I can’t help it, my eyes skip to the heart-shaped faces in the frames on his desk—kids who I hope, deep down, would like the fact that I’m playing for their dad.
“Boys say stupid things to girls because girls scare the crap out of them. The more they think about a girl, the faster their IQ numbers plummet. And you, my friend, are terrifying.”
Thank God he’s smiling as he says this.
“First of all, you’re a girl with a pass to a sacred boyhood space—that’s horror show material right off the bat. And then you come along playing almost as well as them with zero background. You work your tail off alongside them without a single complaint, and when you take off your helmet, they’re reminded again and again that you are who you are.”
This time I laugh for real but it’s only because otherwise I might cry. Coach smiles.
“So whatever they said—remember that you’re better than it. And I’ll be sure to remind them they’re better than whatever they said, too. And if any of them is idiotic enough not to listen to either of us, you tell me. It’s not snitching—I need to know if they’re up to something I won’t tolerate. Understood?”
I suck in a breath, wincing as it shudders. Tears ping in my eyes, but I squint them off like the freaking pro I am. “You got it, Coach.”
35
THE BYE WEEK ISN’T JUST A BREAK FROM HAVING A game, it’s a break from our regular routine in general. We get out half an hour early on Monday night, and Tuesday night is more of the same, which means one thing: I can actually make it to one of Addie’s volleyball games.
It’s at Windsor Prep, but I love my Addie and damn if I won’t be there.
I clean up as quickly as possible in the Northland locker room, baby-wiping the sweat from my body and spraying dry shampoo into my hair before brushing it into a fresh ponytail—clean enough for a life without Grey.
My heart is pounding as I park Helena in her old spot in the student lot. Walk my old route to the gym. Open the Eagle-crested doors.
Sound pours out, the gym alive with the screechy euphoria of a volleyball game in full swing. I slip onto the nearest bench, finding a spot by the door and up a few rows—the place is packed with students, alumni, donors, and fans in Windsor Prep purple. There are a few scattered flecks of Wyandotte Rural powder blue dotting the pine, but most of it is swallowed by regal grape.
Not shockingly, Addie’s dominating on the court—it’s a fraction of a second after I sit before an Adeline McAndry kill crashes to the boards, icing the second set.
The bleachers erupt and so do I, hopping to my feet and screaming, enough to catch Addie’s eye. My white shirt probably didn’t hurt. Turning with her whole body, she waves, long fingers blurring in front of her mile-wide smile.
It’s weird, but in that instant, my heart slows, my nerves fade, and my belly swells with the warmth of familiarity. I’m suddenly swept into the rhythm of all the home matches I attended last year. Huddling with the softball girls, passing around contraband Diet Coke (no food or drink in the gym!) and making up silly cheering chants in the front row.
I squint into the stands across the way and see that, yes, Christy, Mary Katherine, and Ava are there, tucked behind the Eagles bench, knees bouncing in matching pairs of running capris, probably as baby-wipe-clean as me after suffering through whatever “optional” (hardy har har) off-season workout Danielle programmed for today.
The three of them cheer as the Eagles line up for a Bobcats serve, and I wonder if they’ll notice me, too, in my fluorescent white. I don’t know if I should say hi or if we’re even still cool after a few months apart and a rocky end to the season.
After the punch heard round the world, I basically ghosted on everyone who wasn’t Addie or on my summer travel team. It was all just too royally embarrassing.
My heart thuds out a small ribbon of hope. Tiny enough that I wonder when I became so freaking timid. It’s not in my DNA, yet it’s been hanging around—
“Hey.”
My head whips around at the familiar voice. Light blue eyes and ginger hair greet me, the scent of boy cologne so strong that I can’t believe I didn’t smell him before I saw him.
Thanks for the warning, nose.
Nick Cleary, in the flesh. Hair still wet, protein bar wrapper peeking out of his letter jacket’s pocket. Here for Addie, straight from practice. Just like me—but showered.
I can’t tell if I should melt from the cute (he came for her!) or beat myself up for not realizing this would be a possibility.
“Hey,” I parrot back, because other words won’t come.
“How’s our girl doing?”
“She’s killin’ it.”
He grins and we both turn our attention to the court. I’m relieved after a minute when he pulls out his phone, aiming it toward the net, recording his girlfriend totally crushing it.
And she is.
Bump. Spike. Block. Kill.
She does it all with a graceful efficiency, pin-straight and wiry but panther-smooth. It’s as beautiful as it is mesmerizing.
Nick and I don’t speak during the final set of the sweep, watching in dull silence when we’re not screaming into the noise of a Windsor Prep crowd.
And when it’s over and the players are shaking hands, I’m surprised that Nick is the one who breaks our mutual hush. Even more so when I realize it’s an invitation.
“I usually meet her on the floor after they leave the locker room.”
Usually. He’s done this before. Because of course he has. But I’m her best friend and this is the first match I’ve seen all season. Ugh.
We wait a few minutes, and as the locker room door swings open, none of the players look twice at Nick, standing there, in full Northland gear. Nothing worth gawking about. Me, on the other hand… I stick out like the ghost of games past.
“OMG! Liv Rodinsky! Is that you?”
It’s unclear which Eagle squeals it first, but they’re on me in a flash—like they didn’t just sprint across a gym for an hour. Whatever the reason for the surge, a dozen girls surround me, game-day glitter in their hair.
“Uh, hi.” Their collective reaction is infectious, and I’m suddenly grinning.
“We miss you, Hot Roddy!” says Genevieve Suter, adding in deliberate vroom sounds that accompany the sometimes-nickname I inherited from Danielle.
“How’s Northland?”
“We heard you’re playing football!”
“Omigod, aren’t the guys there ON FIRE? HI, NICK.” Then, quieter yet somehow just as loud, “Do you have one for me?”
I laugh, not sure whom to answer first. So I answer them all. “I miss you guys, too! It’s okay. I am. They are, but not enough to ruin my A average.” (Insert hair flip.) I lean in to Barbie Villanueva, hopeful whisper-shouter. “And no, but I can be on the lookout.”
Barbie clutches my wrist, eyes wide and lined in Eagles purple. “Good. I want a blond.”
Wonder how good Brady’s footwork would be with Adriana Lima’s body double hustling after him. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“How about a star third baseman, can you headhunt one of those?”
It’s said with a joking lilt, but a sour note halts the chatter, all of us staring, openmouthed, at the speaker: star catcher Christy Morris, who will probably be senior captain this year. Off to the side, leading the capri-tight gang of my former teammates.