Note: So this covers something I'd been thinking about since "Still Fighting It"—I liked the peek into Riley's home life that we got to see. But since that won't be expanded upon until next year (boo!), I decided to write this now. I have no idea what the deal is with Riley's dad, or how much his mom really knows, but what can I say? Even though I prefer to stick with canon, I'm also impatient. And the recent promo isn't helping. =P

Oh, and this is written in the (often) despised second-person. *shrugs* I just wanted to try something different.

You've always known your son to be competitive. You're reminded of this each time you proudly dust the many trophies in his room—swimming, track, football, wrestling, baseball. Others too. The various sport seasons seem to meld into each other now, and it's to the point where you don't go to the games much anymore. You did in the beginning, when he was smaller and more easily bruised.

(But always with his eyes set, fingers steady, breathing calm, you recall. His father taught him that. Made him learn it when he signed him up for boxing lessons at the age of five, and told him to stop crying Riley. Dammit.)

But there's just so many of them nowadays—matches, tournaments, championships. You have work and errands and house chores, you have to hold the family together, and your son understands. You're pretty sure.

Riley aims to please you, he aims to please himself. So you wish he had friends over more often, like that nice Peter boy, and you wonder why the teammates and schoolmates he talks to so animatedly never stop by.

You know that he sometimes gets into fights, but you think of your own temper and don't fault him much for it.

.

You teasingly ask about his crushes, scanning through the gaggle of children before school, trying to see which girl his eyes settle on, if only for a flicker of a moment. But he always looks down, mumbling one excuse or another, and you call him shy, ruffling the hair that falls over into his eyes.

You tell yourself he is a late bloomer. No need to worry.

So there's a part of you that brims with happiness when he finally—finally—tells you he's going on a date. A picnic in the park, which is…better than nothing.

"She's a cheerleader," he says, as if he knows that this will especially please you.

You're not ashamed to admit that it does.

You hum as you prepare each sandwich for the outing, wrapping everything so very carefully. (You insisted on doing this for him, because you think he needs a little help, in this regard.) He marvels at the detail you put into frosting the cupcakes, eyes wide and laughing tautly. You tell him you're just excited, is all, and leave out that you're desperate. Desperate for this to work out. Desperate for a success.

By the time you meet the girl—Anya—who twirls her hair in her hand as she waits for your son, she is "just a friend, Ma". You think you do a decent job of masking your disappointment as you watch them wander off together. There's another girl too (Fiona was it? Something princess-like…), and she's just a blur of wavy brown hair and ritzy clothes you once bumped into on your way out. You ask Riley about her (once, much later), and he simply shakes his head regretfully.

You remind yourself to be patient. His time will come.

.

One night, Riley comes home later than usual, positively beaming in his red polo and rumpled Degrassi jacket. He's been at a party, from what you remember him shouting at you over the phone, above the blasting of music speakers.

Apparently it was some sort of last minute thing.

Before you can ask how it went, he gets a call from Anya, and he bites his lip and silently pleads to be excused. You wave him off, somewhat amused, and watch as he nudges the door shut with his foot. You hear the groan of the bed as he assumedly flops onto it, and then the hushed chatter that follows; mumbled words that carry off into the night. You're briefly tempted to go listen at the door, and it takes all of your willpower not to.

For you are a parent who respects your son's privacy.

Unfortunately.

.

In the summer, Riley doesn't go to camp. This surprises you, because it's the first time in ten years he's turned it down. It's not like him at all, and so you jokingly ask what girl he can't bear to be away from. You're left speechless when he blushes deeply, looking like the air has been cleanly knocked out of him. And maybe...well. Huh.

He manages to get out that he wants to "train at home" and "hang with friends". His first statement is easy enough to accept—he tells you he wants to be QB1, to be captain, and inwardly you know he'll get it because of the glint in his eyes, that swirling desire you recognize so well. Outwardly, you smile and tell him to work hard. Good things will happen.

It's the second statement that you need to see to believe. But by summer's end, believe it you do. And then some.

You see Anya from time to time, often sad, sometimes sniffling. Riley explains that she had a "seriously bad breakup", and it's only seeing their sweet friendship that keeps you from pushing him to try again with her. You remind yourself that there'll be other girls (and hell, you think, there may be one already), so it's fine. It's good for him, his affection for her.

You see Peter once or twice as well, and he casually mentions his new job at The Dot (as soon as they rebuild it, that is). He's off to college—a whole new playground—and you sense that he and Riley may be growing apart because of it. This realization makes you a little sad, because Peter has always been a good friend to your son—his first real friend, come to think of it. But this is all just a part of life.

