Page 60 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“I’m fine,” I lie.

On my phone, I click on Mom’s conversation thread.

There are ten unanswered texts from me, the earliest from two weeks ago. I close out of it and switch to L.

Me

I’m having a weird weekend.

Did you see the SJU/FSU game? Were you there?

Where are you?

Nothing. Radio silence. My gut twisting, I type out another message. I didn’t think I’d ever be the type to double text, but here I am.

Me

I’m going fucking crazy, L.

And finally, he replies:

L.

Me, too.

Tell me another lie.

My feelings are too big for my chest sometimes.

And I want to run until I drop dead.

Maddy actually isn’t bad company. We work in near silence, only pausing when we need to get up and stretch our legs. I watch her stuff while she goes to the restroom downstairs, and she returns with two sodas for us.

I think about what I said to L., about running until I drop dead. The weather is getting colder. At night, especially, it’s starting to get that crispness. It’ll snow soon, I bet. We’re higher in elevation here, and snow tends to come hard and fast as soon as we slip into winter.

“What class do you have?”

I check my watch. “Intro to Law in twenty-five minutes.”

“And you’ve been staring at the wall for almost fifteen.” She laughs. “Do you need a break?”

“Nah, just… thinking. I have a writing assignment I need to get working on.”

“What’s it about?”

I pull out my folder of syllabi and flip to the writing class’s. “I need to pick an event that happened more than ten years ago and write a short story like I was there.”

Which should be fun. I actually was intrigued when I first skimmed it last week. Since the start of the semester, we’ve turned in a few short stories working on different techniques, but our professor hasn’t actually got into the grit of the class: critiquing. This is the first piece that we’ll be bringing enough copies for everyone, and then critiquing them over the next two classes. Andi Sharpe has since transferred out of the class, which makes it a little better. Since everyone will soon be reading what I come up with.

“The problem is, there are too many options and not enough information. Do I go abstract with it? I don’t think I want to pick a tragic event.” I frown. “I just can’t decide.”

“What about the Olympics? You could pick any event, any year, really.”

“Hmm…”

Boring.

“I’ve got some time,” I hedge. “I’ll figure it out this week.”