We have a favorite field that we often use but someone else was there, so we continue our walk to a more secluded, less-maintained field that’s normally used for rec-league games.
As I walk with Rooney, I try to breathe deeply, to release the anxiety that’s knotting my stomach. I’m nervous for today, but I don’t actually know what exactly I’m apprehensive about. It’s just that since my wild night out, things feel tense with Ryder, in some unnamable but palpable sense. Yes, there’s obvious sexual tension, but something more is going on. I just can’t put my finger on it.
He’s been a bit surlier than normal. I’ve been busier. While I could talk to him about what happened, that would be…well, that would be wildly uncomfortable. I don’t do that. I’d hive and choke on my words. It would also be trying, and if there’s one thing Willa Rose Sutter doesn’t do with a man—friend or foe—it’s try.
How and why I ended up this way is a complex cocktail. First, it’s resentment for the man who bequeathed fifty percent of my DNA, then headed for the hills. In part, my unwillingness to pursue a man, let alone a serious relationship, is because I’m sickened by the thought that the guy I fall for could reject me just like the sperm donor.
Then there’s part two: my mother’s perspective on men. Mama didn’t say it often, how untrustworthy she found men. I think, in her way, she wanted me to form my own opinion about the opposite sex. But she showed me her whole adult life that men were something you use and lose, hit and quit. Anything more was just an invitation for disappointment.
Walking with Rooney, half-listening to her prattle on about some chemistry assignment I’ll never wrap my head around—why, I have asked, does a pre-law student need a chemistry degree? Because she’s a masochistic dork who wants to be a biomedical lawyer, that’s why—I find myself wondering why I’m so hung up on my dynamic with Ryder. We’re project partners. We banter well. There’s some sexual tension. Fine. What’s the big deal?
I’ve tried shelving it, but I can’t stop thinking that in all these hours together with my nemesis-turned-forced-ally, somewhere along the way we became friends. Yes, friends who routinely bust and burn each other so bad, we’re a little singed around the edges. Okay, so maybe we’re more frenemies than friends, but that’s more than straight, vehement opposition. Even then, so what? Can’t a man and woman be frenemies? Especially when both of them have shown themselves to be totally allergic to maintaining anything more?
“Man this bag is heavy,” Rooney huffs, the only break in her chemistry soliloquy. “How many balls did you pack?”
I take the bag from her and hike it high up on my shoulder. I always pack too many balls, but you can never have too many, especially with how often Rooney shanks them.
“Rude!” She shoves me.
Seems I said that out loud.
As we round the bend to the rec-league fields, Rooney’s back to bitching about chemistry, specifically how her professor unfairly graded her balanced equations review. I freeze and slap a hand against her chest.
A man stands far down the field, juggling the ball, his head bent in that easy way you have when you’re effortlessly screwing around, juggling when you could do it in your sleep. His hair’s tugged back in a small bun at the base of his neck. His blond facial hair catches the sunlight when he flicks the ball and lands it on his back, steadying it easily between his shoulder blades. The ball hovers seamlessly until he bounces it off his shoulder. On a scissor kick while the ball is mid-air, he cracks it straight into the goal.
Rooney’s whistle cuts the silence. “Well, hi, and who ordered him from the hot stranger vending machine?”
I smack her chest again. My heart is racing. “Rooney, I think a ball pump fell out of the bag. You better double back and check.”
“What?” She frowns. “How could I have possibly dropped tha—”
“Rooney?”
She finally notices the dangerously brittle edge in my voice. Staring out to the field, Rooney narrows her eyes and takes a longer look. “Wait, is that…holy shit. Holy. Shit.”
I can’t even manage a nod of agreement.
“Okay, I’m going to, uh…I’m going to go check my ingrown toenail. I’ll hang back here.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
I’m so distracted, I walk off with the gigantic bag still hanging on my shoulder. I trudge through the gate onto the field, selfishly, and perhaps wrongly, trying to be as quiet as possible. I can’t imagine he—if this is Ryder, and I bet my left tit it’s him—is wearing his hearing aid. For how active he’s being, it could easily fall off.
As I walk, a searing pain knifes through my sternum. It’s heartburn but a hundred times worse. Now he rainbows it, flicking the ball around as easily as a puppy lobs a toy and artfully, consistently catches it. I’m close enough to recognize that mangy beard. That perfect nose. It’s him. It’s Ryder.
It’s hard to appreciate the way his shorts sit on his hips, how he wears tall soccer socks the way all hot soccer dudes who are too badass for shin guards always have, crinkled at his ankles. His cleats are beat to shit which means they’re perfectly comfy. Your cleats always finally get comfortable right before it’s time to retire them. His muscles press against his T-shirt, which he lifts to dab his face, revealing the narrow taper of his waist, a stretch of tan skin and divots right above his shorts. The asshole soccer jock has butt dimples. Of course, he does.
I don’t exactly know why tears prick my eyes, or why an overwhelming sense of betrayal surges up my throat, constricting it painfully.
Suddenly, Ryder whips around, eyes widening as they take me in. Thank the Lordy, the beard’s still there. I just don’t know that I could handle anymore transformation in one day.
Instinctively, Ryder abandons the ball, then jogs up to me, yanking the massive bag effortlessly off my shoulder and transferring it to his. He cocks his head, fumbling for his phone from his pocket. What are you doing here?
I read his text and exhale a long, jagged breath. Sharp blades of confused emotion etch their marks in my throat as I try to swallow, then speak. “Just came to shoot a little bit.”
Ryder studies me, then his eyes drop to his phone. Why do you look upset?
I have two choices. I can tell him what this means to me. Pour out my guts. Confess my shocking hurt that he didn’t trust me to see past his surly lumberjack surface, that I can’t wrap my head around why he’s so good and why he doesn’t play. Demand his explanation for knowing what the game means to me and keeping his own deep connection to it such a closely held secret.
Or, I can do what I’ve always done. Repress the pain, bypass the uncomfortable truth, and move right along.
“I’m fine, Ryder.”
He squints and clenches his jaw. He’s about to get feisty with me and call bullshit. I don’t think I can handle any pushy demands or singeing banter this morning, so I stop him, holding his wrist.
“I’ll see you in a few hours, okay?”
Before he can answer, I rip the bag off his shoulder and carry it back toward the other end of the field. When I dump the balls and wave at Rooney, showing her the coast is clear, I feel Ryder’s eyes on me.