Shanks’s eyes crinkle under his visor like he’s trying to read the weight between us but can’t quite get there. Finally, he relents and hands over the Snickers.
Grey turns and I start to follow, but Shanks calls me back. “O-Rod, a minute.”
I halt and Shanks pulls his door shut.
“Liv, I don’t know what happened with you and the boys on Friday, but I want to make sure you and I are clear on a few things.” His dad voice is in full force. “It’s imperative you understand this, especially in your current situation.” He pauses and draws in a deep breath. “Teenage boys say really stupid shit to teenage girls.”
I want to laugh, but his face is drawn up, tight and serious. So I don’t. Okay, I still snort a little. Teachers don’t cuss. We all know that. Just like they don’t go to the bathroom or have bad handwriting. My momwasa teacher, my sisterisa teacher, and I still believe that.
He doesn’t register my laugh, just looks at me as serious as before. “I know this because I was one once. And I work with them every day. So I know that the stupid shit theysay hasn’t changed much in twenty years.” Shanks tugs at his visor. “I’m going to tell you what I tell my daughters.”
I can’t help it, my eyes skip to the heart-shaped faces in the frames on his desk—kids who I hope, deep down, would like the fact that I’m playing for their dad.
“Boys say stupid things to girls because girls scare the crap out of them. The more they think about a girl, the faster their IQ numbers plummet. And you, my friend, are terrifying.”
Thank God he’s smiling as he says this.
“First of all, you’re a girl with a pass to a sacred boyhood space—that’s horror show material right off the bat. And then you come along playing almost as well as them with zero background. You work your tail off alongside them without a single complaint, and when you take off your helmet, they’re reminded again and again that you are who you are.”
This time I laugh for real but it’s only because otherwise I might cry. Coach smiles.
“So whatever they said—remember that you’re better than it. And I’ll be sure to remind them they’re better than whatever they said, too. And if any of them is idiotic enough not to listen to either of us, you tell me. It’s not snitching—I need to know if they’re up to something I won’t tolerate. Understood?”
I suck in a breath, wincing as it shudders. Tears ping inmy eyes, but I squint them off like the freaking pro I am. “You got it, Coach.”
35
THE BYE WEEK ISN’T JUST A BREAK FROM HAVING Agame, it’s a break from our regular routine in general. We get out half an hour early on Monday night, and Tuesday night is more of the same, which means one thing: I can actually make it to one of Addie’s volleyball games.
It’s at Windsor Prep, but I love my Addie and damn if I won’t be there.
I clean up as quickly as possible in the Northland locker room, baby-wiping the sweat from my body and spraying dry shampoo into my hair before brushing it into a fresh ponytail—clean enough for a life without Grey.
My heart is pounding as I park Helena in her old spot in the student lot. Walk my old route to the gym. Open the Eagle-crested doors.
Sound pours out, the gym alive with the screechy euphoria of a volleyball game in full swing. I slip onto the nearest bench, finding a spot by the door and up a few rows—the place is packed with students, alumni, donors, and fans in Windsor Prep purple. There are a few scattered flecks of Wyandotte Rural powder blue dotting the pine, but most of it is swallowed by regal grape.
Not shockingly, Addie’s dominating on the court—it’s a fraction of a second after I sit before an Adeline McAndry kill crashes to the boards, icing the second set.
The bleachers erupt and so do I, hopping to my feet and screaming, enough to catch Addie’s eye. My white shirt probably didn’t hurt. Turning with her whole body, she waves, long fingers blurring in front of her mile-wide smile.
It’s weird, but in that instant, my heart slows, my nerves fade, and my belly swells with the warmth of familiarity. I’m suddenly swept into the rhythm of all the home matches I attended last year. Huddling with the softball girls, passing around contraband Diet Coke (no food or drink in the gym!) and making up silly cheering chants in the front row.
I squint into the stands across the way and see that, yes, Christy, Mary Katherine, and Ava are there, tucked behind the Eagles bench, knees bouncing in matching pairs of running capris, probably as baby-wipe-clean asme after suffering through whatever “optional” (hardy har har) off-season workout Danielle programmed for today.
The three of them cheer as the Eagles line up for a Bobcats serve, and I wonder if they’ll notice me, too, in my fluorescent white. I don’t know if I should say hi or if we’re even still cool after a few months apart and a rocky end to the season.
After the punch heard round the world, I basically ghosted on everyone who wasn’t Addie or on my summer travel team. It was all just too royally embarrassing.
My heart thuds out a small ribbon of hope. Tiny enough that I wonder when I became so freaking timid. It’s not in my DNA, yet it’s been hanging around—
“Hey.”
My head whips around at the familiar voice. Light blue eyes and ginger hair greet me, the scent of boy cologne so strong that I can’t believe I didn’t smell him before I saw him.
Thanks for the warning, nose.
Nick Cleary, in the flesh. Hair still wet, protein bar wrapper peeking out of his letter jacket’s pocket. Here for Addie, straight from practice. Just like me—but showered.
