The Hardest Cut by Jamie Bennett (book club recommendations .TXT) 📕

tired, too, and my eyes were swollen like my ankle.  I had spent a lot of time looking through the boxes that I had carted home and they had brought back a lot of memories.  I had run out of tissues and most of my toilet paper.

The practice that day was one of the worst experiences of my life.  My ankle hurt so much that I could hardly put any weight on it, and my body felt as if it weighed at least four hundred pounds.  I was moving so poorly that I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.  Maybe because they had let us out early the Friday before, today the coaches seemed to have decided that they were going to make us sweat.

Rylah stopped the music.  “We’re going to have to run that again,” she said, and I actually heard someone moan.  “I would be embarrassed to see you out on the field performing that way,” she continued.  “It would be like watching the Battle of New Orleans.”

I had no idea what she was talking about but I heard Jayden whisper, “The Americans won that.”  I was in too much pain to care.  We had already been through this dance four times and I wasn’t going to be able to do it again.  I didn’t know if I even had it in me to walk across the floor to pick up my bag and then out to the parking lot after being dismissed from the team because of my poor performance.

Rylah looked through the crowd to hunt out the moaner and the whisperer, and her eyes settled on me.  “Gaby.  What’s going on with you today?  Why are you only marking the routines?”

“I…”  I was going to have to tell them.

“What is it, Gaby?” Addison prompted.  “Why are you having so many problems keeping up with the rest of us?”

“Shut up,” Caitlyn whispered, and Addison turned on her.  But before anyone could say anything else, there was a knock at the door, and we all looked over.

“Hold on, Rylah.  We have some surprise visitors,” Sam said.  He grinned.  “After last week, I thought all of you Dames…I mean, Woodsmen dancers might need a lesson in motivation.”  The door opened and the Woodsmen head coach, Jim Roberts, walked in.  He was followed by the defensive coordinator, and that guy was followed by Ben.  “We’re going to hear from the football coaches on how they get their players going,” Sam continued, and he said some more things, thanking them for showing up when it was their vacation in the off-season, but I didn’t really hear him.  My eyes were right on Ben’s, and his were on mine.  It felt like he was throwing out a line to me.  My breath hitched hard and I told myself that I could not let one tear fall, not one single tear.  I looked down at the floor instead, at an old crack in the wood.

I didn’t hear the words, but Sam must have told everyone to take a knee because all the women around me were sliding to the floor, so I awkwardly moved to sit with them.  Coach Roberts talked for a while, with Ben and the other guy throwing in comments now and then, and after his speech we had a short Q and A.  “Short” by how many minutes it lasted, but to me, it felt endless.  I watched the hands in the old clock on the wall over the coaches’ heads, counting each second as it passed, my ankle throbbing in rhythm with the ticks.

“Thanks for coming, Jim.”  The two head coaches shook hands and the cheerleaders applauded.  The other girls hopped up to bunch at the front of the studio to talk more, ask questions, and get an autograph from Jim Roberts.  He was a major celebrity in our town.

I scooted on my butt, pushing back until I was at the wall and could reach and grab the barre to pull myself up.  When I was standing, I looked back at the cheerleaders, and I saw Addison watching me.  She smiled as she looked down at my leg.

Gravy.  Oh, gravy.  She knew.  She knew something was really wrong.  I turned and stretched, or I pretended to, until the crowd thinned as everyone left the studio.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Addison go, and I said goodbye to Caitlyn, who told me she would text about bringing my car to her dad’s shop.  I waved to the other girls, saying I needed to work out more kinks at the barre.  I listened to their laughter and happy voices disappear down the hallway.  Coach Roberts and the defensive coordinator left, as did Rylah.

“Gaby.  Gaby Carter.”

Of course, Coach Sam knew both my names.  He had probably been warming up to say them when he called me back into his office to cut me.

“What’s the matter with your ankle?” he asked, pointing at the flesh-colored bandage I’d wound tightly around it.

“I twisted it a little.”  I cleared my throat.  “It’s not bad.”

“Is that why you were dancing like crap today?”

“Hey.”  Ben loomed up behind my tiny coach.  “I thought you asked us to come here to talk about motivation.  Is that how you get the best out of your team?”  He glared down at Sam.

Sam turned around and glared right back at Ben, at a guy who had at least ten inches and all the corresponding pounds on him, not to mention that Ben was at least twenty years younger.  “If one of the Dames—damn it to hell, I mean, if one of the dancers is hurt, I have to know.”  He wheeled on me.  “So, Gaby?  It’s only a little twist, and that’s why you couldn’t put any weight on it?”

I could not cry.  Don’t cry.  Smile!  I pulled off a wavering one.  “It’s ok, Sam.  It’s going to feel better tomorrow.  I’ll be here and ready to dance.”

He looked at me, frowning.  “You’ll be