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“Ignore her, Anne. She’s having a bad day, and she’s drunk,” Cressida explains, smoothing things over like always—as she literally spreads chocolate icing.
I shrug because both are true. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong about the bright yellow top, but I don’t care enough to press the point. I’ve got other things to worry about, like which team captain to bring back here tonight. I’ve narrowed it down to lacrosse or hockey when Anne interrupts my inner debate.
“Bad day? I thought you were celebrating, Saylor?”
I shrug again. My interest in sharing what prompted my quick shift from euphoric morning to annoyed afternoon is nonexistent. Since I’m the only player on Lancaster University’s women’s soccer team who has never had a family member attend a game, I’m sure my teammates have all surmised my childhood was not the idyllic white-picket-fence-golden-retriever upbringing many of them took for granted. The best part of coming to Lancaster was finally leaving behind the sympathetic stares regarding my perennial lack of parenting. I’m in no mood to discuss my fractured family—even with my best friends. It will either lead to pitiful looks and awkward apologies, or more of the amateur-family-therapist lines Hallie spouts at me.
“It’s not that big of a deal. I knew I’d get in.” I down a third shot of gin. It’s the only liquor I’ll touch.
My brash words are a stretch. I was confident, sure, but Scholenberg is the most exclusive training camp in the world. I wasn’t just competing for admission against the top college-aged players in the United States, but around the globe. An invitation is an honor, not a forgone conclusion—something Emma, Cressida, and Anne are all well aware of.
Emma scoffs as she measures out whiskey.
“Didn’t they accept two Americans?” Anne asks, moving on. She’s never been one to stoke animosity, and she, like everyone else who’s ever met me, knows if I don’t want to talk about something, I won’t. Period.
“Yup,” I respond, popping the P. “Ellie Anderson got in, too.”
“That’s a surprise,” Cressida remarks. “I would have expected Cotes or Stevens.”
“Ellie’s got connections,” I reply. “Her uncle’s an assistant trainer for Kluvberg.”
“That’ll do it,” Emma states, sticking the carton of pineapple juice back in the fridge. With whiskey? Gross. “I can’t believe you’ll be playing on their field.”
“I know,” I admit. The allure of attending Scholenberg isn’t just the exclusivity or the prestige. The camp also provides an opportunity to play on the most famous field in the world: the home of FC Kluvberg.
“I literally have a poster of it on my wall,” Emma continues.
“No, you have a poster of Adler Beck on your wall,” I correct, leaning my head back against the upper cabinet so I can study the cracks in the plaster blemishing our kitchen ceiling.
“But I purposefully chose the photo of him on the field, not the shirtless one from the ‘Sexiest Athletes’ cover.”
“Big of you.”
Anne laughs at my comment, and Emma rolls her eyes as she downs her disgusting drink.
“Okay, let’s go,” Cressida announces, dropping the now empty bowl and spatula into the sink. “The cake is done.”
“It’s cute how you think that will make it until tomorrow,” I tell the ceiling.
“Saylor, I swear, if you…”
Emma laughs. “Cress, you need to hide that if you want there to be any left.”
“All I need is for Saylor to?—”
“Hey!” I’m the one who interrupts this time. “I’m not the one eating the stuff, okay?”
“But you are the one telling your overnight guests where the baked goods are,” Cressida points out.
“Overnight guests?” Emma snorts. “They’re her boy toys.”
I ignore Emma. “I don’t tell them where they are. They’re hungry, and?—”
“She uses the sweets to kick them out,” Anne cuts in.
“Here’s a cupcake for the three orgasms,” Emma adds with a wicked smirk.
Three orgasms is overstating the talent of most guys on this campus, but I don’t say so.
