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ME: Great game! Congrats!
I close my laptop and fall back onto the bed, smiling at the ceiling. The euphoria sticks with me for about twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Like alcohol, though, it wears off, though. And now, not only am I the girl whose deadbeat dad is disappointed in her and who lost her starting spot on the team, but I’m also the girl who is desperately checking her phone every two minutes to see if the guy she supposedly doesn’t have a thing for has texted her back.
I drown my repetitive nonsensical thoughts in a hot shower, pulling a Cutter and using up every last drop since I’m here alone and got to the shower first. Too lazy to dry my hair, I leave it wrapped in a towel as I tuck myself back into bed and begin to scroll on my phone.
I start at a few of the Caney-ship posts on some of Matt’s pages, and I mistakenly peruse a few of the comments, some nice, most not. Apparently, being with Cutter is a coveted honor that I don’t deserve, according to—pick any female name out of the Tiff directory. A few male names too. I stop short of fully wishing those other girls or guys could have him. I stop short because I don’t really want them to.
That thought sends me down a new rabbit hole, and before too long I’m on Cutter’s profile, scrolling through every post he’s put up over the last year. I start to get into some of the comments on his photos, which are usually of him playing hockey or him holding a beer up while standing with some girl under his arm. His smile is always the same in the couple photos. And his fierce eyes are always dialed in when he’s playing, at least when it’s a close-up and I can make out his expression. There are two Cutters according to his page, and maybe a week ago, I would have bought that to be true. But now? I’m not so sure. I’ve seen glimpses of another guy. He's pulled that mask away long enough for me to see other sides. Like yesterday, for example, when he was clearly upset about something. Or when he woke up early to take me to practice and pretended he had practice too. I let him think he got away with that. But also, I like his kindness.
Under every photo are dozens of comments, some from people congratulating him on a good game, others from girls asking him to hook up. He almost always hearts the response, and often flirts right out in the open, basically calling their bluff and telling them where to find him if they ever want to experience Cutter McCreary for themselves. The whole thingbegins to amuse me and also clears out some of the confusing thoughts I’ve had about Cutter in the last couple of days. But then something strange stands out.
Cutter and I have been sharing a space for a little more than a week. And if I look at the photo he posted from practice the day he moved in, I see the same fifty comments as usual from his fan club, but zero responses from Cutter. The next day is the same. And the post of him and the guys on the bus this morning? It’s filled with well wishes and propositions. Cutter thanks everyone who wished him luck, but the girls basically throwing themselves at him digitally have zero engagement. He hasn’t even so much as liked one of those “you’re so hot” comments in nine days. Sure, that’s no record or anything. But it is obvious and it is strange. And I maybe, kind of, like it.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and when I see it’s a text from Cutter, my heart swings into my throat and I roll to my side, pulling my blanket over me so I can hide. It’s not like there are ghosts floating around waiting to taunt me, but somehow, it feels safer to be unsure of things under here. To smile when I see his name. To swallow hard at his words.
CUTTER: Hey! You saw? Wow! Thanks! You guys swept them. I checked. I also saw the box score, and I know. I know and I understand. And if you want, when I get home, we can hit things hard some more.
I crop my chin to my fist and reread his message a few times, my mouth caught somewhere between a smile and the quivering frown that usually precedes one of my very rare but quite potent crying fests.
The blinking dots have me glued to the screen, waiting for more. Maybe I’m waiting on his permission to cry over the shitty day I had. To mourn the loss of always being on top. So I can feel sorry for myself and know it’s okay that it hurts to step backward, even a little.
CUTTER: I hope you’re out celebrating at Patty’s. But if you’re not, it’s ok. I wouldn’t be able to either, and it doesn’t mean we’re shitty teammates. It means we care about our passions more than others, and we take our business personally.
Yeah, that one was the permission slip I needed. A single tear escapes my right eye and slides down my cheek, stopping at the curve of my lip. I run the back of my hand over my face to erase it, letting the salty taste seep into my mouth just a little. Then I write him back.
ME: Thanks. I needed that.
His response is immediate.
CUTTER: I know. I’ll see you soon.
I roll to my right and stare at the screen for nearly a minute before pulling his pillow to my chest and wrapping his blanket around my body. I imagine it’s a hug, and it soothes me. But I refuse to think beyond that.
14/
cutter
FLYNN:Mom is home.
My brother’s text hit my phone seconds before I had to put it away for game time. It was like I had wings. Coach said it was my best game, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. The Spoilers guys weren’t there, but two other team scouts were—Ice Devils and the Vagrants. Two more minor organizations all within driving distance of Ma’s place. It felt like destiny. And I can’t wait to tell my mother about it when I get to the house.
I came home first, hoping to maybe see Laney before taking off, but she was at practice. The women have another game on Tuesday. They play pretty much nonstop for the next three months. And I’m sure Laney is anxious for the next game, hoping the coach will finally cut her loose and let her play.
She didn’t text much last night, but I could read her pain in the brevity of her words. Being at the top of your game and getting knocked back down to start the climb all over again is hard physically, but emotionally it’s worse. I was hoping her coach would change her mind and start Laney, but when I saw the box score after my game, my gut sank for her.
Thing is, I can’t imagine a Tiff volleyball match in which she isn’t the dominant force. She belongs out there, and I know thatthe coach and the school are simply saving ass by A, not bringing her back too quickly and risking injury, and B, not upsetting the other players putting in the work. There’s a C situation, too, that I’m not sure Laney knows about. Chelsea’s parents own a software company, more of a corporation really. Well, it’s listed on the stock exchange frequently, so however big that is—maybe that’s dynasty.
That corporation pretty much bankrolls Tiff athletics. So Chelsea is going to get her time one way or another. But the team can’t afford to keep Laney on the bench, so she’ll get back into the starting six. Might not be in the spot she wants, though, and that—that’s not right. I can’t decide if it’s better she knows before the system screws her over or after. The system will do its thing regardless.
I pull into the familiar driveway that’s permanently stained with various paints and chalk lines my brothers and I have drawn to make our own rink over the years. Plenty of McCreary family defenses were hatched on this makeshift goal. We had just enough space to draw out the house, including two face-off circles that bled into the sidewalk and street. Our neighbors put up with it because we cleaned their lawns on weekends. My dad made the trade and to me and my brothers, it always felt like a fair deal.
My mom hits the garage button to bring up the door just as I get out of my Jeep. I crouch down to spot her feet shuffling toward the opening and when it’s clear enough for me to pass through, I rush at her and sweep her into a hug.
“Oh, alright. I said I was fine.” She plays it off but I can feel in her hug that she’s happy to see me.
“I didn’t make dinner like I was supposed to. I think maybe a hospital stay is a good excuse?” She pulls back to look me in the eyes, and I grin.
“You know I don’t come here for the food,” I say.