So there is Anya, and occasionally Peter, but based on your son's behavior, you feel confident enough to say there is someone else he hangs around. Because for all his easy talk of "going out with the guys again, Ma", Riley never mentions specific names or places. Every day is a different adventure, it seems, and you've never known your son to be so intentionally vague. It's harmless, but secretive, and you want to know more.

You want to know if he's found someone.

So when you clean his room, you sometimes linger over shelves and drawers, brushing over movie ticket stubs and lunch receipts, eying new trinkets and books as you dust. You tell yourself it's not prying as long as you don't zero in on anything in particular. But his little collection of things continues to grow, and you imagine that this person must be worth keeping memory of.

You begin to wonder why he won't tell you about whomever—about her.

Eventually, the answer comes to you late in bed one night, over the sound of your husband's slight snoring, and it fills you with peace and a smidge of personal embarrassment.

You hover too much, you push too much, and Riley doesn't want you to ruin it for him—it's that important enough for him to hide it. She's important enough.

And it's good that you reach this conclusion when you're cool and collected, because a day later you find your son with a love bite on his collarbone. It's early in the morning, and he's off to train—and as he leans down for an apple his grey tank slides just enough to reveal the patch of angry, raw skin. You were 17 once, after all, so you know how it is, but you still feel dazed as he smiles unaware and kisses you goodbye.

Though later, relief sets in.

Because finally, he has a girl.

.

It all comes crashing down as soon as the school year starts.

Riley doesn't bring friends over anymore. He doesn't go out much at all beyond the demands of school and the football team, and apparently, he hazes a fellow team member early on. So you're called in to "have words" with the principal (who seems surprised) and coach (who seems disappointed), while your son sits next to you looking pensive. The only remorse he expresses is that he was stupid enough to do such a thing, and you can only shake your head and wonder.

At home, he continues to be quiet and reflective, even gloomy. And it wouldn't be that noticeable, except that you've seen a completely different side of him over the summer—a contentment—that is sorely missed. You ask what's wrong, because as a mother you are concerned, and he says that he's fine. Really, Mom.

But as a parent, you know better. So you keep on him, and hope for the best.

.

Your suspicions only grow when a group of boys show up at the house one Friday night. The visit, judging by the puzzled look on your son's face, is unannounced. You only recognize one of them—Owen—because he's come over before.

But not in a long while.

He invites Riley to hang out in a way that's well-mannered yet highly insistent. So you look to your son, and the boys look to your son, and Riley wavers a bit before agreeing. Owen smiles widely at this, spouting happily about how he'll find Riley a girl tonight, and your son tosses back that Owen should just focus on himself, first. The other boys laugh, and you watch as they all walk off together, Owen punching Riley's arm with renewed familiarity. Waving goodbye, you can't see the brief, miserable expression your son wears before masking it with indifference.

So now you're almost certain that it's been girl troubles all along, what with Owen's enthusiasm and Riley's near-defensiveness.

And strangely, you don't know how right and wrong you are.

.

There comes a day when you see that Riley has bought new clothes. And your son never goes shopping—hates it with a passion—so this must be quite the occasion. You see him stand in front of the mirror, holding up dress shirts broodingly like the choice spells life or death. He shows the barest hint of a smile, invoking that long-dormant eagerness from the summer.

And instantly you know what it means. Know who he's dressing for.

You cautiously ask if he's got a date, and he plays it off, saying he's just hanging out with a friend, but "maybe something could happen". You can't hide your excitement, and you hold the more…colorful…of the two shirts up to the light, against his outstretched frame.

It's a truly terrible shirt for a boy to wear, you think, and you try not to wrinkle your nose in displeasure.

His eyes show a nervousness—he's being so very careful—and you're just so spirited that you happen to verbalize what you've known for some time.

She must be special.

You tell him you want to meet her, and he says that it could be a while—that he's messed things up. You are supportive, mentioning the value of hard work—building his confidence—because you refuse to let this girl become another Anya. A friend by the time you get to meet her, and nothing more. Or another Fiona, over before it even began. Things will be different, this time. You're sure of it.

He thanks you for the advice, and while you're at it, you give a little more: go with the grey shirt. You tell him the other is too girly, in your own way, and hope that he takes the hint.

So when you later find the zesty abomination in the hamper, you stifle your annoyance and "accidently" bleach it to ruin. Satisfied, you go about the rest of your day knowing it's for the best.

.

You're eager to see how it went for your son, and you find him sitting on his bed, absolutely crestfallen. He murmurs that it wasn't good, that he's not good enough, and you find that hard to believe, motherly bias aside. For if this is really the girl from the summer, the one who made your son so ebullient, you're pretty sure—amidst all the ticket stubs and museum passes—that she was happy too. That it can work, still.

