The Girl Who Plays Football { #Wattys2016 }

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"My father taught me that the only way you can make good at anything is to practice, and then practice some more,"
-Pete Rose

Bryanna Juliette Cooper

Everything seemed to have stopped. My heart beat quickened, my face paled.

Missing? What do they mean by missing? How could that be? He couldn't just go missing, all of a sudden, now. Can he?

The letter.

It seems like the only thing that makes sense as of the moment.

"I do not know how long I have left. Bryanna, please understand how serious this situation is, I would've told you why and not keep you in the dark, if it wouldn't endanger your lives. I PROMISE to tell you after all this, if our situation is over."

I remember every word that is written on the letter dad had sent, but somehow nothing seems to make sense. He's missing. He's not dead, he couldn't be.

"Let's go home," Bryan tells me, placing his arm around me for support. Being able to say nothing, I just nod my head while trying to breathe properly in the process.

The drive back home was silent. Bryan was trying his best not to cry- judging by his eyes, which were glossy and were starting to turn red, he was fighting not to cry. In front of me anyway. Bryan was never one to cry, he kept his guard up when it came to these things, so seeing him in this state was new.

We took the SUV that I drove earlier, as for Bryan's car, he gave the keys to Christian to drive Tristan home.

As we approached the gates to our home, the gates were immediately opened by a maid, whose head was hung low. Bryan then parked the car in the garage, and we both ran off inside our house.

Mom was nowhere to be seen. I ran up the stairs, as fast as my legs could go.

"MOM?"

"MOM?"

"MOMMY?"

"MAMA!"

I heard muffled sobs coming from the master's bedroom, and so I quickened my pace, my feet thumping across the wooden floors in a rhythmic pattern. Bursting the door open, once I reached it, I saw my mom with her arms wrapped around her legs, and her head hung low.

"Mommy," My voice cracked and I fell beside her, on my knees.

With a broken voice, my mom sobbed out: "This is all my fault," She kept repeating the phrase, and my confusion grew even bigger.

Bryan, came running into the room, and the tears he was holding in during the car ride, fell down his cheeks as he saw our mom. He rushed to her side and engulfed the both of us in a hug, as the two of them wept, and I tried my best not to.

"Everything will be okay," I said, convincing myself as well.

Hours had passed, and I tossed and turned in my bed for the past four hours, doing nothing else but think of my dad.

Where could he be?

I sat up, my hand combing my hair in complete frustration and stress.

My door opens and Bryan leans on the frame, his arms crossed casually. "You okay?" He asks. I shook my head and he heads on over to my bed and he sat there, he rests my head on his chest and my tears fell once again.