I can’t tell if I should melt from the cute (he came for her!) or beat myself up for not realizing this would be a possibility.
“Hey,” I parrot back, because other words won’t come.
“How’s our girl doing?”
“She’s killin’ it.”
He grins and we both turn our attention to the court. I’m relieved after a minute when he pulls out his phone, aiming it toward the net, recording his girlfriend totally crushing it.
And she is.
Bump. Spike. Block. Kill.
She does it all with a graceful efficiency, pin-straight and wiry but panther-smooth. It’s as beautiful as it is mesmerizing.
Nick and I don’t speak during the final set of the sweep, watching in dull silence when we’re not screaming into the noise of a Windsor Prep crowd.
And when it’s over and the players are shaking hands, I’m surprised that Nick is the one who breaks our mutual hush. Even more so when I realize it’s an invitation.
“I usually meet her on the floor after they leave the locker room.”
Usually.He’s done this before. Because of course he has. But I’m her best friend and this is the first match I’ve seen all season. Ugh.
We wait a few minutes, and as the locker room door swings open, none of the players look twice at Nick, standing there, in full Northland gear. Nothing worth gawking about. Me, on the other hand… I stick out like the ghost of games past.
“OMG! Liv Rodinsky! Is that you?”
It’s unclear which Eagle squeals it first, but they’re on me in a flash—like they didn’t just sprint across a gym for an hour. Whatever the reason for the surge, a dozen girls surround me, game-day glitter in their hair.
“Uh, hi.” Their collective reaction is infectious, and I’m suddenly grinning.
“We miss you, Hot Roddy!” says Genevieve Suter, adding in deliberatevroomsounds that accompany the sometimes-nickname I inherited from Danielle.
“How’s Northland?”
“We heard you’re playing football!”
“Omigod, aren’t the guys there ON FIRE? HI, NICK.” Then, quieter yet somehow just as loud, “Do you have one for me?”
I laugh, not sure whom to answer first. So I answer them all. “I miss you guys, too! It’s okay. I am. They are, but not enough to ruin my A average.” (Insert hair flip.) I lean in to Barbie Villanueva, hopeful whisper-shouter. “And no, but I can be on the lookout.”
Barbie clutches my wrist, eyes wide and lined in Eagles purple. “Good. I want a blond.”
Wonder how good Brady’s footwork would be with Adriana Lima’s body double hustling after him. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“How about a star third baseman, can you headhunt one of those?”
It’s said with a joking lilt, but a sour note halts the chatter, all of us staring, openmouthed, at the speaker: star catcher Christy Morris, who will probably be senior captain this year. Off to the side, leading the capri-tight gang of my former teammates.
Immediately, Addie appears. “With a mouth like that, you won’t make captain, Morris. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
Christy’s bravado sinks, though her chin stays high. The other softball girls surround her, inspecting the gym floor, not willing to cross Addie.
“They need to clean the gym. Come on, Eagles,” Coach Stevie shouts from crosscourt, already nearly to the gym doors, shoving a massive sack of volleyballs into the equipment closet. I’m grateful for the save.
The softball girls run out after her. The volleyball team lingers, the girls saying goodbye to me in pairs and triplets, slapping fives and stealing hugs in a barrage of smiles that warms me back up after that WTF sideswipe from Christy & Co.
I’m dying to ask Addie if that’s how it’s been all year at school, this stark divide between the softball team and the others. My absence felt by both types in completely different ways.
