I watch the doors that lead to the lobby, waiting for Mom to come back. Instead, Lucia and Gwen walk in.
“Over here.” I wave.
They both look freaked out.
“What’s going on out there?” I ask.
Gwen sits on the edge of my bed and bites her nails. “Your mom just cussed Reed out.”
“Then she ran him out of the ER.” Lucia looks impressed. “She told him to get his ass out of the hospital or she’d run him over with her car.”
I take a deep breath. I love Mom for doing it, but I wish Tess wasn’t here to witness my mother’s wrath. “What did Reed do?”
“He just kept apologizing and saying it was a big misunderstanding and that he loved you,” Gwen says.
Lucia drops down into the chair beside the bed. “And your mom kept telling him to shut up and get out of her sight. She also told him to burn in hell a few times.”
I’ve seen Mom in action. It’s easy to picture her unleashing on Reed. “What about Tess?”
“She left with Reed. I mean, she had to. He’s her brother.” Gwen fiddles with the remote control for the bed. She presses a button and the bed rises like the chairs at the hair salon. “Sorry.”
“Stop messing with that thing,” Lucia snaps.
Gwen shoots her a dirty look. “Don’t boss me around.”
“Where’s my mom now?” I ask.
“She’s talking to security so they won’t let Reed back in the ER,” Lucia says. She makes eye contact with Gwen, who immediately glances in my direction. She catches herself and looks over her shoulder, in an obvious move.
“Real subtle. Who wants to tell me what else is going on?” My voice cracks.
Lucia curses in Spanish under her breath. “We don’t want to make you feel worse, but I have to ask … What really happened between you and Reed?”
I lie back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling. “You don’t believe me, either.”
“I didn’t say that.” Lucia looks me in the eye. “But you were in a lot of pain after you fell and you were so upset. I—”
Gwen cuts in. “You mean we.”
Lucia glares at her. “We just want to hear it from you.”
“Reed pushed me down the stairs. Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Like, pushed you pushed you? On purpose?” Gwen asks.
“Yes.” I search their faces, trying to figure out if they think I’m telling the truth. I never thought my friends would doubt me about something this serious.
Gwen shakes her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Before your mom came out to the waiting area, Reed wouldn’t shut up about how worried he was and how much he loves you. It didn’t seem like an act.”
“Maybe he believes what he’s saying, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s lying,” I say.
Lucia nods.
Does that mean she believes me?
Behind Gwen, I catch a glimpse of Mom through the slit in the curtain. She’s coming toward us, and I don’t have a chance to ask.
“We should go and let you talk to your mother,” Lucia says. “You’re going to be okay.”
Gwen doesn’t say anything. She just waves as they walk away.
Mom pulls the curtain around my bed closed.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I got rid of that bastard, and I told him to stay away from you.”
“But Tess was there.”
Mom sits on the edge of the bed and rubs my arm. “I wish that hadn’t been the case, but I couldn’t let Reed sit in the waiting area after what he did to you.”
“Tess doesn’t believe he pushed me. I’m not sure if any of my friends do. Everyone thinks I’m confused—that it was some kind of misunderstanding. But you believe me? Right?”
She leans over and takes my cheeks in her hands. “You’re my daughter. I will always believe you. I also know that if you weren’t sure about what happened tonight you would admit it. You’re rational and clearheaded like your father. And you have great instincts.”
“If my instincts are so great, how did I end up here?”
CHAPTER 6
Robo-Girl
MY LIFE IS divided into two time periods—before Reed pushed me down the stairs and after. In less than twenty-four hours, I went from being a star player on the girls’ varsity soccer team with a boyfriend who loved me and an offer letter from UNC to being an injured athlete with a blown-out knee—courtesy of my steroid-abusing ex-boyfriend.
After my visit to the emergency room, two MRIs, and three appointments with Dr. Kao, a highly respected orthopedic surgeon, the doctor gave me an official diagnosis. I had a ruptured PCL—the ligament that runs behind the knee to stabilize it—and damage to some of the surrounding cartilage.
I needed surgery.
Now it’s three weeks later and I’m in Dr. Kao’s office again, sitting in the same chair, waiting for the post-surgery verdict. I hook my thumb in the middle of the chain around my neck and slide Dad’s dog tags from one side of the chain to the other. Dr. Kao opens the folder on her desk and skims a page, her expression unreadable.
My future is written on that page.
What if she says I can’t play soccer anymore? Or if she says I can, but when I get back on the field again I suck? I’m not sure which is worse.
Playing soccer is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. I don’t have a backup plan. Obviously, I’ll get a degree in something when I graduate from college. But I have no idea what.
Dr. Kao flips through her notes. “I have good news. Peyton’s post-surgery MRI looks better than I expected. I was able to repair the PCL with the allograft Achilles tendon without causing the knee any additional trauma.”
Mom exhales like she had been holding her breath. “Thank god.”
Hope swells in my chest. I’m desperate for good news.
Mom turns her wedding ring back and forth on her finger, a giveaway that she’s worried. “What happens next?”
