An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
The sky hangs low over New Hope's one and only diner, the neon lights from the sign reflecting off the ominous clouds. It's late morning on Christmas Eve, so the restaurant is empty apart from a few locals at the breakfast bar. I slide into a vinyl booth, place my order, then rehearse play calls while I wait for Pops.
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Every game, we carefully chooses new formations curated to the opposing team. We watch their tape, then plan for battle, utilizing their mistakes as our opportunities. Usually, I'm at the training facility in NOLA, helping create the plays. Since I'm absent this week, the coaches have sent a list for me to study. I have to memorize the sequences. I have to know where every player will be on the field, who I need to get the ball to, and what to expect from the defensive line.
Yesterday after June left, I trained endurance on the hills in the Reeves's backyard, then soaked in an Epsom salt bath. This morning, I worked on arm resistance and spine mobility—tossing a weighted ball across the home gym, swinging the Proteus machine, holding backbends. I have to be prepared to pass the football at any second, no matter how twisted or thrashed my body is.
By the time I left to meet Pops at the diner, Grace was still in her bedroom with the door shut. We decided to tell her family at dinner tonight, and I think she needs time alone to mentally prepare. It's similar to the few minutes I take to walk the field before the stadium fills—Grace needs peace before the chaos.
"Hey, P."
Pops emerges from the kitchen, his apron covered in bacon grease. His overworked hands are sudsy from the dishes, and his hair is wiry from bussing tables all morning. He slides into the opposite side of the booth, pouring himself coffee from the carafe.
"How's your day?" I ask, setting my phone on the table to grab a fork. The diner serves their dishes with steam still rising from them, so the pound of eggs and salmon is edible now.
Pops taps his temple. "Quiet."
"That's good," I say, shoving a bite of food in my mouth. "Quiet enough to come to dinner tonight? It's at Aidan's house on the river. I've been reminded about fifty times that you're invited."
"Uh..." He wavers. "That's a lot of people."
It's not his fault. My father wants to be a part of society, but when he steps out of his routine, things get dicey. A holiday dinner would be overstimulating, especially with Grace's family. He stresses about his psychosis—about making a scene. The Reeves wouldn't care, but Pops doesn't want to embarrass himself, or me. I've yet to convince him his illness isn't something to be ashamed of, and that I could give two shits what people think.
"Someone from the city called," he continues, changing the subject. "They said the evictions will last until mid-January."
I got the same news from my finance officer during my workout. The government won't take a donation, so we've established a non-profit to assist members of the southside that have been displaced. Mason and I put our heads together, and he has his team reserving a few hotel floors in Philadelphia. We're going to charter buses for the people who require transportation to and from work. The plans won't reach fruition until after the holidays, so we'll have to reimburse living costs for those that need it.
