Rusk University: All Lined Up Part 26

No. No, I can't. I have never let anything in my life slow me down. Not failure, not money, not missed opportunities. But this? It has me flat on my back, and I'm not sure how I'll ever get back up.

He lets me sit in silence for a while, but when I still haven't answered, he shoves off his desk and pulls open the door.

"Blake!" he calls.

A few moments later, Ryan's head pops into the entryway of the coaches' lounge.

"Yes, sir?"

"McClain is going to need a little help getting focused this morning. Think you can help him out?"

He steps fully into the coaches' lounge and answers, "Yes, sir."

He turns back to me. "It's done, son. Put it to bed. We've got homecoming this week, and I need you thinking clearly."

I might say, "Yes, sir." I'm not actually sure. But a few minutes later I'm out of the office and staring at my usual treadmill with Ryan by my side.

"You okay, man?"

I take a deep breath, pump up the incline and the speed on the treadmill, and mutter, "No," before I take off.

SHE FINDS ME in the library on Tuesday right after my meeting with the private tutor the team set up for me. I'm packing up my stuff when I recognize the familiar odd positioning of her feet next to mine.

I look up at her, and then around at the library.

Everyone is watching. Even the librarian.

She touches my forearm, and I slide back out of her reach.

"Can we talk?"

"Are you sure you wanna do that?" I ask.

A couple of smaller sports blogs have already picked up the story, and even though everyone involved refused to talk to them, it didn't stop them from speculating.

It wasn't exactly smart for us to be seen together.

"Please, Carson. Just for a sec?"

I nod, and follow her back to the same obscure stacks containing books about copyright law that we spoke in a few weeks ago.

As soon as we're away from prying eyes, she drops her bag and throws her arms around me. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I was so stupid."

By the time I slough off the stiffness in my shoulders enough to hug her back, she's already stepping away from me.

"You okay?" I ask. That's all that really matters to me. Everything else I can deal with.

"Humiliated, mostly. And very, very sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry about."

She widens her eyes and nods. "Yes, I do. None of this would have happened if I hadn't freaked out in Silas's room."

"You're okay?" I ask again, hoping she knows that I'm referring to that night in particular because I don't really have the words to voice it.

"Yeah, I am. I just heard this rumor, and-"

"The bet," I say.

She jolts back a step. "Yeah, how did you know?"

"Coach asked me about it."

"Oh G.o.d. I swear I didn't tell him that. I just told him that I heard a rumor. He must have gotten it from someone else on the team."

"But that's what you thought? That that's what I was doing?"

"No!" Her voice is too loud, and a couple heads peek around the corner to look at us. She lowers her volume and starts again. "No. I didn't think that. I questioned it for a few moments when I saw you being all buddy-buddy with Silas, but decided you wouldn't do something like that. What followed wasn't about the bet so much as it was about some other issues that I've been dealing with for years now. That was me trying to hit my self-destruct b.u.t.ton, and using you to do it. And I'm sorry."

"What other issues?" I ask, wondering what could possibly be so bad that she would have crumbled so completely.

"Issues we can talk about when there's not someone eavesdropping the next aisle over." She glares at someone through the gap between the top of a row of books and the shelf above it, and they scamper away.

"You moved back home?"

"Temporarily. Dad got a little worked up about everything, and I decided it was easier for everyone involved if I let him feel like he was in control for a little while."

"That's probably a good idea."

She looks shocked that I agree with her, like she expected me to put up a fight.

"You think so?"

"I do. I think we both took things a little faster than we should have, and we let it all spin a little out of control."

She pauses for a few seconds, and then nods slowly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess we did."

I step a fraction of an inch closer, and then stop myself. "I'm glad you're okay, Dallas. I was worried."

Then, for both of us, I turn and walk away.

Chapter 28.

Dallas They say misery loves company, and I'm fairly certain I occupy all of her time the next few days. I'm so pathetic, even she is probably sick of me. I go to cla.s.s, while people whisper behind my back. I eat lunch with Stella, while people whisper behind my back. I gradually descend into madness, while people whisper behind my back.

I go to work, and I complete my homework, and I crawl home, where I spend most of my time alone . . . continuing to be miserable. Because even despite all that, things must keep moving. I have a plan, after all. Work. Save up money. Audition to transfer to a real dance program. And do what I have to do . . . no matter what Dad says. And now . . . that plan is kind of all I have left.

I take Annaiss up on her offer to talk. She asks me about the picture, and I tell her the same thing that I tell everyone who asks.

It's not what it looks like. Carson would never hurt me.

At least not intentionally . . . not like that.

But I don't want to talk about any of that. It's still too raw and close to the surface. So, instead, we talk about dance. I tell her about Dad and my frustrations with his inability to see dance as a career. We talk about school and programs and summer intensives, and I concentrate on the things I can control.