Dr. Kao swivels her stool toward me. “You’ll meet with a physical therapist three to four times a week to strengthen your quadriceps and regain your range of motion. If everything goes well, you should be out of the leg brace soon.”
She’s referring to the black brace strapped to my leg that looks like black body armor from a sci-fi movie Dad loved called RoboCop. Two bars run up the inside and outside of my leg, secured by three adjustable straps that wrap around my leg—at the top of my thigh, and above and below the knee. Circular hinges allow me to bend my knee, but it feels awkward.
“When can I start playing soccer again?” It’s the only information that matters to me.
“The ligament needs time to heal.” Dr. Kao points at my MRI glowing in front of the light box. “You’re lucky the kneecap didn’t shatter.”
Nothing about this situation feels lucky.
“How much time, exactly?” I rake my hands through my hair.
“Four months. But you should be able to resume normal activities in four or five weeks.” Dr. Kao keeps talking, but I’m not listening.
“Four months? That’s almost half the year.” I knew I’d be out for the rest of the fall season, but four months? I do the math. “It’s November now.… I could miss the spring season.”
My high school doesn’t offer spring soccer, so Lucia and I play on a select team that travels all over the country—a team that’s more competitive than the varsity team at Adams. We start playing in March. Even if my knee heals by then, Dr. Kao isn’t going to let me throw on a uniform and run straight onto the field. I’ll probably need more physical therapy, and my select coach will ease me back in slowly.
This isn’t happening.
I stand up too fast and my chair skids backward. I’m not used to the brace, and it throws me off-balance.
Mom catches my arm and steadies me, her hand shaking. “We’ll figure it out. It will be okay, Peyton.”
I sit and slouch in the chair. “I’ll lose my spot at UNC. How is that
okay?”
Dr. Kao shifts on her stool.
“You can’t be the first athlete to sustain an injury. They must have protocols for situations like this.” Mom turns to Dr. Kao, her expression hopeful. “Don’t they?”
“I already know how it works. It’s all in the letter.” Which I practically have memorized. “The offer is contingent on how I perform this year and my ability to start for UNC next year. Division One teams can’t afford to take chances on injured players.” My voice cracks.
The office walls are covered with autographed posters and framed thank-you letters from college and pro athletes whose careers Dr. Kao saved.
I look at Dr. Kao. “Is there anything we can do to speed up the process? Anything at all?” Tears roll down my cheeks. “Please. I have to play in the spring.”
“I know this must be hard to hear, Peyton,” Dr. Kao says calmly. “But if you start playing before the PCL heals properly and you sustain another injury on the soccer field, you will end up back on my operating table.”
It didn’t happen on the field.
Mom panics and hammers Dr. Kao with questions about recovery rates and physical therapy. I wish the questions in my head were as simple to answer.
What if I had stayed home instead of going to the party that night? Or if I hadn’t found the box in Reed’s gym bag? What if I had figured out he was doping sooner?
Would I be sitting in this chair right now?
The answers don’t matter, because I’ll never know.
CHAPTER 7
Burning Bridges
MOM KNOCKS ON my bedroom door and pokes her head into my room. “Do you need anything?”
I’m still trying to process the conversation in Dr. Kao’s office. “No. I’m okay.” The words sound ridiculous coming out of my mouth.
Nothing about this situation or the way I feel is okay.
Mom twists her wedding ring on her finger. “Has anyone called?”
She means Tess.
“Not yet.”
The last three weeks have been miserable without my friends, especially Tess. I’ve talked to her on the phone a handful of times, but the calls didn’t involve any real conversation—just meaningless chitchat between awkward silences. I couldn’t mention my knee or share my fears about the surgery and my future without it sounding like an attack on Reed.
Gwen completely bailed on me after she left the ER. Conflict of any kind makes her nervous, but I never asked her to take sides. I guess I’m better off knowing that our friendship wasn’t worth a single phone call.
At least Lucia didn’t ditch me. She still calls and stops by to hang out and drop off my classwork. She’s also the only one of my friends that showed up at the hospital the day of my surgery. Gwen texted me—the only time since the night I was in the ER.
But I expected Tess to be there. We’ve been best friends forever. Some things are bigger than being stuck in the middle between your best friend and your brother.
Friendship is bigger.
She texted me with a lame excuse about having the flu.
Instead of Tess, I got Reed.
According to Lucia, he hung out in the parking lot, hiding from my mom and calling Lucia for updates. He’s playing the heartsick ex-boyfriend with everyone, including me. He texts and calls me constantly—begging me to give him another chance or to meet him somewhere to talk. Like that’s ever happening.
Soon everyone will know the truth about him.
“Do you think they’ll get the test results before the lab closes tonight?” I ask Mom as she rearranges the soccer trophies on my bookshelf.
“They should…” Mom says. “Reed went in this morning.”
Lucia texted to tell me the test was today, but she didn’t know what time. “How do you know the test was in the morning?”
“Reed’s mother told me when she called earlier to inform me what a terrible parent I am.”
I scoot closer to the headboard and sit up straighter. “She actually said that?”
