until someone slams their hand on the driver’s side window of my car, right in my face, that the noise rushes in.
I blink at Dave through the glass. Wait, how did I end up in my car? How much time has passed? It’s almost dark out now.
He tries the door handle. It’s locked. “What are you doing? The game is about to start. You missed warm-up.”
Oh shit. The game. The recruiter.
I should fling open the car door, change into my uniform, and book it to the field with Dave. Maybe that’s what alternate-universe Ryden Brooks is doing right now. Or maybe he’s already there, warming up, because he never met Meg Reynolds in the first place. But all I do is slowly rest my head on the steering wheel.
Why did I think the journals would actually contain good news? A cheat sheet of parenting tips? Really, Ryden? What the hell is wrong with you? You should have left well enough alone.
Dave pounds on the window again. “Ryden! What the f!”
Ha. Dave doesn’t curse. Forgot about that. It’s annoying. Sometimes a situation really calls for a shit goddamn fuck motherfucker, you know? Like right now, for example.
“Why is everything so hard?” I ask. I’m still face-to-steering-wheel, so I’m pretty much talking to my crotch, but I know Dave can hear me.
“What do you mean?” he asks, sounding a little less pissed off.
“Why does everything suck so bad? Even when you think it’s getting better, it’s not. Life’s building up suckiness, getting ready to hit you again, at the worst possible moment.”
“Dude.” Dave’s voice is way lower. I can barely hear him, so I lift my head and roll down the window a little. “Is this about Meg? I…uh…I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about…you know, for your loss—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “Don’t. Just don’t, okay? I can’t talk about this right now.” Not without breaking a few car windows and hand bones anyway.
Dave nods, all relieved-like. “Well, I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to play, man. That recruiter is here to see you. Besides, we have no chance of winning without you.”
The recruiter is here to see me. No one else, only me. And that’s who I need to be thinking about now—me.
I squeeze my eyes shut for three seconds, promising myself that by the time I open them, I’ll be ready to play. One. Two. Two and a half. Three.
I open my eyes.
Everything’s the same as it was earlier today before I laid eyes on that godforsaken journal, I tell myself. Just because the whys have changed doesn’t mean the whats have. Everything’s fine.
Yeah right. Nice try, brain.
But I can still do this. I need to.
Don’t let her win.
I unlock the door.
“Okay. Let’s go.” I throw on my uniform right there in the parking lot, right in front of the stragglers who are still making their way to the stands. At this point, I don’t give a shit if people see me in my underwear. Dave and I break into a run.
The stands are completely packed with fans dressed in Puma blue and white, the lights are on, and the guys are out on the field, ready to start. Coach O’Toole is standing next to a middle-aged guy in a blue-and-gold jacket. UCLA Bruins is written on the back. Walter Paddock. I remember him from my visit to the school.
The energy of the place pushes into me. Yes. This is exactly where I need to be.
“Thanks, Dave,” I say, clapping him on the back. He raises his eyebrows in a good luck—you’re going to need it look and runs out onto the pitch.
Fuck luck. I don’t need luck. This is soccer. I’m good at this.
Just don’t think about her.
I approach the sidelines. “Coach,” I say, trying desperately to clear my head. I secure my hair back in a rubber band and pull my socks up over my shin guards. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had a…family emergency.”
Coach looks like he would love nothing more than to punch my lights out. But he knows how important this game is to me—he’s got to know I wouldn’t have been this late unless something major went down. You know, like finding out your dead girlfriend was a lying, selfish, cruel bitch.
Goddammit, Meg.
Don’t. Think. About. It.
“Ryden, this is Walter Paddock, the head recruiter for the UCLA men’s soccer team,” Coach says simply, letting his eyes do the real talking. Even if I kill