Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I tried to look on the bright side, but my gut churned regardless. I hated that my father’s misguided approval had influenced me for so long.
Thanks.
By Monday lunchtime, nothing had blown over as Spencer predicted, and everyone seemed to know about the letter. Obviously, someone on the team thought it was funny or titillating to share what had gone down.
In any other circumstance, I would’ve let it go. It wasn’t like Lark and I had been caught having sex in the bell tower—which was one thing to be thankful for; I’d be able to keep that mind-blowing experience all to myself.
But just like I’d told Lark, the discovery of the note felt like the beginning of my unraveling. I was having chest pains on and off all day and could barely eat anything. It would be a relief to finally tell my teammates about my medical history. They’d hear about it soon enough anyway, especially if my persistent symptoms meant the cancer had returned.
It was awkward at the lunch table, so I should’ve waited to grab something to eat after my next class. It felt like the guys were treating me with kid gloves. But could I blame them after the way I’d acted—and then went on to blow the game?
Flash tried to make amends, but it fell flat after a weekend of ignoring each other.
“I’m sorry that finding your note put you in a bad headspace for the game,” he said quietly as we were leaving the dining hall. “I was just being an idiot.”
“Yeah, you were. Maybe read the room before you decide to ham it up for the guys.”
He nodded sullenly as we parted ways.
I walked through the rest of my day like a zombie, gearing up for practice and to ultimately get this off my chest. Even though it felt like I was betraying my father, I knew it was the right thing to do. His fears about it all were misguided. Besides, even if some of them did treat me as weak or delicate afterward, I could prove them wrong by leading the team to the playoffs. The season was far from over.
And afterward, I would make an appointment with my oncologist and ask them to run tests.
The beginning of practice was awful. My throws were mostly on target, but the offensive line and I were not meshing at all. There were dropped passes and low energy, and I needed to do something about it.
“Coach,” I said, jogging over to him. “Do you mind if we take a ten-minute break so I can talk to the team?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“You’ll see. Just…trust me?”
“Go for it.”
Coach blew the whistle and motioned for the team and assistants to meet on the fifty-yard line. I was pacing, my hands were clammy, and the sooner I got this over with, the better.
When I had everyone’s attention, I said, “I’m sorry I was off my game on Saturday.”
There was a low rumble.
“I allowed what happened on the bus to get to me.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Spencer said. “You’re human, just like the rest of us.”
“Thanks, but I still feel like I need to explain myself.”
I saw the relief in Spencer’s eyes as he nodded in support. Coach’s eyebrows had risen to his hairline, but I ignored him, tuning in to my teammates and their uncomfortable body language.
“The reason why Flash finding that note and reading it out loud bothered me so much is because”—because I love Lark and feel protective of him—of us—“because when I was a kid, I had cancer. Leukemia.”
Coach’s eyes went comically wide, but he stepped forward as if to offer me support. Maybe he was even relieved, who knew. Guess I was about to find out.
“I was in the hospital for a couple of months, and I underwent a bone-marrow transplant. That was where I met Lark Levitt. He had cancer too. It was tough because we were so sick and didn’t know if we would live or die. There were some hard days, and we grew close because, well, who wouldn’t, going through that together?” Most of the team looked shell-shocked as they listened closely. Flash looked green and remorseful. “I left the hospital first, and after we said goodbye, we never saw each other again. That note got me through some tough days in my recovery. That’s why I keep it. It means something to me. I never thought I’d see him again, so I was stunned to have him show up at Roosevelt. I was relieved to see he’d made it too. That he was alive.”
“Holy shit, why didn’t you just tell us that?” Bones said, throwing his hands up.
Coach immediately shushed him. “Let him finish.”
“The thing is, my dad wanted me to keep my health history private. He thought people would only see me as a kid in remission and not judge me based on my academic or athletic skills. Like maybe you’d feel sorry for me or think I couldn’t cut it.”