Thankfully the whistle blew, and we filed outside to our half of the practice field. Coach Sams counted us off again, only this time, Pete and I ended up on the same team. I hoped this was the symbolism our future held. We worked together really well, passing the ball back and forth with little (on my part) to no (his part) interception. The coaches had put Jake, Diego, Shelby, and anybody with any athletic ability at all on the opposing team, yet we were still up four to zip at halftime. Coach Sams must’ve taken pity on the other team, because she benched Pete and me for the duration of the game, reorganizing the teams to allow other players a chance to play.
In companionable silence we sat together on the bench, dispassionately watching the disaster unfolding on the soccer field. I noticed he was drinking from the same dark bottle he always seemed to have on hand. He twisted off the cap, and a wisp of vapor evaporated into the air.
“What kind of water is that exactly?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before . . . not that I’m a bottled water expert.” I took a sip from my metal canteen. “All I drink is good old-fashioned Clovis well water.”
“You drink well water?” He said this like I’d just said I went out back to use the outhouse.
“Yup.” I took another defiant sip.
Pete looked funny for a second, then swung the bottle between his legs, staring intently at our kicker as he attempted a long-range field goal.
Awkward.
“Forget I asked.” I leaned my elbows on my knees, and my chin in my hands, and watched as the ball just grazed through the posts.
“It’s purified, oxygenated water, provided by the Academy,” he finally answered, as though the field goal had earned me three little facts.
“Oh.” Weird. Did they ship it to him because Clovis water was polluted? Was the plethora of regular bottled water you could purchase at any convenience store still not good enough? I was trying to lure in an elusive, exotic creature, so didn’t want to make any big, sudden movements. So I just let it go for now—he obviously didn’t want to discuss his life at The Academy in any kind of personal way.
The wind whipped up again, rushing stinging bumps down my arms. I shivered. Weather this time of year could be volatile, dropping twenty to thirty degrees in the blink of an eye.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m okay.”
He pulled off his long-sleeved navy T-shirt and handed it to me. Underneath, he had on another tee, only this one was worn and tighter so that it clung to his chest. I took a moment to admire his physique. Pete had the kind of musculature that manifested itself in a natural way—say from playing lacrosse all day rather than pumping iron.
“Thanks.” My smile faded when I noticed the gold motif on the left side of his shirt. It was hard to make out at first because the letters were peeling off like chipped paint, but the roaring lion head was unmistakable.
After a moment of me holding on to his warm shirt, he slid a smile my way. “You gonna put that on or continue to wound my chivalrous pride?”
I glanced down at the plush cotton I longed to wrap around me and inhale. I slipped it over my head, and it seemed to swallow me whole. An immediate smirk formed on his lips.
“What?” I began rolling up the sleeves.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“It means I don’t particularly care for the way some of these guys are starting to look at you.”
I shook my head at him. “Not this again.”
“Hey,” he laughed, “just tellin’ you like it is.”
I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. My heart—my whole body— suddenly felt much, much warmer. I turned so that I faced the practicing football players instead of the wicked gleam in his eye. Leaning against him seemed like the natural thing to do, but I resisted, leaning over instead to hug my knees and surreptitiously breathe in his shirt. It smelled lightly of expensive cologne, good health, and something else all his own—essence of Pete, and it was an electric combination that I could never get my fill of.
“So which one is it?”
I peeked over my shoulder at him.
“The guy . . . the stud you made mention of earlier. I’m assuming he’s one of those purple jerseys out there.”
I chortled and rocked back on the bench. “I’m not interested, so what does it matter?”
“Is it Miguel?” he persisted.
“Nope.” He looked like he didn’t believe me, so I said, “He has a girlfriend.”
“Don’t you mean a girl who’s a friend, but he’d like it to be more?”
I laughed at his convoluted language. “It’s not like that.”
“Hm-hmm.”
We watched as a helmet-head nudged another helmet-head and nodded our way. He shouted something to Ron, who looked over from his squatting position on the field. My face burned knowing I was the object of much speculation and gossip since Pete’s arrival. I usually liked to just fly under the radar.
“Is it that guy?” Pete jerked his head over to indicate Ron. “The big one who put his hands on your ass?”
Not wanting to stir the pot, I kept mum but had to suppress a smile. It’s funny how he didn’t recall that was the same “big one” who’d put his hands on him during the fight.
“Come on, Kate,” he wheedled. “Which number?”
“Why does it matter?”
A broody expression crossed his face. “I don’t know. It just does. Come on!—tell me. I promise I won’t kick his ass . . . unless you want me to.”
“You know what?—no!” I said, exasperated. “You don’t tell me anything I wanna know.”
“What? How can you say that? I’m an open book.”
“You mean an open brochure.”
“Okay fine . . . If I answer one of your questions, will you answer mine?”
Yes! Finally! “Deal,” I said, offering up my hand. After we shook on it, I swiveled around to stare deeply into his eyes, like a weirdo.
Pete laughed at my serious expression and squared up his shoulders. “Okay, take your best shot.”
“Is Andrew gettin’ accepted to your academy?”
He sighed wearily like I’d missed my mark. What did he think I was going to ask? Whether or not he believed aliens really landed in Roswell? “That’s confidential information,” he chided. “I don’t even know yet. I simply submit his test scores and my observations to the committee, and they decide.”
I stared him down for a few seconds. His answer felt right, so I accepted it. “Fine . . . I’ll ask a different one.” And I knew just the one to ask. It started right at the center of my core, vibrating out until it spilled from my mouth in a rush. “Do you think your academy is a good organization?”
Lightening-quick, an invisible shutter closed over his eyes. “Absolutely,” he said, trying at real conviction. “The Academy is not only an elite military academy, it’s also an organization that caters to gifted children just like Andrew. Its goal is the self-actualization of every cadet. It also promotes innovation in science and technology; our groundbreaking discoveries are enhancing lives every day. And philanthropy is also a big part of our program. We’ve given millions away to help worthy children from around the world, who ordinarily wouldn’t have a chance to fulfill their potential. Andrew is one of the select few to receive an invitation. I think he would thrive in such an environment and is extremely lucky to have this opportunity.” Pete took in my neutral expression and broadened his smile.