“I know this isn’t a 1–1 team. I know we’re better than 50 percent. I know you’re capable of so much more. But how much more is up to you.” Coach straightens his visor. “Let’s hit the buses, Tigers. Weights in the morning.”
The coaches file out and the remaining air sags into the locker room’s corners. Last week, we convened after the game around the benches. But this time—away from home, after a loss—this room feels the safest. We should follow to the buses and head home. But alone, we all hesitate, maybe waiting for one of us to say something.
Maybe me. I’m not a captain, but I was the quarterback. The leader.
I steel myself and hop onto a bench so that I’m a head above everyone—even Topps. “Tigers, we’re going to make this right. This team is going to win every single game through the end of the season.”
Through the forest of man-boys, I get some nods and turn up my inner Danielle. I’m not nervous or anything, but I’m sure not used to a bunch of boys staring back at me during a pep talk. Danielle, though? She could motivate a pack of polar bears to hula.
“We’re going to take our 1-1 record and wear it like a badge of pride. When we make it to state, we’re going to say, ‘Hell, yeah, we’re imperfect. And that makes us all the harder to beat, because we’re not planning to lose another game this season.” I pause. “This loss is our fuel. We use it or it burns us. Our choice, Tigers.”
“Hell yes,” Grey says, backing me up.
“That’s right,” Topps says before picking me up and setting me down on solid ground.
Others are nodding, too, a second behind. Even Brady. Even Kelly, way in the back.
But Jake takes a step forward, his jersey pristine for once. “Bullshit. It’s not our choice. Our choice was to win tonight. We should have won. And we didn’t.”
He spits off “we,” but the cut of his eyes saysIdidn’t.Ididn’t win. The quarterback. The leader. I let him down.
I don’t break eye contact. Just absorb his words and move on. “No, we didn’t win. But that doesn’t affect ourchoices from here on out. We learn, we move on. End of story.”
But it isn’t. Not with Jake. This Jake is the same bluster and fire I saw that first day at practice; that I saw last night picking a fight. The boy who offered apologies and admiration is stuffed down deep below the bruises and disappointment.
“A story is exactly what that sounds like,” Jake insists, his beautiful dark eyes flashing. “This is reality. And the reality is that we got beat by shitty-ass Central because we weren’t good enough tonight.”
He’s right. But that attitude’s going to get us nowhere. I smile at him. “Oh, good, then you’ll feel inspired when we lose to fantastic-ass Jewell Academy. That’s when we’ll make our upswing. First two-loss team to ever win league. Let’s do it.”
There’s a tittering of laughter as I clap my hands together, faux-pumped. I swear I spy a hint of a smile from Jake before his competitor’s armor slides back into place. “I’m not planning on losing any more games this year.”
“Good, then we’re on the same page.”
Head held high, I turn and walk out to the bus.
27
I TRY BUT FAIL TO WASH THE LOSS OUT OF MY HAIR—Garnier Fructis can only do so much. Still, I’m back at Northland, clean after five minutes of furious scrubbing, and it must say a lot about how I feel about Grey that for once after a loss, I don’t want to crawl into the fetal position, rehashing what I could’ve done differently.
In my defense, it took Danielle twenty-five years to truly believe the sort of stuff I said in the locker room. Growing up, she was the queen of postloss moping. So: role model. It didn’t help that before he was promoted to detective and started working a million hours per week, Dad had a tendency to drill us on how we could’ve improved that mistimed throw or the whiffed tag.
So, yeah, breaking it down until we know exactly whatwent wrong is a Rodinsky family specialty. Letting go? Not so much.
This feeling isn’t going to go away, but somehow that’s okay, because I know Grey is outside the locker room at this very moment, waiting for me.
And even though this time I’m expecting him, it’s still a shock to see him there, clean and patient. His hands are in his pockets and that little half smile makes an easy spread across his face, despite the stench of defeat that followed us back to Northland.
“Hey, beautiful, wanna get out of here?”
I cock a brow. “You know that line doesn’t really work when I’m the one with the keys, right?”
“No. I was literally asking,” he deadpans.
“Of course you were.” I roll my eyes and try to sock him in the shoulder, but he palms my fist before I can make contact and uses it to draw me into him, his lips catching mine midsmile. All my forward momentum stops, my free hand landing just above his hip, and the only thought in my brain is suddenly OBLIQUES.
We stand like that for I don’t know how long, the starry night and yellow glow of the security lights flowing together into some sort of timeless vacuum. When we separate, I just grin at him and say, “I think you just made me miss curfew.”
He fishes his phone out of his pocket and the screen flashes up at us—10:06PM.
