“I’ve got a lot on my mind, Coach. Needed to burn a little bit of that off,” I say, somehow knowing Coach Marcus will probably understand without asking too many questions.

“I get that,” he says. “I’m here before six every morning except Fridays if you need me, yeah? A little extra weight-room time is never a bad thing, especially with St. John’s coming up at the end of the week. Taylor is right around the corner.”

“Yes, sir.” I nod at him. “Thank you.”

“Hey, you’re doing an outstanding job,” he tells me, clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

I head to the shower. Sore, but feeling a lot more settled than I was before the sunrise. I stand under the steam, knowing the only thing I can do today is keep to myself. I don’t even want to talk to Julian.

I probably especially don’t want to talk to Julian.

I wish he could comfort me. I wish he could say that he’s sorry about what happened with our dads and magically it would make all these shit feelings disappear, but I don’t think it would.

All through first period, Camille keeps whispering my name and trying to pass me notes. I keep my head down and eventually put my earbuds in to get my reading done. She finally gives up, and I race out of the classroom as the bell is still ringing.

At lunch, I get to the football table first and take out a brown bag with a peanut butter sandwich and some fruit. Julian sits down next to me.

“Can we talk?”

“I can’t talk to you right now,” I say.

“Later? Can we talk later?” he asks under his breath as the rest of the guys sit down with their lunch trays.

“I don’t even know what to say right now,” I tell him, and I turn away from him, toward the rest of the team.

“Well, the pigs got out last night,” Bucky says loudly as he pulls the skin from an orange.

The rest of the guys laugh because they know an Epic Bucky Story is about to follow.

“My dad and I had just gotten the pen closed when we realized that someone had left the opposite gate wide open. That ‘someone’ was probably me, but let’s just not talk about that little piece of the story. Do you know how hard it is to wrangle three dozen little baby squealers when your boots are covered in pig shit and it just rained a couple days ago? Good gravy.” He shakes his head and yawns loudly. “Then their mama is madder than a wet hen while we’re chasing the piglets through the yard, thinking we’re trying to make bacon out of ’em.”