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Samantha sighs. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Smart choice.”
“Hey, some of us are hitting the pool tonight, if you want to hang out later,” Samantha says as we shuffle along in line to the poutine.
“Sure, sounds fun,” I reply, studying the gray sludge covering the potatoes apprehensively.
“Scott!”
I groan when I recognize Coach Taylor’s voice calling my name, abandoning my spot in line to walk over to where she’s standing a couple dozen feet away, next to the drink dispenser. “Yes, Coach?”
“Do I need to be worried about you this season?” Coach Taylor fills a plastic cup with ice and then water, all while staring at me expectantly.
What?
“Worried?” I ask, startled.
“You were distracted all day.”
I don’t deny it. “Everyone has off days.”
“They do,” Coach acknowledges. “But I didn’t think the player who showed up to my practice with the flu last winter lost focus when she was feeling a hundred percent.” I exhale, and Coach’s voice softens a bit. “I’ve never had to place pressure on you, Scott. Because you put it on yourself, and you excel. You’re heads and shoulders above any other player I’ve ever coached. I don’t want?—”
“Hi, Elaine!” I look to the left and have to swallow a groan when I see Mackenzie Howard approaching.
“Mackenzie.” Coach acknowledges her with a slight dip of her head. She doesn’t look thrilled to be addressed by her first name.
Mackenzie Howard is the current star of the US women’s soccer league. She’s two years older than me, on a professional team, and takes great pains to remind me of both every time we interact. I typically find some way to mention the national championship Lancaster won my sophomore year. Against her alma mater her senior year.
“Saylor, how nice to see you,” Mackenzie says. “Can’t believe you’re a senior now! Two years on the Wolves have just flown by.”
Yup, right on cue.
“I know!” I reply in the same upbeat tone. “Seems like just yesterday we were beating you in the national championship.”
Coach Taylor’s lips twitch.
“Everyone is so excited to see where you end up next year,” Mackenzie states. “You know—” She stops speaking abruptly, then waves her left hand. “Beck!”
My eyes drop to my plate as I hear his steps approach. They must know each other from the last Olympics. Of course, that sends me spiraling into speculation about just how well they know each other. I banish the thought from my brain as quickly as it appeared. I already know I’m part of a pool—a very large pool—of women who have slept with Adler Beck. Who cares who I’m treading water next to? And…clearly I’m far too fixated on Samantha’s swimming invite.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look, I chant to myself.
So of course, I look. His eyes are fixed on me already, and I lift my chin as I meet his gaze head-on. Trying and failing to convince myself I’m suddenly feeling flushed because of the heat the side of the ice dispenser is radiating, not any other reason.
“Saylor.” He acknowledges me and ignores Mackenzie, and I hate how much that matters to me.
My grip on the ceramic plate tightens. “Beck.”
“Oh, you two know each other?” Mackenzie looks back and forth between us. Calling Beck over was meant to be a power play on her part.
“Yes,” Beck replies simply.
That’s all he says. He doesn’t mention I attended Scholenberg. Or the kids’ camp we coached together. He gives no explanation for our acquaintance at all, leaving it open-ended in a way that doesn’t sound like the clean break I thought we parted on.
“That’s nice,” Mackenzie says, making nice sound like a synonym for boring. “Makes way more sense why Saylor called you her idol.”
My fingers clench on the plate so tightly there’s a chance I might break it. But what I really want to do is fling it at Mackenzie’s smug expression. She’s trying to embarrass me, and it’s working.
