“Any relation to Zeb Ellis?” I ask, thinking back to the run-in I had with the man.
Hayes nods. “Yeah. It’s his dad.”
I groan. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
Part of being a good coach means building relationships with the players, but that’s nearly impossible when their view of you has already been tainted by their parents. It won’t stop me from trying. Each kidout on the field will get my all. It just makes it hard.
Hayes gives me a funny look, then turns his attention back to the field. “Morgan and Tanner actually had a few run-ins last year on the football team.”
“What kind of run-ins?” I ask, unsure if I’m more upset that Tanner was fighting or that I didn’t know about it.
“Relax, coach,” Hayes says, using his cop voice. “One battle at a time.”
Chapter 12
Lily
One of my most vivid memories from my childhood is the gnawing pain of going hungry.
By the time I was sixteen, I knew that feeling well. My mom had become a full-time alcoholic by then, and alcoholism doesn’t pay the bills. My dad was still in and out of our life, but never with money—and by that time, I’d learned to hate him anyway.
But the thing about going hungry is that you always remember the ones who fed you. For me, that was my high school math teacher, Ms. Whitmore. She was a middle-aged, single woman who truly was in the educational field for her students. She loved every kid that sat in her classroom and treated them with the same compassion, no matter who they were. It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized how deeply lonely she was. Her students were her family, and in a way, she was mine, too—at least in the sense of how I imagined family should have been for me.
There was this one day when I hadn’t eaten in several days. My mom was on a binger, and I was too busy taking care of her to take care of myself.
I went to school that day with pain eating the lining of my stomach and low blood sugar, making my head spin. I should have stayed home, but school was my outlet, my one chance to get a break from the responsibilities that had become mine at home. I made it to sixth hour that day before everything fell apart.
Ms. Whitmore was standing at the front of the class, teaching polynomials, when the world began to swim. I fought against it for as long as I could, but eventually, the darkness at the edges of my vision won, pulling me under.
When I came to, Ms. Whitmore stood over me in the nurse’s office, a look of worry creasing her brows.
“Lily dear,” she said, “You gave me quite the fright. Are you okay?”
My head was still woozy, but I had enough wits about me to know I needed to lie. If the school found out about how things were for me at home, they would have put me in foster care, and there would be no one there to take care of my mom. She’d needed me.
“I’m fine,” I said, slowly sitting up. “I just—uh—I think I must be catching the flu or something.”
It was a flimsy excuse, but it was all I had.
“We should probably call your mom to come get you.” I hadn’t noticed the school nurse at her desk in the corner until she spoke.
“No.” Panic squeezed at my chest, and both the nurse and Ms. Whitmore turned to look at me, giving me curious stares. “I mean—she’s in meetings this week and won’t be able to answer.”
The nurse sighed. “Very well. You can stay here and rest for the day. I’ll go get you a glass of water.”
She stood up to leave, and I sighed in relief, watching her walk out. Only my relief came too soon because when I turned my attention back to Ms. Whitemore, she was still watching me—and she looked at me like she could see through my lies.
“Lily, I hope you know you can confide in me,” she said, and the way she looked at me with so much love shining back in her eyes made me want to. My mom loved me—I, at least, knew that—but her type of love was selfish. The way Ms. Whitmore loved me was selfless. She was willing to face down my problems with me if I would have let her, and I wish I had been brave enough to let her. Maybe things could have been different then.
“I’m fine,” I said, dropping my eyes to avoid her gaze. She made me wantto tell her the truth, which was dangerous.
Part of what made Ms. Whitmore so special was that she didn’t push. She let you come to her, so she let me get away with my lie, offering comfort with a squeeze of my arm.
“Okay, Lily. I believe you.”
My eyes stung with tears because I didn’t want her to believe me. I wanted someone to protect me, even if I couldn’t say that.
“Thanks, Ms. Whitmore.”
