I can’t breathe. I might actually hyperventilate because this . . . this is worse than any outcome I could ever have imagined.
I grab Dad’s hands in mine. They’re big and warm and callused, and they’re shaking. “I swear to you, Dad. Carson was trying to help me. I’m not making that face because of anything he was doing to me, but because I was upset. He was trying to talk to me, to get me to calm down.”
“Your—” He hesitates, like he can’t even manage to say the word. “Your dress.”
I blanche. There’s no good way to explain that, and I’m too much in shock to think of something clever, so I settle for the truth.
“Carson and I have been seeing each other. I was planning to tell you this week, today even. I met up with him at a party last night after the game, but before I could see him, someone told me something, a rumor, that upset me. I thought . . .” Oh God, how could I say this? “I was stupid, and I thought that sleeping with Carson would make me feel better.” Dad’s hands jerk in mine, and I grip them tight enough to hurt. “He stopped me. He told me no. He knew I was upset, and I wouldn’t tell him why, and that picture is me trying to run away before he could make me explain. He’s the good guy in this. I promise. I promise.”
“There are rumors. People are saying—”
“I don’t care what people are saying! People are stupid. You said you would believe me and be on my side. Believe me about this.”
He turns his head away from me and clenches his eyes shut.
“The boy has only been here since August. You can’t have been dating that long because he hasn’t been here that long.”
I let go of his hands, sensing the shift in his anger.
“You’re right. We’ve been friends, I guess, since the first week of school. We’ve only been dating since right before the Levi thing.”
We’ve not actually said the word dating, but considering neither of us wants to spend time with anyone else, I figure we qualify.
He stands up abruptly, and I scuttle back out of his way. “A couple weeks, Dallas? Christ, you were going to sleep with that boy after two weeks?”
The look of disappointment he levels on me makes me feel so small, like I’m shriveling right there on the spot.
“It was stupid. I know that.”
“Damn right, it was. I raised you better than that.”
My first inclination is to get mad, to sling back insults and tell him that in fact, he did very little to raise me at all. But I swallow those words down. Push them so deep that I hope they’ll never see the light of day because I know he’s only yelling because he doesn’t know what else to do.
I know that because that’s what I do, and he must have raised me, because I ended up exactly like him. Terrified of the things I can’t control. Desperate to subdue all the things I can. Frightened of my own feelings. Frightened of everyone else’s, too. For all the teams he’s built, and games he’s played, and championships he’s won—deep down, we’re both just afraid to lose.
And if I fight now, neither of us win.
“You’re right,” I say. “You did raise me better than that. I’m sorry, Dad. So, so sorry.”
He purses his lips and swallows, paces back and forth a couple times, and then repeats it all over again. After he’s done that a few times, he takes a deep breath and says, “I want you to move back home with me.”
“What?”
“Don’t argue with me right now, Dallas. I’ve made mistakes. We both have. And I’ve still got time to fix them, and that starts with you moving back home until you can prove to me that you’re responsible enough to handle this.” He gestures around me at the dorm, but I know he means all of it. School. Dance. Work. Carson.
And even though it kills me, rips me into pieces, I nod and say, “Okay, Dad.”
Chapter 27
Carson
I wait as long as I can bear, and when I show up at Dallas’s dorm on Sunday evening, it’s to find out that she’s gone, moved back home, and apparently the whole university thinks I’m abusive, possibly worse.
I get sick in the bathroom down the hall from Dallas’s room, literally sick over what she must think of me, what everyone (my coach included) thinks of me. Stella tries to convince me that Dallas isn’t mad, that she’s just placating her father, but I don’t hear her.
She went home with him. She hasn’t called or texted. It’s pretty clear what she thinks, so first thing Monday morning, instead of getting dressed for my usual workout, I walk into Coach’s office with my head held high and tell him, “I’ll quit the team.”
His head jerks up from where he was slumped over some paperwork, and the look he fixes me with is damn near stone. He doesn’t say anything, just stands up, walks around his desk, and closes the door connecting his private office to the coaches’ lounge.
He gestures for me to take a seat, but I shake my head, too keyed up to do anything but stand here. He crosses in front of me and leans back against the edge of his desk, pinning me with his stare.
“Why would you go and do a thing like that?”
“To save you the trouble of having to find a reason to cut me, sir.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and asks, “Did you hurt my daughter, McClain?”
I jerk back, but manage to keep my feet planted and my chin up. “No, sir. Never.”
“Did you sleep with my daughter as part of some bet?”
That time I do lose my footing. Is that what she thinks? That I’m part of whatever twisted thing Abrams and Moore had going at the beginning of the year?