One day I hope I’ll be able to laugh about the fact I went to a school with over fifteen thousand willing and available girls for three years, yet managed to fall in love with the only one I couldn’t have in just a couple of months. When Anderson brought up the same sobering statistic, I didn’t speak to him for a week. I’ve made it quite clear to both my friends and family the subject of Vivienne is one I won’t discuss. I know they all think it’s due to anger, or regret, but the truth is, I already think of her often. Too often. I don’t need the additional reminders.

I didn’t think Viv would be easy to forget, but I didn’t think it would be this hard.

Anderson is the only one who still dares to mention her to me. I know it’s because he thinks I’m miffed every journalist and photographer within a fifty-mile radius descended on campus to announce an actual celebrity was in our midst before I knew. He thinks I need to get over my grudge and move on. When I’m feeling particularly petty, I wish that was actually the case.

That I’d been blindsided.

That I hadn’t known and chosen her anyway.

That I could hate her.

I run for longer than I intend to, and by the time I arrive back at the cookie-cutter mansion that is my temporary home, it’s already time to leave for practice. I don’t bother changing out of my sweaty clothes before grabbing my practice bag, phone, and keys off the counter and heading into the connected garage. The shiny silver sports car gleams under the automatic lights, a fresh slash against the wound opened by that glossy cover.

Like the girl who gave it to me, my feelings toward the Porsche are complicated. As complex as feelings toward an inanimate object can be, at least. It’s the car I always dreamed of having, the car I never would have bought myself, given to me by the girl I can never have. In my most bitter moments, I view it as a bribe. In my most desperate moments, I view it as the most thoughtful, extravagant gift I’ve ever received. Like I said; complicated. I’ve considered selling it, but I know doing so would haunt me in its own way.

Despite my thorny feelings toward the car, I can’t deny it’s a dream to drive. The winding streets leading from my gated neighborhood to the Sharks’ stadium fly by underneath the purring engine.

I enter the parking lot reserved for players, unsurprised to find it mostly empty. Most people assume I coast by on my natural talent, but the truth is I’m usually the first to arrive and the last to leave practice. I still have something to prove, even now. Especially now.

I walk through the parking lot and into the luxurious locker room. Lincoln’s facilities were nice, but they pale in comparison to the amenities provided by my new team. Everything looks brand-new, and there’s a faint citrus scent always lingering in the air that makes it difficult to believe the building is frequently filled with dozens of sweaty football players. I arrive at my gleaming wooden locker and change out of my still-damp t-shirt into my practice jersey.