Page 14 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

More texts come in, nearly constant, and my phone lights up with a call.

I swipe to answer it, a tentative, “Hello?” barely out before the caller interrupts me.

“Go home, you fucking bitch. No one wants you here.”

Click.

I don’t have time to process it, because another call comes in.

“Yeah?”

“Sydney Windsor?” Gruff. Male.

I remain silent.

“Yeah, thought so. St. James didn’t want you so you thought to try your luck here? Nice try, fucking slut?—”

I hang up. My hands are shaking. When another call comes in, I decline it and put my phone on silent. I drop it into a drawer in my kitchen.

What the fuck?

five

sydney

I’m not sure if I’m bored or a masochist, but I decide to scroll through the many texts that came in overnight. Some are trying to get me to answer them, clearly baiting or goading me with inflammatory comments, while others are just straight-up mean. Those don’t care if I respond—it’s more about the knife wound. I don’t know if I should delete them or report them, but when Dad picked me up for dinner last night, I didn’t even mention it.

Once I get through as many texts as I can stomach, I go back to the video. Since it was posted from the FSU gossip account, I have zero luck. There’s no indication of who might run it, and I don’t know enough about the school to even attempt a guess. Not that it would help.

The court of public opinion at FSU is currently strongly against me.

Social media is a nightmare, too. The video tagged me, which seemed to open the floodgates for other people to tag me in shit, too. People I’m not friends with are tagging me in shit-talking posts, memes, edited screenshots of the video where they enlarge certain body parts. There are hideous comments on most of my posts.

I absorb it all without an outward reaction, but inside, I’m boiling. I shouldn’t have come to FSU. I shouldn’t have gotten caught up in trying to figure life out here.

What I should’ve done was just leave. Get a job, take classes part time, maybe get a roommate or something. Now, I’m in too deep. What am I supposed to do, tell my father—who risked his own job to get me accepted—that I changed my mind? Thanks for the nice apartment, for funding basically my entire life for the last six months, for getting me into school without loans, but I’m out?

Not a chance.

A new text comes in, and I automatically click on it. Masochist, as I said.

Unknown

Just block them out.

That’s a new one.

And before I know it, I’m responding.

Me

I don’t know how.

Unknown

Someone will fuck over the football team and they’ll be the new spit-roasted pig over the fire.

If you can last till then, you’re golden.