Our season is officially freaking over—before Christmas. Not even a bowl game.

He guzzles the water then drops it and looks at me, a furrow on his brow. “Wait a damn minute—did Crazy Carl hang out with us?”

“Yep.” Crazy Carl is a regular at The Truth Is Out There. He’s in his sixties and a bit wacko.

“It’s starting to come back…like a nightmare.” He plops down on a stool at the kitchen island and rubs his eyes.

I nod. “He said you looked sad and wanted to do karaoke with you, a Lady Gaga duet. You had the sense to say no. Hollis, on the other hand, sang ‘Hello’ by Adele. Brought down the house. The boy can sing, can’t deny that, but that’s a cry for help.” I grab a piece of bacon and eat it fast. “The bar was packed. I think people just wanted to see if we’d show up to our usual Sunday hangout. Carl was the only one brave enough to say we needed to get our shit together.”

I actually dig Carl. He’s nutty but says wise things. Does that even make sense? No, it doesn’t.

Crew grimaces. “Too late. Football is over, man.”

I lean on the counter, needing to talk to let out some energy. “He meant our personal issues. Then he rambled a bit and told me a story about an alien he saw once. People in this town really go crazy about that stuff. Did you know he played for the Badgers when he was at Braxton? Defensive lineman. All-American. I bet he was good. He’s big.”

He lets out a pained groan. “We’re All-Americans. Is it really over for us?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

The promising chatter about us storming professional football has tanked.

We’re seniors this year, but unlike Crew and Hollis, I’m considering coming back to Braxton for a fifth year (and another season). I was redshirted my freshman year and only played four games, which gives me another year to play.

Hollis, our tight end, stumbles out of his room and rights himself on the wall. He’s tall and built with a head of messy dark hair. “Can you assholes please stop yelling?”

Crew and I snicker. I sing the first line of “Hello” (my voice not nearly as good as his) and he flips me off. “Guess you remember,” I say dryly.

He grunts.

I sigh as I gaze at them, and some of the tension in my chest loosens. We’ve been best friends since freshman year.

I love the fuck out of them.

The Three Amigos on the field.

I’m the can’t-shut-up one, Crew’s the mother hen, and Hollis is the mysterious one. We’re gods on campus. Huh…well, former gods.

Hollis holds up a muscled forearm and blinks at the lights in the kitchen. “God, it’s bright. Water,” he croaks. “My head’s about to explode.”

“Look alive,” I say and toss him a cold one from the fridge.

“You’ll need this, bro.” Crew throws the Aleve to Hollis, but he’s juggling the water and misses the pill container. He lets out a juicy curse as he bends and snatches it off the floor.

“Can’t even catch a damn underhanded throw,” he mutters as he plops down on a stool next to Crew. He heaves out a gusty exhalation. “We suck so hard.”

“Yep,” I say, my tone grim.

We’ve let down our school, our team, ourselves. Even Crazy Carl.

My fingers twist the sterling silver snake ring on my index finger that belonged to my dad. He played for the New York Pythons before blowing out his knee five years into his NFL career. When I was fifteen, he died in a car wreck, leaving a giant hole in our family. Then my mom got cancer. Like the kickass fighter she is, she beat it, but…

I rub my chest.

Go away, go away…

I turn away from them and look out the kitchen window. It’s getting harder to pretend I’m okay. I’m a domino, on the verge of falling and making the whole pile crash down. The elephant on my chest started when Mom’s cancer came back this spring, then that pressure escalated with every game we lost.

Out the window, a red-tailed hawk lands on a bare tree, looking happy as shit in the dead of winter. His feathers ruffle slightly in the wind as his eyes sweep the area. You need to fly farther south, I tell him but he ignores my mental telepathy and stalks along the branch. He’s a fighter.

Am I?

I close my eyes briefly.

Just get through this semester.

Come back next year.

Play better next season.

Get your degree.

Do what you can control.

Mom’s words from Saturday swirl around in my gut. She called me as soon as the game was over, her voice weak but confident. Slay your demons, River. All is possible. I believe in you.

I get it, but I’m a ship without a rudder and I’m terrified I’m going to sink to the bottom of the sea. I don’t have a future, can’t see what’s coming, can’t get a grasp on what I need to do for the rest of my life.

And Mom, my beautiful, feisty mother…

If she dies…

I kick the dark thought down and think about my first class. Like it always does, a tingle of electricity zips over me, knowing I’ll be close, but not too close.

Can’t touch her, but…

Five rows in front of me, she will be there.

Rainbow Girl.

Hair like spun silk.

Green eyes.

Lush mouth.

Short skirts.

Banging body.

Not mine.

My unease spikes as I stare down at my copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. The cover is pristine because I’ve never cracked it open. It’s a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, the words all running together.

For the hundredth time this semester, I ask myself…

Why the hell did I take this class?

I have ADHD, dyslexia, and dyscalculia, a trio of pure hell. My attention deficient and hyperactivity make “decoding” even tougher. You know those articles they write about athletes who slip through the cracks academically because they’re talented athletically? Hello, I’m River. I catch footballs.

My reading level has been tested at… I can’t even say it’s so bad. In a weak moment, I told Blair, my ex, and she laughed in my face. She legit thought I was joking. Yeah, just kidding was my reply, and I swore to never tell a girl again. Let them think I’m just like them.

Pressing my fingers to the cover, I twirl it on the island. Frustration ripples over me. There are days, like today, when I wish I were like everyone else.

That boy can’t sound out words.

Doesn’t know numbers.

Talks too much.

My teachers had a lot to say about me in elementary school.

Then, Dad put a football in my hands.

Hollis and Crew move to the den and stretch out on the couch, their legs propped up on the coffee table. I follow them, too antsy to sit, so I pace.

Crew reaches for the remote, sees my face, then eases it back down like it’s a grenade.

I sigh. “Not worth seeing our faces all over ESPN.”

He closes his eyes and leans his head back on the couch.

Hollis has grabbed a Ding Dong—where did he get that?—and eats it in two bites. “When is this godawful semester over?”

“Two more weeks till winter break,” I say tightly as I grab my backpack and a bag of laundry I pulled together to drop off at the Kappa house where there’s a washer and dryer.