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thought of not playing was even worse. If I had felt alone with my problems before, that feeling was now magnified a thousand times.
    I slowly peeled off my pads in the locker room and changed into my sweatpants andflip-flops. Now, as well as wondering if Nate Brown would ever play football again, I was wondering about my own future in the game too.
    I noticed the Bronco in the school parking lot as I started to walk home from practice. That was strange. What was Dad doing here?
    He honked the horn and motioned me over to the suv. I opened the passenger door and jumped in.
    â€œCoach told me I’d be able to find you here,” he said. “Thought you’d want to talk to somebody.”
    â€œSeems like you’ve already done plenty of talking,” I replied. “Seems like you and the coaches already have everything decided for me.”
    Dad turned off the ignition and took his hands off the steering wheel. “Reggie, we’re only doing what’s best for you.”
    â€œWhat’s best for me?” I interrupted, growing angrier by the second. “So what’s best for me is missing a big football gamein my senior season? And going to see a shrink? Is that best for me too?”
    â€œWe think so,” Dad said softly. “Let’s face it, Reg, you haven’t been yourself this week. That’s understandable. Something like this is traumatic. Sometimes people need help to work through it.”
    â€œI don’t need any help!” I screamed. “And I don’t need a ride, either. I’m walking home.”
    I slammed the car door as I got out. Dad didn’t try to stop me. But he pulled up alongside me, rolled down the passenger-side window and said, “Cool off some on your way home. We’ll talk later.”
    â€œWhatever,” I said, without looking at him. Deep down I knew I wasn’t mad at my father. But I felt like I had to take my anger and frustration out on somebody.
    I walked home slowly, with everything swirling in my head. If this hadn’t been the worst day of my life, it had come awfully close.

chapter eight
    I kept quiet during dinner that night, barely listening as Mom and Dad discussed everything except high school football. As I munched on Mom’s meatloaf, I felt guilty about how I had spoken to Dad at the school, but I didn’t want to bring it up. I was just hoping for a nice quiet evening and a good sleep. Maybe that would help make things clearer.
    No such luck. “I’ll clear the dishes,” Mom said. “And you two talk.”
    The way she said it, I knew Dad wanted to have a serious discussion. Normally all three of us cleared the dishes, cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher. Mom was obviously trying to make sure Dad and I patched things up.
    â€œReggie, I’m sorry you feel we ganged up on you,” Dad began.
    My anger had subsided a bit, but I still wasn’t happy about having to sit out against Franklin. Playing the Demons was supposed to be one of the highlights of my senior season. But even I had to admit that part of me didn’t feel much like playing football.
    â€œYou guys are just trying to help me. I know,” I said wearily. “But how can I miss the Franklin game? It’s one of the biggest of the year.”
    â€œI agree with Coach,” Dad said solemnly. “You’re not ready to play football. He said you’ve been avoiding contact in practice, and that your head just hasn’t been in the game this week. We’ve noticed that you’re not really yourself around home, either.”
    I didn’t reply. I just stared down at the dining room table.
    â€œReggie, I’ve got a referral from Dr. Stevens,” Dad continued. “He wants you to go see Jim MacIntyre. He’s a sports psychologist who has helped lots of kids in similar situations. Maybe he’ll be able to help you too.”
    â€œI don’t need a shrink,” I