If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(31)

“Memorize and recite some of my favorite Shakespeare for at least two members of the club. If they agree that I perform genuinely, I’m invited to be a part of it.”

He nods as he steps back from our hug, still smiling. “She told you, then, good. Okay. Cool. Well, lucky for you, our next meeting is two weeks from now. Saturday, six sharp, my place, so get memorizing.”

Shit. That escalated quickly. “Uh. So soon?”

“It’ll be great,” he says. “You’ll be great.” I’m hugged once more as I’m about to argue, make up some excuse to buy me a little more time, but the look Ren gives me, his excitement and happiness, stops me.

After promising to be there, I see myself out. I take my time as I walk, watching the sun climb higher in the sky, feeling the sea breeze cut through my hair, whipping it back.

When I get to my place, I wander around, until my hands find their way to the bookshelves lining the small back room that I keep tucked away, private, just for me. Sliding my fingers along the spines of the books, I find the volume I want, tug it out from the shelf, and sink down into my chair.

The sharp, aching pain that’s become more frequent lately, nearly after every time I eat, claws into my stomach. I suck in a breath and tuck up my legs, gaining some relief in the pressure of wedging a pillow against my stomach, tight between my chest and thighs.

The pain’s bad. Bad enough that I’m starting to think this isn’t something I should keep ignoring any more than I’ve been ignoring the throbbing body aches, the thick fog wrapped around my brain, turning my thoughts sludgy and slow.

I should get myself checked out, get to the bottom of this. Especially now that I’m so close to coming back to hockey. The idea of trying to skate, to play at full capacity, when I feel like this—it seems impossible.

And yet, I’m so tempted to keep avoiding it. I don’t want to know what could be wrong, what could come between me and my identity as a healthy, active person, let alone someone who relies on that for my career and the one thing I love—hockey.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I let my eyes settle over the words, and I think about saying them in front of Ziggy. The pain doesn’t dull, but I’m distracted, even if only briefly, by a calm sense of contented purpose.

It’s strange. And sort of lovely.

Glancing up, seeing my reflection in my windows, which looks so much like my piece-of-shit father, I’m reminded swiftly, brutally, what this little foray into allegedly reforming myself is, all it can be—

A performance that will have to come to an end.





11





ZIGGY





Playlist: “Sheets of Green,” Cat Clyde





“‘An unknown redhead’?!” I growl at my screen, squeezing my phone so hard, my sensory-friendly bubble-backed case makes a series of ominous pops.

“Easy does it.” Charlie, my best friend and teammate, plucks the phone from my grip and slips it back into my bag that’s shoved at the base of my cubby. “Let’s go take out our anger on a soccer ball and let your phone live to see another day.”

“‘An unknown redhead’!”

She grips me by the elbow and drags me toward the exit of our locker room. “Yes, I heard you. Just breathe. Get yourself out on the field, and we’ll deal with this.”

My heartbeat’s pounding in my ears. I barely register our trek out to the field, where Charlie salutes Karla, our Angel City coach, and then proceeds to jog out across the field. Stopping at the cluster of balls that sit in its center, she one-touch boots a ball my way, forcing me out of my head.

It’s like she knows me or something, that only a soccer ball flying toward my face could wrench me out of my spiraling thoughts. I one-touch it back to her, cracking the ball hard.

An audible grunt leaves Charlie as she takes my pass—or more accurately, line-drive—to the chest and drops it to the ground, then sends it flying across the field to me. I run onto it, then dribble her way. Stopping at Charlie’s feet, I set my foot on the ball and meet her eyes, hands on my hips. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She tugs her short, dark hair into a ponytail at the top of her head. “My boobs haven’t been bruised in a while. They were overdue.”

I snort a laugh, scrubbing my face. “I’m mad.”

“Understandably so.” Charlie pokes the ball away from my feet and starts to juggle it. “You are not an ‘unknown redhead.’ You are Ziggy Freaking Bergman, and it’s about time the world knew it.”

“I’m trying, Char.”

Charlie lifts a tiny hand (she’s pocket-size and tiny everything), frowning up at me, hazel eyes narrowed. “You’re doing great. I’m not blaming you. I’m blaming this sexist news machine that fixates on male athletes and traditionally masculinized sports. You are one of the most promising, talented, highest-performing midfielders soccer has ever seen. You were a high scorer your entire career at UCLA, and you’re starting both this and the National Team. The tabloids should know who you are, and you shouldn’t have to do this ridiculous publicity stunt with that good-for-nothing Seb Gau—”

“Shhh,” I hiss, glancing around. “Charlotte, do not make me regret telling you that.”