“You snored again.” Rooney stomps around the hotel room topless. She’s a shameless nudie who would literally walk the world naked if it wouldn’t get her arrested. The woman hates clothes like I hate real talk. It scarred me freshman year, but I’ve since desensitized and learned not to notice.
I yawn, trying to make my eyes focus as I check the time. “And? This is significant how? I always snore.”
“And I forgot my earplugs.”
I frown, both because there’s a message on my phone I didn’t expect and because Rooney under-slept is not what we need at today’s game. As Coach said, she needs us well-rested and ready to go.
“I’m sorry, Roo.”
She waves her hand, unearthing a sports bra from her bag and finally putting me out of my misery. As I said, I’m used to the nudity, but it’s not my favorite pastime, talking to my best friend while her mosquito bite tits accurately indicate exactly how low we turned the air conditioner last night.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll be fine. I just need coffee and I don’t give a fuck what Coach has to say about that.”
“You do you, Roo. I support your caffeination, so long as you adequately hydrate.”
“Thank you.” Rooney drops to the bed, then flops on her back. “God, I’m an asshole friend. Here I am complaining about snoring and needing coffee when you’re the one with actual shit going on in your life. You didn’t invite me to the hospital yesterday and I know that’s because you’re worried it’s your last—”
“You want hotel coffee or should I order Starbucks?” I interrupt.
This is what Rooney’s infamous for. Talking heavy stuff like that’s normal, like hard feelings are felt, not repressed and subsequently managed in periodic outbursts of sobbing profanity, fifteen-mile runs, and whiskey benders.
Rooney sighs. “This hotel crap’s fine, thank you. Willa, talk to me. Get it out.”
I crack open a bottle of water and pour half its contents into the tiny hotel room coffee pot. Next, I place a coffee pod in the little percolator dish and slide it shut. “I just don’t have a good feeling, Roo.” I clear my throat and swallow a lump of emotion. “She’s been low energy. She’s not perking up how she did when she went into remission last time. She’s still sick.”
Rooney sits up, as her eyes meet mine. “What does that mean? What do you do if you keep being sick with cancer?”
“You die.” I wipe my nose. “Generally how it goes.” On a long, steadying sigh, I find that ironclad box in my psyche that I still have the key to, thankfully. I shove my worries about Mama, my anticipatory grief, my anxiety, all of it, into that cold, unreachable place. Slamming the door shut, I twist the key and bury it deep. “Okay, I don’t want to talk about it anymore right now. Today, I will score at least three goals.”
Rooney stands, knowing the drill. “Hell yeah.”
“Today, I will elevate my team’s play and be a leader on the field.”
“That’s right!”
I lock eyes with my reflection. “Today, we win.”
Rooney stands behind me and sets her hands on my shoulders. “You got this. We all do. Unless you don’t move out of my way and let me have my shitty cup of coffee, Granger.”
I give her a look. “Calling me Hermione Granger is not an insult.”
Rooney tugs my hair affectionately. “I know. I wasn’t trying to insult you. I was trying to make you smile.”
Rooney grins as she swipes up her cup of coffee and backs away. “Besides. Making you angry isn’t my job anymore. Someone else stole that real estate.”
A scowl tugs at my mouth. “It’s not like that with us.”
Rooney snorts a laugh, then takes a tentative sip of her coffee. “Sure, sweetie. Keep telling yourself that.”
My phone lights up again, reminding me of a message I got just a few minutes ago from the person Rooney was alluding to.
Ryder.
Sunshine’s in the Sunshine State. Good luck today, Willa. You’ve got this.
That was his first message, and it was nice. I traipse over to my phone and scowl at the new one. I knew he couldn’t stand to leave it on a friendly note.
First, there’s a screenshot of a Google image. A very unflattering photo of me clotheslining a defender to get around her. My face looks like I’m in the throes of both an epic shit and a foot-cramping orgasm. It is the least flattering photo of me that I’ve ever seen.
Try not to blind too many
people with your radiance
on the field today.
Growling, I unlock my phone and type.
Well good morning to you too, Bigfoot.
Try not to get too many Thanksgiving
tidbits stuck in that dead squirrel
wrapped around your mouth.
You like the beard. Admit it.
I really, really don’t.
It’s distinguished.
It’s disgusting.
I’m hurt.
You’d have to have a heart to hurt, Brawny.
You know Brawny’s not an insult, right?
You’re telling me I’m bearded hotness.
That I look buff AF, about to burst out
of my manly flannel.
I’m going to focus now on annihilating
some women on a soccer field. Then I’m
coming home and shaving that
monstrosity off your face.
Lay a hand to my facial hair, woman,
and I swear you won’t be able to sit
for days.
My eyes widen, my eyebrows shoot up, and I drop my phone. There’s a drumbeat between my legs. My nipples are taut peaks spearing my tank top.
Rooney smirks over her coffee. “Talking to Ryder?”
“Hm?” Finally, I glance her way, folding my arms across my throbbing breasts. “What? No. Yes. I’m fine. I’m going to take a shower.”
She’s still laughing when I step under the icy water.
16
Ryder
Playlist: “A closeness,” Dermot Kennedy
Now I remember why I hate the holidays. Well, at least since my hearing went to hell.
Pure, unadulterated chaos.
To avoid even more suffering for my ears, the hearing aids are out, obviously, but that means that I’m frequently caught off guard by impending bodies and movement. Yesterday wasn’t terrible. The meal was fairly subdued and then we went for a long hike which, though peaceful and restorative to my sanity after all that noise, just made me miss our old home even more.
But today, we’re all in the living room, on the astonishingly large couch that my mother had to custom order from some factory for families that have too many kids. It seats twenty people, easily. Which is good, seeing as all six of my siblings, three of their significant others, my dad’s two brothers, their wives, and their kids are in the living room, gearing up to watch Willa’s game.