If Coach Kitt knew about the parking lot, she didn’t show it. She just taught, like she wasn’t Grey’s mother. Like she wasn’t the softball coach. Like she didn’t call my butt to her office. Like she wasn’t anything to me at all other than a vessel for the preterit of ser.
Lunch happened not in the bathroom of my summer daydreams but with my back pressed to a locker outside of Coach Lee’s classroom. Not a single teacher who passed me said a word as I plowed through my turkey sandwich and mealy Red Delicious, though I’m sure eating in the hallway isn’t technically allowed.
When the bell rings, I head to my seat for calc and wait.
Topps and Lily Jane appear first. As they approach, Topps looks away, cheeks blazing atop his man-beard. Coward. Lily Jane has far more balls than that. She doesn’t just make eye contact, she smiles at me.
And when Topps drops into his chair, Lily Jane not only keeps upright but takes a few more steps until she’s standing right in front of my desk, her impish face still split in two by a grin so fierce I can smell the strawberry soda she shared with Topps.
Five little fingers pat the meat of my forearm and squeeze as she leans down, gold tiger paw pendant swinging in front of my nose. Her voice is low and fast like she’s about to be caught. And maybe she is.
“You’re my hero, Liv. A goddamn hero. You were right to call those boys on their shit. All of them owe you an apology, even my Tobias.”
“Um, thank you?” I say, blinking.
“Just wanted to make sure you knew that.” She winks, but somehow it looks different from the one in Grey’s arsenal. “And I would’ve given you a heads-up about Grey and Stacey that first day at lunch, but I thought you knew—I really did.” With a hummingbird wave, she switches topics, clearly flustered at unintentionally keeping me in the dark. “Anyway. You’re a badass. A hero-badass warrior princess.”
One more squeeze of my forearm and she’s gone.
And suddenly Grey is in her place.
There’s not time to arrange my face or to analyze Lily Jane’s suggestion that maybe not everyone—or just her, I suppose—thinks I’m a total loser.
Dark circles hug Grey’s lower lashes and he looks exhausted for the first time since I met him. His eyes meet mine, their usual light snuffed out.
Still, he nods at me and settles into his desk, broad shoulders hunching in his polo, boat shoes crossed at the ankles. But there’s a swooshy curve to his spine—as if every muscle in his body is fighting not to turn and sit sideways toward me the way he has every other day so that he can see both me and Coach Lee in the same sweep.
I realize that all the eyes are back on us, only Topps and Jake making an effort not to watch us fail to interact. Kelly, Lily Jane, and the others either blatantly stare or steal glances at us out of the sides of their eyes.
I wonder if it’s been this way all day for Grey, too. Like you’re literally the only thing on TV and there’s nothing else for anyone to do but watch.
“I know we all love a good Shakespearean drama,” Coach Lee’s voice drawls out, and it’s clearer than it was Saturday morning that he knows exactly what happened Friday night. “But I’d appreciate it if you folks would at least act like you’re paying attention to me right now.”
Twenty heads snap toward the front.
Out of the spotlight, Grey’s shoulders soften, and my earlier question is answered.
It has been this way all day for him, too.
Good.
34
I MAKE IT THROUGH CALC. I MAKE IT THROUGH THE day.
Now, just two-hundred-plus more days until Grey’s and Jake’s graduation and the reprieve of summer break. Gotta survive and advance. It’s like state, but life.
But first: Coach Kitt.
Her door is wide open, NPR whispering into the hallway. There’s also the shuffle of papers and the fizzy pop of a newly opened La Croix. In a word: comfortable. She’s comfortable even though she’s about to see me.
Me—Hurricane Liv. Bringing the drama on one-hundred-mile-per-hour winds to her team, then to her school, then to her son.
Heart quickening, I tell myself she wants me here. She invited me—with a smile. Last time, I was the one to invite myself in. It’ll be different this time. Even if I have exactly zero defense for my attitude Friday night that wouldn’t inadvertently throw her son under the bus.
“Coach?” The word feels thick and strange on my tongue, as if I haven’t used it every day of my life.
Her eyes flash up and again, she smiles. “There you are—come in. I won’t keep you long.”
I sink into the chair opposite Coach Kitt. Her smile has vanished, something friendly but serious in its place.
“I know you have places to be, but I wanted to make sure you understand how much I appreciate the work you did Friday night in helping Kelly control her emotions.”
WHUT.
It’s only by the grace of Danielle’s training that I manage to keep my features smooth.
“I know you might have thought about letting Kelly learn a lesson by allowing her to rush into that fight, where she might have gotten hurt, but you showed great maturity in making sure she didn’t.”
I suppose I did. But shock still zings up my spine that Coach Kitt noticed it. I figured she’d have been in the stands searching for Grey during the whole brawl.
“What you did showed incredible dedication to the Northland softball team,” she continues. “And at the personal expense of the opportunity to defend someone important to you.”
Grey. Jake. The team.
I watch Kitt’s face for any sign of trepidation about the way I feel—how I felt—for her son, or for a hint that she’ll bring up the yelling match in the parking lot. But there’s none—she’s already moved on.
“And though you aren’t on the team yet, I really appreciated your thoughtfulness in the midst of the chaos.”
Yet. She said yet. There’s hope in that word.
I decide to stick with the simple truth. “I just did what I thought was right.”
A single brisk nod from her and I know it’s time to move on. “Yes, you did. And I wanted to let you know your actions didn’t go unnoticed.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
The word feels a hundred times easier than when I entered her office. As I rise, she smiles again. I’m glad to see it, but it still feels weird to have that thing aimed at me.
So weird, in fact, that I feel the truth start to spill out onto my tongue. The truth about Grey’s concussion. That he should see a doctor to be cleared. Just in case.
“Coach—” I start. But then the words die in my throat.
It’s his future.
It’s his decision.
It’s his body.
Not mine.
He wants to play. So I just need to be good enough that he doesn’t hit the field until I’m sure he’s healed. And I do care about his safety, even if he’s not exactly my favorite person right now.
Coach Kitt is looking at me and so I finish the thought with another truth.
“Grey’s going to need to get another ride home after practice—I can’t this week.”
I run my prepractice laps with the other quarterbacks in complete silence—Grey in my periphery, setting the pace. His eyes keep flashing my direction, lashes shading them in a way that he thinks will keep me from noticing.