Instead, I roll out of bed, pull on my customary batting cage outfit of running shorts, a tank top, and cleats, andbribe Ryan with two of his own doughnuts if he leaves the house with me in his soccer gear.
“Four. I’ll do it for four.”
At this rate, he’ll be asking for three courses at The Cheesecake Factory by the time the season’s over. Teenage boys caneat.
I drop him off at Jesse’s house with promises of carbs and head to Northland. I change, grab my helmet, and I’m at the field—cloaked in red and ready—at 6:59AM.
By myself.
I do a loop in warm-up and scope out my surroundings. There are a few of Ryan’s soccer teammates a field over, taking turns on corner kicks. Two cross-country girls are running the bleachers in bright orange singlets. The cheer squad works formations on the stadium turf, a flash and whirl of ombré-patterned tights and pineapple buns.
But nowhere in sight is a herd of fifty or so man-boys.
My phone is in the locker room. But I don’t know who I’d call. I don’t have Grey’s cell, mostly because I’ve been too chicken to ask. Don’t know how to reach any of the coaches. And even though Jake apologized, I’m not totally comfortable texting him all idiot-like with a “I thought we had practice?”
I do a loop back around by the locker rooms. No sound is coming from the boys’ side. And the coaches’ offices are dark.
But there are cars in the parking lot.
Lots of cars.
Jake’s car.
My Timex warns me that it’s now 7:14AM.
A chill runs up my spine as a burst of heat climbs my cheekbones. Parallel swells of feeling—stupidity and frustration—arm-wrestle in the pit of my stomach.
I can’t be late. Iamlate.
Not knowing what else to do or where to go, I end up back in the locker room. Check my phone. Nothing.
Screw it.
I scroll through and find Jake’s number. I hold my breath as the ghosts of messages past pop up on-screen. And even though I know it’ll be there, I still nearly drop my phone on the locker room floor when I see the last message in the chain.
Can’t deal with the crazy. I’m out.
And by “crazy” he meant me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and start typing.
I can’t find you guys.
To my surprise, a new message pops up instantly.
Weights. Meet me in the hall. I’ll show you.
Oh, thank God.
I toss my phone in my bag, slam my locker, and light out of there like my butt is on fire… only to turn right around because my clothes are all freaking wrong for weights.
Off come the jersey and pads, tights, more pads. On gomy shorts. I don’t have tennis shoes, but cleats won’t be too weird. I hope.
“Took you long enough,” he says as I finally exit the locker room.
“Wrong clothes. I’m new, remember?”
“How could I forget?” There’s a little smile there as he takes a step toward the intersection of two halls, and I fall in beside him. The air is fat between us, a thick layer of blubber between normal and whatever we are as we learn to coexist.
