Page 105 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

And I can’t bear to think up a response to L.’s latest text.

I love in the same way Icarus must’ve yearned for the sun. So desperate to be close, to climb in someone else’s skin. To be fully seen and understood and accepted. It wasn’t that he wanted to escape—or maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to be engulfed by that feeling and forget reality. To leave behind the earth entirely.

If the sun loved me, I wouldn’t hesitate to strap on wings and fly all the way across the universe. I’d open my arms and welcome the burn.

It’s better than the alternative: cold, alone, empty.

To the sun: Burn me up. Love me. Swallow me whole.

I’m not going to judge my writing from almost a year ago. I still remember scribbling this all in one go. Poetry and flash fiction both satisfy something deep inside me. For this one, I was curled up in the floor of the bathroom. Mom was gone, and I was that alternative. So fucking empty.

There was a storm outside. The thunder boomed and echoed in the trailer, and the rain pelting down on the metal roof made everything louder.

It was the first time I remember feeling afraid in my own home.

We had recently sold our television, so there was nothing to drown out the sounds. At least in the bathroom, there were no windows. I stared at the crack under the door and watched it periodically flash as lightning hit.

My mind, back then, turned to my mother. Where she was, who she was with. It was the summer before my first semester at St. James University, and she was gone again. I hated the choking fear that accompanied thoughts of leaving her.

Just six months prior, she had been fired from her job. It left us even tighter on money, even when I got a waitressing gig at the local bar. I wasn’t old enough to bartend—young for an upcoming college freshman at seventeen—and I couldn’t deliver alcohol to the tables. It meant I had to share my tips with the waitresses who could deliver liquor.

But it was money coming in. Money that went to rent and utilities and food and clothes. That job was how I eventually afforded my first crappy car.

Without me, I didn’t know how she could survive.

So I arranged an on-campus job in the financial aid office and sent home almost all of my paychecks to her. Because even while I was here, she was there, and no better off than when I lived with her.

I rub my eyes again, dragging myself out of memories.

This is why I need to find her. Because she can’t function on her own. She could be in a homeless shelter or the hospital. What if she got hit by a car and is in a coma?

What if the hospital couldn’t get through to me because my fucking voicemail is constantly full of vulgar messages from blocked numbers, and I stopped answering calls from people outside of my contacts? What if they have no way to ID her, so she’s just an unknown Jane Doe in their system? Forever?

I’m spiraling.

I don’t answer L. and I throw my notebook back in the drawer. My case of charcoal follows it. I kick it shut and stride away. It’s better to leave my feelings on the page, in the dark, than relive them.

thirty-one

sydney

Bright and early on Thursday, the day before Halloween, I join my father on the ice at the arena. We skate around the perimeter with to-go coffee cups in our hands. He somehow remembered exactly how I take my coffee. I’ve drunk it with cream and two sugars since I was in high school.

“I wanted to talk to you about your plans for the future,” he says. “And it’s a tough conversation, naturally, so…”

“Doing it while skating,” I agree. Because sometimes it’s easier to focus on what your body is doing than where your mind is going.

“My future. Do you mean next year?” I’ll be a senior if Dad allows me to stay at FSU. “I was hoping to continue here…”

He side-eyes me. “Uh-huh.”

“What?”

“Don’t kid me, Syd. It’s hard to miss how students treat you. Or talk about you.” He sighs. “I thought my name might give you some protection, but it’s just made you stand out more. I apologize for that.”

I grab his arm and stop. “Dad, I’m the one who owes you an apology.” Shame colors my cheeks, but it’s time for the truth. “I broke into Oliver Ruiz’s house right before playoffs last year. And it wasn’t originally to steal those plays, but…”

His eyes widen. “You did what? Sydney, why?”