Free You and Everything After by Ginger Scott Page A

responsibility.
    “I want to do this,” I say, sucking in my bottom lip, and holding my breath, trying to stave off the sting of tears in my eyes because I miss soccer so goddamned badly. “But I just can’t.”
    I fold the paper along the same creases and toss it back to him, but he only stares at it in his lap, snickering once.
    “Seriously, Ty. That time… my time. That part of my life is over. I can’t work at that level any more,” I say. I don’t even realize I’ve started to chew on my thumbnail until Ty reaches up and pulls my hand away from my face, tucking the workout plan back inside my fist.
    “Yes, you can,” he says, squeezing my hand closed around the paper and looking at me, determined to get me on his side. My heart started kicking the instant he touched me, and the longer he holds my hand in his palm, the faster my pulse races. I haven’t begun my workout yet, but I feel a single drip of sweat form at my neck and race down my spine. My conscience is screaming at me: you can’t do this ! I can’t do this because I’ll be breaking a promise I made to my mother, and because I told the doctors I would quit pushing myself so hard, and because Paige promised my parents she wouldn’t let me go overboard.
    “Yes you can,” Ty repeats, squeezing my hand a little tighter, almost as if he can hear my inner battle. But he doesn’t understand. I have limits. I have responsibilities. And my body…it can’t handle any more pushing. It gets tired.
    “I have MS.”
    I say it so fast, I don’t hear the words leave my lips. But my breath is stripped away—it’s panic, the kind you get when you’re terrified, or when someone rips a painful bandage away.
    “I have MS.”
    I say it again, just to be sure I hear it this time. I won’t look at him because I don’t want to see the sympathy on his face. I don’t want to see that moment he gives up on me. I don’t want to see it, because I like the way he looked at me before—the flirting, the wanting, the desire, the kiss. Goddamn it, why did I tell him?
    “Pussy,” he says, squeezing my hand even harder, and shaking it to get my attention. My eyes go to his on instinct, and there isn’t a single trace of pity on his face. His lips don’t twitch, and I can tell this isn’t a front. He isn’t trying to put on a strong face for me. He isn’t pretending that he doesn’t care what I just said. He honestly and truly doesn’t. He’s just calling me a pussy .
    “Ty, did you hear me?” I ask.
    “Yeah, I heard you. You have MS. I can’t feel my legs. La di fuckin’ da . Are we training or what?” His expression hasn’t changed once, and the armor I just started to build up around my heart is already cracking.
    I pull my hand from his and unfold the paper again to really take it in. Everything on here—every exercise and the time associated with it—is familiar. I know I can do it. I’ve done it before. I also know I may experience setbacks. And I know my body will be tired. But I want this. Maybe it’s because Ty’s the one believing in me, and maybe that’s making me want it even more. It’s probably the wrong decision based on a medical plus-and-minus chart, but it’s the right one in my heart.
    “Where do I start?”
    The way his mouth slides into a prideful smile melts any remaining doubt away, and I take a slow, deep breath, my chest almost puffing at feeling strong and wanted all at once.
    “We need to get your miles back up,” he says, grabbing my bag from the small shelf and tossing it to me. “No weights today. Today is all about the treadmill.”
    I follow him to the aerobic machines, and everything feels lighter, yet nothing between us has changed. And I think I like that most of all. “Oh, by the way,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder, “my parents have a suite for the first home game. They’re taking Nate and me, and we have extra seats. I’d like you to meet them. Wanna go?”
    It may not be the right