Rusk University: All Lined Up Part 25

I don't think Carson had anything to do with that bet, not with the way he reacted, the way he stopped things from going further, but that doesn't help with the humiliation burrowed so deep beneath my skin that even the scalding-hot water of the shower can't touch it.

G.o.d, what he must think of me.

At least I didn't mention the bet. At least he doesn't know just how little I trusted him for a few moments there. Because the only thing that hurts more than my own pain is the idea of causing his.

But when I finally pull myself out of the shower, wrap a towel around my frame, and face my bloodshot eyes in the mirror . . . I have to ask myself- Regardless of how much I like Carson, do I like the person I am with him?

It would be an easier question to answer if I had any idea who I really was.

Back in the room, I tell Stella everything. Including the fact that I slept with Levi. As I predicted, she's hurt. I can see her questioning our entire friends.h.i.+p. What else haven't I been telling her? But I promise her that I have no other outstanding secrets. Not after I tell her everything about Carson and me, too.

When I finish, I'm furious to find myself crying again, but at this point, it's not something that I can turn off or stuff down anymore. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to do that again. She pulls me into a hug, and together we lie on my tiny twin bed until I've gotten it all out of my system.

"Everything is going to be okay," Stella a.s.sures me.

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. That guy is head over heels for you, and this is just a b.u.mp in the road."

"It's not Carson I'm worried about. It's me. I trust him a h.e.l.l of a lot more than I trust myself."

She pushes my hair back out of my face and sighs. "Oh, sweetheart. You're going to be just fine. You're nowhere near as screwed up as you think you are." I know that's a dig at herself. I recognize the self-loathing because I am a master at it. "This is just what it feels like to get older. It won't be the last time you look back at your life and realize just how stupid or naive or terrible you've been. I'm pretty sure that's a reoccurring thing until death do us part. The truth is . . . we're all a little screwed up. If humans were capable of being perfect there would be no such thing as Jerry Springer, and the world would be filled with unicorns and fairies, and families would never be broken, and children would never disappoint their parents, and things wouldn't hurt as badly, but it also wouldn't feel so d.a.m.n good when things go right. And friends wouldn't have anything to stay up late and talk about because everything in the world would be too boring to matter. The only thing we can do is try to find people whose scars compliment our own. And I'm pretty sure Carson McClain would carry your baggage around the world and back if you asked him."

"You think?"

"In a heartbeat."

We fall asleep that way, two grown women in one twin bed, like we're still freshmen in high school having a sleepover, whispering about boys and gossip so my dad won't hear. Things were so much less scary then. We were rus.h.i.+ng headfirst into the future with no idea just how complicated things would get on the way.

WHEN A KNOCKING at the door wakes us, the sun is bright and bleeding through the blinds. Stella mumbles a "Go away" and burrows deeper under my covers. How the two of us managed to sleep through the night in one twin bed is one of the great mysteries of the universe, but when the knocking gets louder, I snap to attention.

Carson. It has to be Carson. I scramble over Stella trying to get out of my bed, and my knee accidentally sinks into her midsection.

"Easy on the bladder, Dallas, unless you want a mess in your bed."

"It's Carson," I whisper. "Just a second!" I call toward the door.

Stella props up on an elbow and says, "I'm guessing you want me to make myself scarce?"

"Just for a little bit? Please."

She nods. "I'll go take a shower."

While she gathers her things, I take a quick moment to look in the mirror. I pat down my hair, tucking stray strands behind my ears, and resituate my pajamas so everything is covered.

When it's as good as it's going to get, I open the door.

My stomach plummets.

"Dad?" I glance at him in confusion, and only after a few moments do I realize he's dressed for church. "Oh my G.o.d. I forgot about church." I had no idea he cared strongly enough about my attendance to drag himself to my dorm. I've never skipped before, but clearly it matters to him. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I had kind of a rough night last night, and I fell asleep without setting an alarm."

"I know."

His expression is so neutral that I'm jolted by the barely concealed rage I hear in his voice. He can't be that mad about church.

"You know what?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just swallows, his thick neck bulging with strained muscles.

Stella pops up by my side with her towel and shower basket. "I'm just gonna go take a shower so you two can talk."

When she's gone, I step back to let Dad into the room. He takes a seat on Stella's fuchsia bedspread because her bed is still made. He's so big that he makes the dorm bed (h.e.l.l, the whole dorm room) look miniature. And he's wearing some expression that I have never seen on his face before. Not normal, not p.i.s.sed, not football, but something that scares me far worse.

"Dad. What's going on?"

He wraps the fingers of his left hand around the fist of his right and squeezes until I hear a few pops.

He swallows and his voice is scratchy and uneven when he speaks. "I realize that I have not always been there when you needed me, and I'm sorry. I won't make excuses because none of them are good enough. But I can do better."

I keep waiting for his yell to break loose, for this to turn into a fight. We're in uncharted waters, and I'm in danger of drowning.

"I never wanted you to feel like you couldn't talk to me. But I let my unwillingness to talk about how I was feeling dictate how our relations.h.i.+p worked, and I'm sorry."

I feel tears p.r.i.c.k my eyes, and I'm shocked that I even have liquid left in my body after last night.

"So I'm telling you now that you can talk to me. Whatever is going on in your life . . . I'll listen. And I will always, always take your side."

"Dad," I start softly. "No offense, but you're kind of scaring me."

He chokes on something that might be a laugh, and drops his head down, pus.h.i.+ng his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. "At least we're on the same page there."

When he finally looks back up at me, I raise my eyebrows and shake my head because I have no idea what's happening here.

He sighs. "You're really going to make me be the one to say it?"

"Considering I have no idea what it is . . . yeah. It's gonna have to be you."

He unlocks his phone and after a few taps and swipes, he hands it to me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to focus and process what I'm looking at. It's blurry around the edges, but there in the center is me against a wall, looking up at Carson. The purple dress I wore last night is bunched up around my thighs, and he has his arm around my neck in a way that looks painful because of the expression I'm wearing, but I know for a fact that his touch was as soft as could be. His jaw is a hard line, and if I hadn't been there myself, I would swear it looks like he's hurting me. And with my dress all skewed, it looks even worse than that.

"Oh G.o.d. Oh my G.o.d. How did you get this?"

"Since the thing with Levi, I have a grad a.s.sistant keeping an eye on the players, their online accounts and stuff. I want to know what they're getting into before it's too late. He called me this morning to tell me he saw this popping up all over Facebook."

I need to sit down, but my bed is too far away, so I just plop down on the floor at Dad's feet.

"This is my fault," Dad says. "I should have kept you away from athletes. They can be volatile and unpredictable, and now because of me you've been hurt by two of them."

"Dad, no." I pull myself up on my knees so that I'm nearly at eye level with him. "This is not what it looks like. Carson didn't hurt me."

His mouth twists like he's tasted something sour.

"I know you don't want to talk with me about these things, but I can't ignore something like this."

"I swear to you. I know this looks bad, but Carson is a good guy."

He grabs the phone out of my hand and holds it up. "However you may feel about him, this is not a good guy."

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 G.o.d, 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 s.h.i.+ft 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."

"d.a.m.n 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 champions.h.i.+ps 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 d.a.m.n 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?

"No, sir," I say as firmly as I can.

"Did you sleep with my daughter, period?"

I'm still too caught up in unraveling his last question, wondering how Dallas could ever think that, but I answer him, "No, sir."

"Then I think this is all just a misunderstanding, and we can move past it."

"Move past it?"

"Yes, McClain. That's what I said. Think you can do that?"