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I shoot daggers at Clay. I’m going to kill her. She’s sabotaging this on purpose. Trying to prove no one needs me.
But just then, Clay pulls off her eyewear, wipes the sweat off her forehead, and looks anything but pleased with herself.
“Collins!” Coach shouts, but Clay refuses to make eye contact.
Mercedes holds out her hands, questioning Clay. “I thought you were passing it to Jaeger.”
“Just shut up,” Clay bites out.
The midfielders engage and Amy takes the ball, looking for Clay, but I rush over just as she shoots it, grabbing it with my stick and knocking Clay to the ground. I don’t even look down to see her reaction, and I don’t care if I get in trouble. I’m not letting her screw this up.
Racing down the field, I pass it to Amy who passes it to Lena Marcus who shoots and scores. I smile, backing up and ready for the ball to come back into play.
But when I look back, Clay is on the sidelines, Coomer giving her a good tongue-lashing. Clay stands there, her defiant little chin stern as always, and Megan stands near them, looking at me and biting back her smile.
I’m not smiling anymore, though. Clay isn’t looking at the coach. She’s looking at me, her breathing calm and even like she doesn’t give a shit.
Why is she doing this? What does she want?
I don’t have time to ponder too long, because plays start up again and it’s pedal to the metal for the last twenty minutes of the game. Clay re-enters, avoiding me again and ignoring the coach, running the ball to the goal herself and securing our win at eleven over five.
I don’t feel like celebrating, though. I just want to get out of here and away. Grabbing my shit, I walk for the parking lot, not staying for the coach’s little talk after the game and see Trace jogging up to me right before he lifts me into his arms. “O-liv-i-a!” he screams. “Ma bitch! Four goals!”
And despite my anger, I laugh as he swings me around.
He sets me down, and Iron brings me in for a hug. “Congratulations, kiddo.”
“Thanks.”
Dallas and Army walk up behind them, parents and everyone else on the bleachers slowly spilling into the parking lot to head home.
I look around. “Where’s Macon?”
He said he’d come to this one.
But by the look in Army’s eyes, I already know the answer. “Had to stay and get shit done, kid.”
Yeah. I look away. I know.
“Come on.” Trace nudges me, trying to cheer me up. “Mariette’s. I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Iron adds, taking my gear bag from me.
They pull me along, some of the girls leaving with their parents who came to watch, too, and others celebrating in the parking lot.
We pile into the truck, Iron tosses my bag into the bed, and Dallas starts the engine. I peer out the window as he shifts it into gear, seeing Clay leaning against the bus and scrolling through her phone.
It’s not unusual until I notice our other teammates laughing with friends and getting hugs from proud parents. Don’t Clay’s parents usually come to the games? Thinking back, I guess I can’t remember.
Maybe I should be less mad Macon never shows and just be grateful someone does.
“So, your birthday’s soon,” Army says from the front seat.
“Huh?”
He turns his head, looking at me. “The twenty-ninth. It’s in a little over a week.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “What are you getting me?”
A car? Please say it’s a car.
“A stripper,” he replies.
Trace and Iron laugh, but I’m not impressed, because he’s most likely not joking. “I have taste you can’t afford.”
“What are you talking about?” he replies. “Flamingo Flo’s has top-notch ladies.”
“Flamingo Flo’s employs hillbilly meth-heads,” I shoot back.
Army snorts, and everyone laughs again, knowing that’s all too true, and I sit back, shaking my head.
But my smile fades a little. They’re just joking, but they wouldn’t be against it, either. Would they suggest getting me a stripper if I were into guys? No, they only feel the need to protect me from men, as if my relationships with women are less of a threat. As if they’re not real.
They would never let a man give me a lap dance.
I stare out the window, the music blasting and Trace digging into the cooler between us and cracking a beer.
I’ll miss them, but… I’m dying to leave here. To feel like I belong somewhere. To maybe meet someone.
I don’t have anything here.
There’s no one like me.
• • •
“Up!” Army shouts.
Everyone lifts their glasses into the air, clinking as the cheap tiki torches around the patio of Mariette’s burn in the evening air, and I smile, absolutely taking the shot of Patrón Army lets me have, since Macon’s not around.
“This could be it!” We all shout back in unison. “Salud!”
“Salud!” Army follows.
We shoot the tequila, my brothers laughing at me when I immediately chase it with a sip of Coke.
