a knock sounds on my apartment door, and I backtrack, heading toward the kitchen. I glance at my watch, my gut tightening as I near the door. It’s almost ten p.m. which means it’s probably one of my teammates—no one else would show up at my place so late—but I’m not particularly in the mood to hang out with the guys while my mom is around. Not that she would be anything but gracious. Mom has always been supportive of my career, but it’s only because she’s supportive of me. It’s definitely not because she has any particular affinity for the sport or even thought it was the wisest course of
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