Everything That Makes You by Moriah McStay Read Free Book Online Page B

he said. “He wants to know what to tell the NU assistant coach. The one who came to the game.”
    â€œWhy’s he have to tell her anything?”
    Her dad pointed to her encased right leg.
    â€œI’ll just send them the tapes from the end of this season,” she said. “Those should be better anyway.”
    He raised his eyebrows. Her mother sighed and shook her head.
    â€œFi,” he said, “you won’t be playing any more this season. The doctor explained that yesterday.”
    â€œI’m sure he was just being conservative,” she said, waving him off. “Anyway, it would only be the last few games. Like five, at most.”
    He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. “Just because the cast is off doesn’t mean you’re healed. You’ll still have months of physical therapy.”
    â€œI can do the therapy, too.” She pinched the soft spot on her waist. “I’ll have grown into a whole second person by then. More work the better.”
    â€œFi, this season is over for you,” her father said, speaking in his serious conversation voice. It was the only time he ever lost his fourth-generation-southern-man drawl. His words lost all their soft edges. “ If you follow all the doctor’s instructions then maybe you’ll be able to play next season.”
    Fi waited for the qualifier, like Of course we’ll argue you’re ready or Since it’s so important to you, I’m sure we can work something out. But the seconds ticked by, and her father kept staring at her.
    â€œDad, but, that’s . . . ,” she finally spluttered. “The scouts make all the decisions in your junior year. . . . How can I get an offer? I’ve got to play!”
    â€œIt’s nonnegotiable,” he said.
    â€œI’ll never get a spot! By next spring, all the decisions will be made.”
    â€œThe past few years at summer camps will make a difference.” Her father’s voice went lower. And slower. It was like he was speaking to a toddler. “Scouts saw you.”
    That wouldn’t be enough. They needed the stats from this season—which so far only amounted to two games, the second of which landed Fi in this stupid cast.
    â€œYou could walk on,” he said casually, like her entire future wasn’t on the line.
    â€œYou can’t walk on Northwestern. It’s the top program in the country.”
    â€œFi,” her mom said, “why don’t you look at this as an opportunity?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou can focus on other things now. Like your grades.”
    â€œReally?” Fi challenged. “You want to get into that now?”
    â€œYou have a 3.0 for a school that wants a 3.6. Since you brought up Northwestern, it seems an appropriate thing to discuss.”
    â€œStats, people! That’s why the stats matter,” Fi yelled, throwing her arms in the air. “I lead the city in goals. I’m ranked one in the state.”
    â€œYou play women’s lacrosse, Fi,” her father said, leaning forward. “You can’t make a career out of it.”
    â€œDad, I’m sixteen.”
    â€œLots of kids know what they want to do when they’resixteen,” said her mom.
    â€œI want to play lacrosse!”
    â€œWell, I want to be independently wealthy and summer in France,” her dad said. “However, that’s unlikely to happen, so I better revise my expectations.”
    Fi glowered at her parents. How could they not feel even the slightest bit bad for her? “You want me to give up?”
    â€œNot necessarily,” said her mom. “But maybe this injury will let you explore some other possibilities.”
    Fi slumped back on the couch. For the past four years, she’d had one, singular goal: play lacrosse for Northwestern. All the work she’d done in middle school and varsity—training, camps, summer leagues, competitive teams—had