Riley has nothing but praise for her, gazing wistfully and head in a place that's too distant for you to reach. Your heart drops as you see just how beguiled he is by this girl, and you want to say something, to soothe him.

So you urge him to just be himself.

He looks at you then like it almost hurts, letting out a shaky sigh. And there's a pause that's too long for your liking. Somewhere, you feel a distant rumbling, like a crashing tidal wave or impending stampede, as he says that he has something to tell you. Instantly, scenarios fill your head, and you mentally shove one down so hard you almost don't catch what he says next.

And I don't want you to freak out.

Perhaps it's not a rumbling, you think. Perhaps the feeling is like drowning instead. Not that you—

But…this girl…

You think the room might be spinning. Is it? You can't look at him.

…she isn't exactly—

Forcefully, you cut him off, reassuring him that the girl doesn't have to be Greek, that you just want grandchildren…someday. It's horribly out of the blue, and you know this as you gently pat his knee and walk out into the hall without another word, hands fisting into the fabric of your blouse hard enough for your knuckles to turn bone white. With each step you wonder if Riley will call out to you—catch up to you—and decide to open his mouth again. But it's only when you cut your finger chopping carrots for dinner that you realize over an hour has passed, an hour in complete silence. Your breathing is a little shallow as you rinse off the blood in the sink, hands trembling under the faucet.

You close your eyes. Everything is fine. Everything is just fine, because…

Because…

You can't know what you don't hear.

.

You are beyond thrilled when you learn of the Eastern scholarship. You meet with the man who recruited your son, and he gifts you with memorabilia and promotional brochures of the campus and its academic programs. He says you should be very proud of Riley, and you nod.

He goes on to say that Riley is very brave, and you nod again, a little confused as the man looks at you expectantly. Almost searchingly. But the moment passes, and he clears his throat, smiles politely, and moves on.

Over dinner, you look everything over with your husband, who keeps reaching over to heartily slap Riley on the back. He does it so often you think there might be a bruise there in the morning, but you let things be.

You make plans to visit, you talk of the future, and all the while Riley sits at the table, smiling quietly and shoveling the peas around on his plate. Playing college football is a dream come true for him, and truthfully, he looks as accomplished as he should. As he deserves to be.

Yet you can't help but think, looking at his far-off expression, that he's spent the majority of his time rejoicing elsewhere. With other people.

"You're pretty calm tonight," you say, observing him carefully. "Did you already celebrate at school?"

"Kind of," Riley says, instantly trying to look a little keener. "I'm a little tired out."

So you can only marvel at how much of their own well-wishes and excitement these other people must have contributed. Enough for your son to hardly have any jubilation left for his own parents.

And oddly, it doesn't bother you as much as it should. At least, not for the time being.

.

When the doorbell rings and you find Anya waiting outside in a green party dress, fiddling with the pink barrette in her hair, you let her in with a smile. Riley bolts down the stairs two at a time, grinning hugely, and immediately Anya berates him for his lack of tie. You echo the sentiment, but he insists that it doesn't go with the suit. He whispers something in the girl's ear, looking sheepish, and she snickers behind a hand, eying his suit more studiously.

"Of course he would," she says.

You are a little lost by all of this, but he waves you off, and you decide not to be nosy. Degrassi is having a dance tonight—a Vegas theme of some sort—and all that matters is that Riley has patched things up with that girl of his, and is taking her out tonight. Which reminds you—the corsage you bought is still in the kitchen.

You hurriedly go to fetch it, bringing it out with motherly pride, and the combined reaction of the two teens is a mixture of raised eyebrows, quick glances, and nervous laughter. Riley takes the box from you with a nod, staring softly at the bundle of white flowers inside.

"I didn't know what color her dress would be," you explain, folding your hands. "So I got one that would go with anything."

"It's perfect," Riley says, voicing his thanks. Meanwhile, Anya seems preoccupied with pulling invisible dust off her dress.

They turn to leave, and you try to push nagging thoughts about Riley's girlfriend out of your head—the girl whose name you've yet to ask, whose picture you haven't pestered to see. But it's no use.

"I still want to meet her," you say, and it comes out more like an uncertain plea than a demand.

"Soon," he promises, ever-so-coolly, body nearly bouncing with excitement for the night ahead. "You'll meet her soon."

His words fill you with reassurance, and for now, they are enough.

But you don't see how Anya's face falls a little, looking down at the carpet and then over to your son.

You don't see how, two minutes later, Riley stops on the sidewalk, fitting the flower on her wrist, and how she kisses his cheek knowingly in return.

You don't see him dance—terribly, but happily—with a boy whose smile only widens as the night goes on.

You don't see.

It's easier not to.

.

.