that I’m not sure I’m done exploring yet.
I ruffle my hair and stride out of my room to find my father and Booker sitting at our kitchen table as I thought they would be.
Ever since Tanner and I moved out here, Dad and Booker have come to our flat following every match to go through the footage. As a manager, our dad’s job is to recruit. As our dad, his job is to sideline coach.
“Camden,” my dad says, setting down his cup of coffee and standing up to get a look at me. “Your mobility looks improved. How do you feel?”
I toss a quick nod toward Booker and smile tightly at my dad’s words. “I feel perfectly fine.”
Dad’s brows rise. “Your physical therapist says you’re doing better than fine. He says he’s never seen such a quick recovery after an ACL tear.”
“You spoke to my therapist?” I frown and zip up my hooded sweatshirt over my bare chest, subconsciously suiting up my armour.
“He called me while we were on the road. We won the match, you know. Tanner scored one goal. Booker blocked three attempts.”
“Aces, Book.”
Booker smiles softly as Dad adds, “It was a great match. You were missed.”
“I got it all recorded and watched some of it,” I mumble, striding over to the coffee pot and pouring myself a cup.
“Great. I think it’s a good idea for you to go through the match footage with us. We need to keep your head in the game.” His voice sounds so much like Coach, it makes my skin crawl.
I sit down on the chair beside him and listen as he spouts off some of the highlights. He’s aged so much in the last few years. Did I even notice? His dark hair looks greyer every time I see him. Is football causing that? Did losing Mum cause that? Or is it something more? The only time I see him behave even remotely human is toward Vi. Why haven’t I noticed any of this before?
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on then?” I ask, cutting my dad off midsentence. Booker shoots me a quizzical look.
“What do you mean?” Dad asks.
“The meeting with Arsenal. The text message about becoming a Gunner. Your hints haven’t been subtle, Dad.”
His face lengthens as he pulls his brows back. “I’m just trying to motivate you, Cam. Nothing is set in stone yet.”
“Motivate me?” I ask with a huff. Booker leans toward me over the table, attempting to silently calm me with his thoughts. “So nothing is coming of all this?”
“I signed a non-disclosure agreement, Cam. I can’t really say anything until—”
“Until what?”
“Until after your second…visit.” He bites the last word out awkwardly and looks down at my knee. Once again, he can’t actually voice the word “surgery” and it makes my temper rise. “I’ll be able to tell you everything after we see how things turn out.”
The pressure of those words pushes me down with the weight of a thousand pounds. My head feels heavy. My hands feel caked in sludge. My stomach sinks to the floor. But my temper is pushing back against all of it. “And if things turn out badly?” My voice is quiet, restrained.
“Don’t think like that, Cam. You’re a Harris. You’ll bounce back and be better than ever. I’m sure of it.”
“And what if I don’t?” My jaw muscle ticks. My hand grips my mug, turning my knuckles white.
“What do you mean?”
“What if I don’t bounce back from this? What if I can’t play football again?”
“That’s the kind of thinking that will make your recovery harder. Just focus on the prize. Focus on being the best. You’re a Harris. You boys were made for this.”
I huff out a laugh. “This is such crap.”
“Cam.” Booker’s tone is a calm warning that Dad ignores.
“What’s crap?” Dad asks, his hazel eyes piercing me.
“How you are. All this secrecy. All this tip-toeing around shit. The added pressure. You pile it on with your empty words, and I still don’t know anything.”
“It’s for your own good. You don’t need this on your shoulders.”
“It’s there with every word you say!” I rake my hands through my hair and grip the back of my neck. “Why didn’t you come to my surgery, Dad?” I throw the question at him, catching him completely off guard. If he’s going to poke me, I’m going to poke him back even harder.
He scoffs, “I’m a busy man, Camden. It’s the end of the season. The scouts need to know what final matches to go to for recruits.”
“Bullshit,” I say, pushing up out of my chair. It scrapes along the floor and hits the wall behind me. “You didn’t come because you can’t handle anything that reminds you of Mum.”
“Camden,” Tanner’s voice bellows from the archway of the hall, jolting me out of my rage. His hair is a mess and his beard is misshapen, but his eyes have that look that tells me he’s not in a joking mood. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just sick of talking about fucking football. It’s all we ever do!” I turn on my heel, determined to get the hell out of here before I completely break down like the emotional sap I am.
Tanner steps in front of my path to the hallway and places both hands on my shoulders, gripping them firmly. But it’s not to stop me. It’s not to scold me. It’s to show me that he hears me. Our eyes lock for only a couple of seconds before he nods and lets me go.
Go where, I don’t know.