Maliyah wasn’t used to being denied.
I kicked the bottom of the locker they’d assigned me in the visitor space, drawing a few looks from my teammates before I forced a ragged breath and peeled off my jersey. Pads came next, and then I hobbled toward the showers, running the water as hot as I could and planting my hands on the cool tile wall as it rained down on me.
It was the first time we’d really talked since everything went down, since she threw me out like old garbage and walked away like it didn’t hurt her at all. Even now, I knew she was playing the game, dropping a tempting piece of bait right in my face to see if I’d swipe up and take it, only for her to reel me in and toss me back out again.
It pissed me off.
It broke my heart.
But that wasn’t what worried me most.
What made me stay in that hot shower until my fingers pruned and my skin was beet red was the fact that something in the way I felt about her had shifted, transformed into an emotion I didn’t recognize.
And now, I wasn’t sure what the game even was anymore.
Or what I was playing for.
The bus ride back to Boston was long and rainy, just like the game had been.
Though most of my teammates were rowdy and loud, celebrating our win and making plans to continue that celebration once we made it back to campus, I sat quietly near the front in a seat next to Holden, who seemed content to listen to his headphones and leave me alone.
My mom had texted me after the game, telling me she and Brandon had gone over to Maliyah’s parents’ house to watch the game on TV. She told me how proud she was of me. She told me how proud Cory was of me. She also asked if I was coming home for Thanksgiving.
I can’t wait for you to meet Brandon!
I didn’t have the energy to answer her, nor to even finish reading the long text my father had sent me not too long after that. It wasn’t a surprise to see his name on my missed texts. About the only time I ever heard from him was on game days, and usually it was a list of things I could do better, followed by questions on whether I’d found an agent or made my pro plan yet.
I was ready to throw my phone into the nearest river until Giana texted me right as we pulled into the parking lot.
Sorry I didn’t get to see you after the game. Field was madness with all the reporters. Are you back on campus yet?
I thumbed back a response confirming we’d just pulled in.
Come over?
My heart stopped before kicking back to life, and I typed back a thumbs up emoji before my sour attitude could talk me out of it. I’d had plans to march straight to my dorm and pass out face down in my mattress, but the truth was I didn’t want to be alone.
Not with all the thoughts whirling in my mind like a tornado.
Coach gave a quick speech in the locker room before we were all dismissed, told to enjoy our Sunday and get back here ready to work Monday morning. I flew out of there with my headphones on so no one could ask me to go out to the bars or The Pit.
It was a long walk to Giana’s spot off campus. I usually took the train or called for an Uber. But the rain had stopped, and I found myself thankful for the cool night air as I made my way off campus and wound through the Fort Point district. It was busy, locals and tourists alike flocking to restaurants and bars now that the weather had cleared up.
It was almost nine by the time I made it to Giana’s, and she buzzed me up, waiting with her door open when I made it to her floor.
“Okay, I figured you were hungry after that monster game — that pick was insane, by the way! — but I didn’t know what you’d be hungry for, exactly,” she said, holding the door wider so I could slip inside. As soon as I did, a plethora of aromas assaulted me. “So… I kind of ordered a little of everything.”
Her hair was big and frizzy from the rain, piled into a sloppy bun on top of her head with little curls bursting out of the hold and framing her face. She wore her black glasses tonight, the frames wide, and her fluffy, pink house slippers slapped against the wood floor as she walked me toward the kitchen.
She wore a simple white, spaghetti-strap tank top, and it was cropped so that her stomach showed between it and the oversized sweatpants hanging low on her hips. Everything about her screamed cozy, along with the candles burning in every corner of her place.
When we made it to the little kitchen, she bit her lip shyly, gesturing to the spread of food that was entirely too much for two people.
“There’s dumplings and rice, and pizza, and some slider burgers from the bar down the street. I got some pretzel bites with beer cheese because yum.” She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, patting her stomach like a starved man before she popped a finger up. “Oh! And fries. And donuts. And ice cream in the freezer. I might also have some… chips… up… here,” she added, struggling as she reached up onto her tiptoes to open the small cabinet above her stove.
She indeed did have chips, two bags of Cheetos — both puffy and crunchy — and she added them to the spread before hanging her hands on her hips in satisfied victory.
“Bón appétit,” she said. When she finally looked at me, her brows folded in. “Oh God, it’s too much, isn’t it?”
I tried to smile, shaking my head. “No, it’s great.”
Her frown only deepened, and she stepped closer, searching my eyes as I swallowed and tore my gaze away from her. I stared at the space between us, my hands tucked firmly in the pockets of my sweatpants.
“You’re not okay,” she whispered.
Again, I tried to smile, but it wilted like a flower in the desert sun. I lifted my gaze, debating over trying to say I was fine.
But in the end, I just shook my head.
Giana sighed, nodding like she understood without me saying a word. “Okay, you,” she said, grabbing my arms and marching me toward her bedroom. “Sit,” she instructed, pushing me until I sat down on the edge of her bed. “Relax. I’ll make us a couple plates. And you pick out the documentary we’re going to watch.”
“Documentary?” I asked with an arched brow, kicking off my sneakers before I sat back against her headboard.
“Yep. We’re going to watch a stupid documentary about something weird and stuff our faces.” She thumbed through to Netflix, eyes lighting up a bit when she clicked into the documentary sub-category. “Oh! Look. One on cheerleading.”
She gave me a look, waggling her brows.
I swiped the remote out of her hand. “Give me that.”
With a smile, she obliged, disappearing into the kitchen. She came back moments later with two plates piled high with a smorgasbord of food, and then she slid onto the mattress next to me.
“Our Planet! Excellent choice, my friend,” she said, popping a Cheeto in her mouth. Then, she grabbed the remote out of my hand, scrolled a few episodes, hit play, and flicked off the lamp next to her side of the bed.
The documentary started, and she kept her eyes on the screen, save for when she reached for something on the two plates between us.
She didn’t bug me about what was wrong. She didn’t pry.
She was just… there.
“Isn’t this… crazy?” she asked me around a mouthful of Cheetos when we were halfway through the second episode we picked. It was High Seas, and glow-in-the-dark creatures that lived far in the depths of the ocean were swimming across the screen. “It looks like it’s CGI. But it’s not. This is real.” She paused, waving her Cheeto about like a wand. “I mean… that’s real. That weird glow-in-the-dark fish that looks like an alien lives right here on the same planet as us.”