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“Hey, sweetie,” she greets. “How was practice?”
“It was fine,” I reply. “Coach was out sick today, so I made the boys run a few drills, and then we stopped by the girls’ soccer game.”
“That sounds fun.”
“I don’t think anyone else thought so. They lost. To Glenmont.”
“Oh.” My mother doesn’t follow a single sport, but it’s impossible to spend more than a day in Alleghany and remain oblivious to the town’s hatred of the one across the lake. “Well, I’m making dinner. It should be ready in about twenty minutes.”
“I got pizza with the guys after the game,” I inform her. “But I’ll probably be hungry again in an hour or two if you want to set some aside.”
“All right.”
“Where’s Dad?” I finally ask.
My mother’s shoulders tense slightly. Our relationship is much more peaceful when we both pretend my father doesn’t exist.
“He had a late work meeting.”
“Huh,” I reply. I have a feeling that’s not the case, and the tightness in my mother’s face suggests she doesn’t think so either. “I’m going to do some homework,” I tell her instead of voicing my suspicions, and I watch her slight frame visibly relax.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
I hate how my father’s philandering has sullied my relationship with my mother, but I also can’t understand how she continues to turn a blind eye to it.
I head upstairs after retrieving my backpack from the front hall. I shower, even though I barely exerted myself at practice, and settle at my desk to start on my assignments due tomorrow. But rather than the math equations I’m supposed to be solving, my mind keeps drifting to Maeve.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, disregarding the messages and social media notifications displayed on the screen. I scroll through my contacts until I come to the three letters I saved Maeve’s number as.Huh. I grin when I see them.
Rather than hit the message icon, or even the phone one, I tap the video symbol. I plug in my headphones, and the sound of ringing fills my ears.
Each second that passes feels eons long as I wait impatiently for her to answer. As I hope she doesn’t.
Suddenly, the phone connects, and there she is. Sitting cross-legged on a navy comforter, wearing my light gray sweatshirt and a look of complete shock. The girl I can’t get out of my head, and don’t seem to want to.
“Good game earlier,” I say in greeting.
There’s utter silence from her end of the line.
“Uh, thanks,” Maeve finally replies. Her green eyes are wide, and I grin to myself as I watch her fiddle with the messy bun that’s barely containing her blonde locks, trying to wind some of the stray hairs back into place. “I was surprised to see you there. Do you attend many Alleghany girls’ soccer games?”
“That was my first one,” I admit.
“You wanted to see them beat us?” she asks. A current of challenge runs through her voice.
“No, I wanted to see you play, Maeve.” Emotion flashes across her face in response to my honesty, but it disappears before I discern which one. “Why have you been avoiding me since school started?”
Maeve bites her bottom lip. “I—It seemed like it was for the best. It was one thing over the summer, but now…” She lets her voice trail off.
“I was the Alleghany quarterback this summer too, Maeve,” I reply. “That didn’t suddenly happen three weeks ago at the start of senior year.”
“I know that, Wes.” There’s some exasperation leaking into her voice. “But it feels different now. It felt different when all the guys were complaining about your stats at lunch after I’d spent the night before kissing you in your car.”
I can’t help but grin, and she rolls her eyes, obviously realizing what I’m thinking. My smile fades as the implication of her words sinks in. “So, that’s it?” I say quietly. I’m tempted to bring up what Charlie mentioned about her and Matt Crawford, but I refrain.
“It’s not just the rivalry, Wes. We only just started our season, and Coach Bloom thinks I could play in college, so I’ve got a bunch of trips planned for that now, too.”
“Where are you looking?” I ask, even though it’s none of my business. She’s a girl from Glenmont. Not to mention the fact she basically just broke up with me.
