I was exhausted earlier, but suddenly I’m not. I head to the couch and grab sweatpants and a sweatshirt from the suitcase resting against it. I quickly change and then walk into the kitchen, swinging the fridge door open and hauling myself up on the edge of the marble countertop to survey the contents.

Wasteful? Yes.

Convenient? Also yes.

I’m not hungry. I’m scavenging for liquid contents. I’ve had enough alcohol to know more is a bad idea, but also enough where I’m not exactly thinking logically. I compromise by grabbing a bottle of beer and a can of seltzer. I stroll out the door off the kitchen, onto the deck, and down into the grass.

The lawn feels like home. I’ve spent more hours on turf than I could ever count, but mostly with the barrier of cleats. Crushing blades of grass is much more satisfying when it’s with your bare skin.

There’s a hammock strung up between two broad beech trees, and I flop down atop it, beverages in hand. I can’t see anything through the canopy of leaves, and I prefer it that way. Stars have a way of suggesting too much. The vastness of the universe makes me feel too small, too inconsequential. Like maybe the decisions I have to make aren’t quite as massive as I’ve made them out to be.

In the grand scheme of the world, they’re definitely not.

In the context of my life, they’re trajectory. They’ll send me careening down one path with no chance of ever returning to another. There will be other choices farther down the trail, but no chance to return to where I am right now. That’s what has me paralyzed in place. Because I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t let anything detract from my soccer goals.

Adler Beck has already made his mark in the sport.

I’ve barely scratched the surface.

I toss the drinks on the ground, belatedly realizing they’ll probably explode whenever they’re opened. Too tired to care, I push off from the ground so the fabric I’m lying on starts rocking back and forth.

I’m asleep before it stills.

* * *

“If only I had a camera on me.”

I squint upward and find Hallie’s smirking face. “Why have a hammock if you’re not going to use it?”

“We use it plenty. We just don’t sleep in it.”

I stretch, relieved to discover a bird didn’t decide to crap on me overnight. My muscles are stiff, but I’ve definitely woken up feeling worse. “You should. Switch things up a bit.”

Hallie rolls her eyes, and I know she’s taken my words as a personal affront, an assertion that she plays it safe while I dance with danger.