The Racquet Accident

Chapter Fourteen: Excuse Me For Caring.

Chapter Fourteen: "Excuse Me For Caring."

THE FIRST TIME I lost a provincial volleyball game, I wasn't prepared for what was going to happen. I wasn't prepared for the aftermath.

I was, however, ready for a talk the second I sat down in my dad's truck. I was set for the shame that followed me ever since I made eye contact with my father on my home court to multiply ten-fold. I was prepared for the guilt to overcome my posture, making me want to sink even further down into the passenger seat of the car.

I wasn't ready for the silence. Especially when Wyatt Olsen turned the ignition of his truck on and drove in the opposite direction of my childhood home.

When I thought about that first time years later, I knew there was no reason that a 12-year-old should come home after being in a car one hour longer than she should have been feeling like a sack of shit. She should have been able to meet her mother's eyes after she asked how the game had gone. But I became more familiar with the routine after every loss. I became familiar with the way he walked in behind me when we got home, settling my duffle bag on the ground with a coldness I thought only I could pick up on.

Some twisted part of him must have known that his outrage was terrible. That it was a problem. The screaming and hostility caused redness in his face which was unfortunately hereditary to both of his daughters. The locking of the truck doors was intentional to heighten my anxiety. 

Some part of him must have been filled with some kind of guilt in the aftermath of the aftermath. That part would lead to him answering my mom before I ever could in a softer tone than I always considered physically impossible for him as he said: 'They didn't win but Larine will do better next time'.

For me, the aftermath and the aftermath of the aftermath rendered me silent and locked in my bedroom for the rest of the night. Paula never caught me. Luckily, we didn't share a room. Anytime she saw my red eyes at some point during those nights, I blamed it on allergies even though volleyball season usually ran through winter.

The losses sucked. More than I needed them to because it meant more invigorating practices outside of volleyball. It meant more training to secure a chance to shine, to become a prospect in the future.

The wins? Those were the best part of volleyball. The high with your team as you came together, knowing you succeeded as a unit. The dinners afterward in glory, sometimes posing with our gold medals as brightly as any pre-teen could with braces in the mouth and hair up in ponytails.

The wins were glorious for me. But they were also for the look my dad would give me in the aftermath. This aftermath didn't come with many words, and it didn't come with as many strong feelings as the other one did. However, I knew I wanted that proud look every single time. At a point in my life, I strived towards getting that approval. That everything I was doing, training for, was worth it.

But you could only win so many games before the effect of the losses caught up to you.

A wad of rolled-up paper hit me in the forehead.

I blinked, looking up slowly at Iman in all his glory, grinning across the table from me. He had already set up his laptop at the table I was sitting at as I stared at him. I wasn't expecting him to be here, at Lambton Library on campus. I had been waiting for Jaime. Wait—he threw something at my head. I was ready to fling the paper ball back at him with a scowl when he asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"My tournament tomorrow," I mumbled, putting my face into my hands. "It's the first one on home turf."

"So you're adding another collection to the shirts and medals that you already have. I get that," Iman said with a casual shrug. The ease of his tone made my lips quirk up, pulling me completely out of my thoughts. "Does that mean you're missing my game?"