Thursday morning, Dad asks if I'll go with him to some dinner that a board member is hosting for a few faculty members and important alumni who are in town for homecoming.

I tell him no.

I am maxed out on pretending, and I just don't have the energy or inclination to perform for a group like that.

So instead, I spend my Thursday curled up with the most depressing book I can find, one that will give me an excuse to feel sad without feeling pitiful also. I feel plenty sad when it's over, but plenty pitiful, too.

I'm curled up on my bed, swaddled in blankets when there's a knock on my door and Dad steps inside.

"You hungry?" he asks. "I brought Tucker's home."

I sit up, still strangled by blankets. "I thought you had that dinner tonight."

He's wearing dress pants and a tie that he struggles to loosen as he looks at me.

"I did. I went there, made my appearances, and then I came home to have dinner with my daughter."

G.o.d, even Dad thinks I'm pathetic. I must be in terrible shape.

"Yeah. Give me a second. I'll be right out."

He closes my door, and I hear him walk down the hallway. I throw off the covers, and look down at the pajamas I changed into as soon as I got home. Eh. They'll do.

I pad down the hallway, pause, go back and grab the smaller blanket off the foot of my bed, wrap it around my shoulders, and then go to join Dad.

When he says he brought Tucker's . . . he means he brought all of Tucker's. I swear there's enough food to feed the Weasley family for only the two of us.

"I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I just got a few of your favorites. Figure we can warm up whatever we don't eat later."

"Thanks Dad."

He nods, and starts piling various barbecued and fried meats onto his plate. I'm not all that hungry, but I do the same because I know he's trying. He's still Dad, though, so even with the thoughtful meal, we sit down on the couch in front of his giant television, and he turns on game film.

He's nervous about Homecoming. We're 31, and this game could set the tone for the rest of the season. It could decide whether the team bounces back from the drama with Levi (and the drama I caused with Carson), or whether it will crumble under the weight of it all. This one game could dictate the rest of Dad's career in college football, or potentially ruin it. Rusk only signed him on a one-year contract, and even though nothing that's happened has been his fault, they could easily refuse to renew his contract if they want to.

And then there's no telling what would happen to us, to me. If he moved to some other university, would he make me go with him? Would he trust me enough to let me stay at Rusk? Not that I actually want to stay at Rusk, but it's a better option than a lot of the universities he could end up at.

He needs the win. Carson needs the win.

h.e.l.l, I think I need it, too.

After dad has rewound one portion of the film three times to watch it again and again, I finally cut in and say, "It's gonna be okay, Dad. The team is ready. Carson is ready. It will all work out."

He finishes chewing the brisket he'd just scooped into his mouth and surveys me. "Isn't it supposed to be my job to say everything's gonna be okay?"

I shrug. "That's one job with plenty of work to go around. Besides . . . you know what you're doing. You're wasting energy second-guessing yourself."

"Some days I think I'd be better off sticking my head in the sand and rolling the dice. That's how much I know what I'm doing."

I shoot him a half smile. "Interesting visual. I'd like to see that."

He shakes his head, shoveling another helping of brisket into his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know you don't like football. Never have."

"Not never, Dad. There were moments when I really loved it, actually."

"Coulda fooled me."

"It's not easy coming second to a sport, Dad. You'll have to forgive me if I handled it badly sometimes."

He sets down the remote that he was holding in his left hand so he could stop and manipulate the film as needed.

"Is that what you think? That football was more important to me than you?"

I consider his question for a moment. Yes, a big part of me thought that, but that was the side of me that tended toward dramatics.

"It's not that I think you saw football as more important, but more that you connected better to football than you ever did to me. You understood the game, and it understood you back. And I was left on the sideline, confused and on the outside of both."

He whistles softly through his teeth. "I really screwed up this whole parenting thing, didn't I? You go years thinking you did all right, never realizing just how much damage you caused."

"You did the best you could, Dad. I had a roof and a bed and food and necessities . . . that's more than a lot of people can say. Besides, I didn't turn out that bad."

"You turned out just fine, but I don't know how much of it was my doing." He considers me for a moment and adds, "You look so much like your mother. Just like her, except for the height. You'd tower over her."

I could count on one hand the number of times he'd mentioned Mom in front of me.

Careful to keep my gaze directed down toward my food, I ask, "Do you miss her?"

He blows out a breath, his eyes similarly fixed on the game on the TV. "I don't know. It's been a long time since I gave myself the option of missing her. I've been wondering, though, if she would have handled this all better. If she would have known what to do."

Good to know the whole clueless thing doesn't go away with age.

"Don't beat yourself up over stuff like that, Dad. She didn't stick around. You did. It's crazy to let yourself lose to a memory."