Mom nods. “Among other things. There was lots of nonsense about how Reed would never use drugs or hurt you. I stopped listening after she told me he used to volunteer at an animal shelter.”
“That’s actually true.”
“Then I feel sorry for those dogs.” Mom has been on a rampage since she saw me in the emergency room and I told her who put me there. That was before we found out the extent of the damage to my knee. “I still think we should’ve pressed charges against him.”
“It would hurt Tess more than Reed. Mrs. Michaels already works two jobs and she still can’t cover their rent and the bills without his help.”
“I care about Tess, but she’s not my daughter,” Mom says.
I’ll never forgive Reed. The moment he pushed me, a switch flipped inside me. It severed the bond between us along with the feelings I had for him. But I still can’t send Reed to jail—not when Tess loves him so much and he’s the only thing standing between Tess and an eviction notice.
“When the drug test comes back positive, he’ll get kicked out of the league. For Reed, that’s worse than spending a few months in jail,” I remind her.
Mom gathers a pile of dirty clothes. “I’m going to toss this load in the wash and do a little stress baking. Any requests?”
“You choose.”
She leaves my door open on her way out. “Yell if you need anything.”
I check the time. Three o’clock. Classes ended for the day at two thirty.
Tess should know the truth soon, if she doesn’t already. But what will that do to our friendship? Will things ever be the same between us if Reed gets banned from the league? I’m the one who reported him. Will Tess think about that every time her mom works an extra shift?
My cell phone rings and Tess’ number appears on the screen. This won’t be an easy conversation. She’s probably hysterical.
I take a deep breath. “Hey.”
Tess sniffles on the other end of the line. “How could you do this to me?”
“Do what?”
“Lie to me,” Tess says between ragged sobs. “You were supposed to be my best friend. I trusted you.”
Were.
The word knocks the air out of my lungs. “I didn’t lie.”
“The results of Reed’s drug test came back, Peyton. They were negative.”
For a second, I’m not sure if I heard her correctly. “Then the results are wrong. They need to test him again.”
My head spins like I’m stuck on a ride that’s moving too fast.
“Did you even think about how this would affect me?” Tess chokes back a sob. “Reed would’ve been banned from competition and the gym. And I would’ve ended up sleeping in the car, with my mom, in the Walmart parking lot. Without my brother’s help, her paychecks would last us two weeks.”
“I’d never do anything to hurt you, or your family, Tess.”
“You already did.”
“But I—”
The line goes dead.
The test came back clean.
How is that possible? Even if Reed stopped doping—which I don’t believe for a second—the drugs would still be in his system three weeks later.
I flip open my laptop and type in a search for beating drug tests for performance-enhancing drugs. Dozens of blog posts and articles pop up: BODYBUILDING TIPS: DRUG TESTS YOU CAN (AND CAN’T) BEAT, MASKING PERFORMANCE-ENHANCING DRUGS, and URINALYSIS: AN ATHLETE’S BEST FRIEND.
The articles lead me down a rabbit hole of forum posts outlining different ways to conceal PEDs in a test, including the most effective cleanses, ointments, and herbal concoctions to get the job done. From consuming ridiculous amounts of water and taking diuretics to dilute any traces of PEDs in your urine to using testosterone patches or an ointment called The Cream to mask steroids—the options are endless and readily available online.
Lucia told me that Reed had willingly agreed to the test. Now I understand why.
A blood test was the only real th
reat—and passing the urinalysis basically guaranteed that Reed wouldn’t have to take one. His trainer wouldn’t push for a blood test and risk losing his best fighter, not when he has Reed’s clean test results to wave around.
My phone pings and I check my texts. Unknown. That means it’s Reed. I blocked his phone numbers, so now he calls from his friends’ phones.
test came back clean. it’s all good.
It’s all good?
What is he referring to, exactly? Getting away with pushing me down the stairs and lying about it? Beating a drug test and destroying my credibility? Or ruining my relationship with Tess?
I want to respond with a cruel comment that will hurt him, but I stop myself. Not because I want to be the bigger person in the situation. I just want him to stop texting and calling, and anything I say to him—positive or negative—will just encourage him.
So I do nothing.
A minute later, he texts again.
miss u. can we talk?
The house phone rings in the hallway.
“Reed? Is that you?” I hear Mom say. “Hello? Whoever this is, stop calling my house.”
“Was it Reed?” I call out.
“I don’t know.”
From the moment the gossip junkies at school heard about what happened at the party, I’ve been inundated with emails, social media messages, and—the latest—prank calls and texts. The fact that I haven’t been to school, or anywhere else except the doctor’s office, for the last three weeks hasn’t deterred the haters.
Team Reed—his friends, girls who want to hook up with him, other athletes who think I’m trying to destroy his future in MMA, and the bandwagon haters—instantly branded me as a bitter ex-girlfriend or “a girl trying to get attention.”
Reed’s clean drug test will give them another excuse to rally.
A handful of supportive messages also showed up in my inbox. Most of those were from anonymous senders or girls I don’t know very well who had been physically attacked by someone they knew—school bullies, a family member, or someone they were dating. People hadn’t believed them, either.