firmly, the way my dad had taught me when I was six, and then, finally, I remembered: Lisa. One of the assistant coaches at UCLA. Not my primary recruit contact, another assistant coach named Wendy, but I’d met her at the camp they’d invited me to last spring.
“Hi, Lisa,” I said. “Wow. I was not expecting you. I’m sorry the weather is so bad,” I added, for some reason.
Lisa waved me off. “Not at all,” she said. We both blinked back drizzle, and she laughed. “I mean. It is bad. But I don’t mind.”
But what are you doing here? I thought. I worried I’d said it out loud, because she continued, “Wendy wanted to be here, actually, but something came up, so she sent me.”
“Ah,” I said. “That’s okay.” I couldn’t breathe.
“We wanted to let you know you’re off the wait list.” Lisa grinned. “We would love for you to play for us.”
Much to my surprise, and Lisa’s, I found myself suddenly crying. Everything I’d been feeling for months, all my doubting and dreaming and disappointment and pride, all the games I’d won and lost, the nights I went home sore and skinned and bruised, the teammates I’d watched grow up and leave and the ones who were still here, who’d been with me all along, the ones I couldn’t imagine being without—all of it rushed to the surface and streamed down my face.
Lisa, looking concerned, gave me a kind pat on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I managed to say. “I’m really happy.” Unexpectedly, I meant it. And it wasn’t just relief that I’d gotten in somewhere (though that was part of it). Maybe UCLA wasn’t my first choice, and I wasn’t theirs, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t be great for each other. Maybe I was wrong about what it was I wanted, I thought. The possibility flickered through me, a series of unending question marks. It didn’t scare me like I thought it would. It felt like being forgiven.
“Good,” she said. “No need to apologize. This is a really stressful time for all of you. I hope this helps.”
I nodded, struggling to hold back more tears. “It does. Thank you.”
“Okay,” said Lisa, giving me another gentle smile. “I’m off. But we’ll have a formal offer to you shortly.”
Not seconds after Lisa left, I felt Ronni’s firm grip on my shoulders. Much of the rest of my team loitered behind her, trying and failing to look otherwise occupied.
“Was that…?”
I nodded. Ronni screamed. She picked me up, and the team I loved rushed to fill every inch of space around me.
I called my dad from the floor of my bedroom, where I wedged myself between my closet’s two open doors. This was where I conducted my hardest phone calls: my coming out to Ronni; my first real fight with Jamie; all the times the love of my middle school life, Cara, called to cry about her boyfriend. With my back pressed to one door and my feet against the other, I felt solid and supported. I took a deep breath and counted each ring, hoping he wouldn’t answer, hoping he would.
“Quinnie, hey!”
I exhaled. “Hey, Dad.”
“I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Oh yeah?” What stopped you? I thought.
“Yeah, so listen. Good news.”
I closed my eyes. Shit. “Wait—”
“I’m staying put. The job out there…I’m not gonna take it,” he said. “I like it here. I’m used to it. And I want to be here for you.”
He sounded so proud and so excited. He’d done the right thing and he wanted me to be grateful. I was, but not for the right reason. I didn’t want him here, I realized. I felt guilty just thinking it.
“Dad,” I started again. “UNC turned me down.”
Silence. I ground hard against the closet door, watching my toes turn white with pressure.
“What did they say?”
“Not much.”
“I’m gonna give them a call—”
“Dad, no,” I said. “It’s done. I don’t want to go.”