He basically hauls me over to the assortment of coolers spread out by boulders and hands me a can of beer.

“You probably don’t need this, but it’s all we brought. Fuck. You good, Scott?” he asks, studying me curiously. And a little warily.

I crack the can open, making a face at the taste as I gulp down the hoppy beverage. I’ve never liked beer, but apparently my time in Germany turned me into an even larger snob when it comes to brewed alcohol. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I challenge.

“Maybe because you got wasted last night and just terrorized one of my freshmen,” Kyle replies. “You’ve probably traumatized him for life.”

“Good,” I mutter darkly. “Maybe he’ll learn to keep his hands to himself.”

“Didn’t you spank Ryan last night during ‘Spice Up Your Life’?” His tone clearly says hypocrite.

“Don’t ask me. I was wasted, remember?”

He sighs. “Your knee is fine, right? You’ll kick ass this season.” Kyle, like everyone else, assumes nothing could bother me unless it’s related to soccer.

I let out a dry laugh. “I know I will.”

There’s no mistaking the naked honesty in my voice, and Kyle looks confused. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine,” I repeat, emphasizing the last word.

Maybe if I do so enough, I’ll believe it.

Chapter Fourteen

The start of preseason is a relief, providing the exact distraction I’ve been craving since returning to Lancaster. I’ve occupied myself the past week by continuing the insanity of my Scholenberg schedule.

The rest of my teammates spend the first week of preseason complaining. Coach Taylor is strict, but she’s not on par with Coach Weber. She eases us into the intensity we’ll need once the season officially starts.

So, I spend the first week of preseason adding extra workouts to stay busy.

“You’re joking,” Anne comments when I come down the stairs on Friday, our fifth day of preseason training, in a fresh workout outfit. She’s icing her shin on the couch, and Emma is sprawled out on the rug doing a convincing impression of a dead body.

Emma raises her head when Anne speaks. “Are you fucking kidding me, Saylor?”

I shrug. “Not my fault you slacked all summer.”

“That’s what summer is for,” Emma retorts before lying back down. “Shit, I need a massage.”

Cressida walks out of the kitchen holding some sort of green concoction in a glass. She studies me as she sips through a straw. “You know we have the scrimmage against Lincoln tomorrow, right?”

“No, that’s tomorrow? I thought it was next year,” I reply, lacing up my sneakers.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not a machine. You can’t keep this up, Saylor.”

I don’t answer, just head out the door.

* * *

I feel sick.