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“Sure—as soon as you share why you spent the night locked in the bathroom.”
“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but sometimes when you drink a lot of alcohol, it makes you feel like you might throw up. And I thought the best place to do that would be in the bathroom. So that’s what I did. Then it seemed like too much work to get back to my bedroom.”
Emma rolls her eyes at my sass, but then turns serious. “Are you okay, S? You’ve been acting weird.”
“I’m fine,” I say emphatically, taking a large sip of coffee. The bitter, hot liquid trickles down my esophagus in a rapid stream.
“Oh-kay, then.”
Cressida and Anne come downstairs a couple minutes later. We all eat breakfast and then pile into Anne’s car to head to practice. Since we had a scrimmage yesterday, all we have is circuit training in the gym. Which is good, because I’m not the only one who is hungover. Most of the team greets me with bleary eyes and tired smiles.
Emma’s doing leg presses beside me when I finally voice the question that’s been percolating in my brain all morning. “When did you hook up again after Rowan?” I ask her, referencing the frat boy she dated on and off most of junior year.
“Hello, left field,” she replies, glancing over at me.
“Forget it.” I shift my gaze back to the muscles of my thighs as they bunch and stretch.
“Wait. Did he ask you to find out?” she questions.
“Of course not,” I scoff. “Like I would tell him, even if he did. I was just wondering.”
“It was a month, I think. Grant Smith. Oh wait, no, Colby Summers. I remember because he did this thing with his tongue where…”
“I don’t need details, Emma.”
“You asked.”
I don’t reply. I sort of did.
“Why did you ask?”
“Just wondering.” I feel Emma’s eyes on me, but she doesn’t say anything else.
We move on to the pull-down bar, then the Ergometer, and then we’re done.
The whole team gathers around Coach Taylor. She talks through tomorrow’s itinerary and reminds us about the Canadian Football Organization Camp this weekend. Better known as CFOC, it’s become an annual tradition during the past three years at Lancaster to separate the end of our preseason and start of the regular season. Each team invited only has eleven slots—the starting squad. I know Cressida, Anne, and Emma will all be on the list alongside me before Coach Taylor finishes rattling off the names.
The prospect of leaving Lancaster for a few days is a welcome one. Maybe it will help me recalibrate.
Then again, leaving the country was how I ended up in this constant state of uncertainty and annoyance in the first place.
“I wonder if we’ll see a bear this year,” Emma speculates from her seat beside me on the bus as we chug toward CFOC.
“I hope not,” I reply, keeping my gaze trained on the Canadian wilderness. Leafy trees flash by, shadowed by craggy peaks.
“Come on, that moose was so cool!”
“The moose was cool,” I admit. “It was also an herbivore.”
“I could save you from a bear. We’d play it totally cool.”
“I wouldn’t trust you to save me from a squirrel,” I retort.
“Well, this is a low point in our friendship,” Emma replies, letting out an exaggerated sigh.
I smile as we pull up outside the wood lodge that houses the participants in CFOC. Lancaster sponsors many clinics throughout the year, but this one has always been my favorite. Tucked away amidst freshwater lakes and soaring pines, it’s definitely the most scenic. It draws players from the best programs in North America, meaning it’s a chance to settle old scores and start new rivalries each year before the season officially starts.
“First clinic starts in an hour,” Coach Taylor announces from the front of the coach bus we made the trek from the airport in. “Get changed, get settled, and don’t be late.”
