18
Willa
Playlist: “Stay,” Rihanna, Mikky Ekko
My ears ring. I stare out at the field, stunned. We lost. We lost. People try to console me. Stupid platitudes and empty reassurances.
At least you’re only a junior.
There’s always next year.
Hell of an effort, out there, Sutter.
You did everything you could.
Nothing makes it better. Nothing dulls the sharp pain of disappointment. We didn’t just lose, we didn’t play our game. Our defense fell apart, poor Sam took so many shots on goal I think she broke her personal record for saves in a single game.
Rooney and I were in sync, as always, but it felt like everyone else was passing ten yards behind me or right to my defender. Our only goal was a long shot I took. Rooney flew up the sideline, hit me with a gorgeous pass off the outside of her foot. I cut with it on my first touch and thanked God for my feet’s relative ambidexterity because I cracked that shot with my left and watched it sail over the keeper’s hands, rippling into the net.
And then I watched Stanford drop four goals over the remainder of the game. I saw Sam defending that gaping box like a woman facing a firing squad. And I was helpless. I was stuck at the top, useless except to try everything I could to put more past Stanford’s keeper. I could barely get the ball, and when I did, they triple-teamed me. My teammates took shots, some on target, but none with enough power or finesse to sneak by their keeper.
That feeling of helplessness gnaws inside me. It does not diminish after Coach’s consolation talk. Not as I pack up my gear and walk, head hanging to the bus. Not on the four-hour ride home. Not on the call with my mom the moment Rooney and I stumble inside.
“You did your best, Willa Rose. You should be so proud.”
I sniffle as tears stream down my cheeks. “My best wasn’t good enough.”
“Your best is always good enough,” Mama says. “Your best just doesn’t always mean that things turn out how you want.”
Wiping my cheeks, I exhale shakily. “I know. I just don’t like that.”
Mama’s chuckle is hoarse yet familiar. “Well, at least you can admit it.”
A beat of silence stretches over the phone. Something in the background beeps and I hear the murmur of quiet voices.
“Can I come see you in the morning?”
“Willa, you never have to ask.”
“Okay,” I whisper. I bite my lip, stifling more tears, swallowing my words. Words that would tell her how much I wanted her there, whistling in the stands, her strong voice yelling and cheering, urging me on. How much I wish she were home at our apartment, so I could crawl into her bed and feel her arms wrap around me, so I could smell her vanilla perfume and cry through all my disappointment.
But I can’t. Because she wasn’t well enough to leave, despite the fit she threw with Dr. B. Because we don’t have a home anymore since cancer swallowed up my mother’s hard-earned money.
“Willa?”
I jolt. “Sorry, Mama. I got lost in thought.”
“Willa, take a hot shower, eat something nourishing, and go to sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day, and soon you’ll be practicing for next season, one step closer to your dreams. Your dreams are still right there, waiting for you to claim. Your team might have lost tonight, Willa, and you’re allowed to be sad, but tonight you shone, my little star. You wowed them. Don’t forget where you’re headed, okay?”
A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “Thank you, Mama. See you in the morning. I love you.”
“Good night, Willa Rose. I love you, too.”
I hit the end button on my phone. Staring down at it, I watch tears splash on its surface.
A knock on the door jolts me. Who could that be? It’s late. Like, really, really late. I shuffle over and peer through the peephole.
“Holy shit.”
Yanking it open, I step back. Ryder stands in the cool night air, his ball cap pulled low, wearing the torturous blue and green plaid.
“Asshole had to wear my favorite flannel,” I mutter.
Ryder tips his head and signs, What?
“Nothing.” I wave him in. As Ryder steps inside, he turns and faces me. I shove the door shut, then stare up at him, before my eyes drift slowly down his body. In one hand is a bag of peanut butter cups, in the other, a bottle of whiskey.
I scrunch my nose to fight the threatening sting of fresh tears and palm my eyes. There’s a quiet rustle, the clink of candy and booze dropped on the table. Then warm arms wrap tight around me, pulling me close.
An ugly sob bursts from my throat as I fall into him. I sink into his hug and cry so hard my chest aches. Ryder’s grip strengthens, making the worn fabric of his sleeve brush my cheek. I press my nose to it, breathing in deep that comforting scent of evergreens and fresh air, something rich and clean and uniquely Ryder.
I tighten my grip around his waist and squeeze. Ryder’s arms span my entire back, his hand tight on my shoulder until carefully, it drifts up to my hair. Just like Mama, his fingers sink through my tangled curls, teasing them loose. It makes me cry harder.
“I tried my best,” I sob into his chest.
He nods, hands sliding through my hair. I know. That’s what his touch says. That’s what he tells me with the dip of his head until his cheek rests against the top of my head.
I can’t tell you how long he sways me in his arms, how long it takes for my chest-wracking sobs to become quiet hiccups. When he seems convinced I’m not going to explode with tears again, Ryder pulls back enough to wipe his thumbs under my eyes and extract one of those ever-present hankies from his pocket.
Blowing my nose, I glance up at him, then stash the hankie in my hoodie. Trying for a deep breath and a smile that ends up wobbly, I meet his eyes. “Why are you here?”
He tips his head, his eyes searching mine. It’s a long moment that our gaze holds. I’m scared to read into it. I’m frightened to admit what I feel when Ryder shows up with my comfort foods and open arms and that unspoken way of understanding me.
When he steps forward, I step back. My butt smooshes against the table’s edge as Ryder leans closer and my thighs part. He lifts his hand and my eyes fall closed. I’m waiting for him to throw me on the table, then tear off my clothes, when the rustle and pop of plastic make my eyes snap open.
Ryder smirks as he unwraps foil covering a peanut butter cup and brings the chocolate to my pinched lips.
Tap. Tap.
He presses the peanut butter to my mouth once more before it opens and he sets the chocolate inside. I chew, trying to maintain my irritation with his teasing games. It’s a struggle. He brought me peanut butter cups and now he’s uncorking the whiskey with his teeth and spitting the cork into his palm. The hairs on my arms and neck prickle. He smells like sex in a forest, standing inside the gap of my thighs and hand-feeding me chocolate.
“You’re here to make me feel better,” I whisper.
He nods, giving me the bottle. With his hand free he gestures a little.
“Yeah.” I throw back a swig and swallow, not flinching at the burn. “Well, a little better is better than nothing.”
Pressing the bottle into his chest, I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”