“Are you saying I have a nice body, Mayhem?”
“I’m not going to lie and say you don’t. You’re shredded.” She shrugs, as if it’s an everyday comment.
It’s not.
Not from her.
I gather she’s not one to throw compliments out into the universe like that.
“If you want, I can take my shirt off while we have this conversation, so you can get the full effect of it all.”
“Not necessary.”
“Okay, then do you want to take your shirt off?”
“Oh my God, Lincoln.” She laughs out loud. “You’re better than that.”
I laugh along with her. “I’m really not, but thank you for thinking that I am.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Come on.” I tug on her ponytail, which keeps whispering over the back of my hand. “Even as a friend, I’m allowed to admit that you’re hot, and even though I’m putting myself in the friend zone, I can tease you about taking your shirt off.”
“Pretty sure I stuck you in the friend zone, and you didn’t voluntarily put yourself there.”
“Uh, no. I said let’s be friends.”
“No, I don’t recall that.”
“Oh fuck.” I shake my head smiling. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”
“I know,” she says, so cutely that it makes me want to kick her off this bench and right onto the sand. “But if we’re talking about rules for this friendship, then I guess we can say talking of taking shirts off is okay, as long as you don’t ask me to touch your nipple again, because, Linc, that was weird.”
“Are you saying you’ve never touched a man nipple before?”
She shakes her head. “Never said that. I’ve sucked on a man nipple.” Oh shit. That makes my good old loins stir a bit. “But I’ve never touched a friend’s nipple, and not by force.”
“It wasn’t force. It was more annoyance.”
“Either way, it was weird.”
“But . . . you liked it.”
She chuckles and turns completely toward me now, giving me her full attention. “It was a nice nub.”
I fist-pump the air. “Fuck, I knew you liked it.” Gesturing to both nipples with two fingers and a whistle, I say, “Don’t even need to ask. They’re yours for the taking, Mayhem.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She looks down at her Apple Watch. “I should really get home.”
“Got it.” I stand from the bench and think about offering my hand for Lord knows what reason, but she hops off the bench and walks toward my Jeep, so carefree and light in her step.
There’s no awkwardness between us.
No uncomfortable feelings.
Just two college kids, fighting through the life of education and athletics, finding our way.
And that I can appreciate.
Chapter Six
INDIE
Lincoln: Good luck today.
I smile at my phone as I walk into the women’s soccer team locker room. We by no means have the state-of-the-art locker room that the baseball team or even the football team possesses, but it has what we need: showers, lockers, and a whiteboard.
I sit on the metal seat of my locker and type back to Lincoln.
Indie: Thanks. Feeling good. And no, before you ask, I did not eat the breakfast you suggested the other night.
Lincoln: What? That’s the magic breakfast. You can never go wrong with eggs and pickles.
Indie: Pretty sure there are MANY ways you can go wrong with eggs and pickles.
Lincoln: Suit yourself. But I’m telling you, eggs and pickles give you superhuman powers.
Indie: Of projectile vomiting at record levels?
Lincoln: Maybe . . . maybe. But consider it like a booster rocket.
Indie: Do you find this text thread useful?
Lincoln: Not particularly unless it got your mind off things. Did it? *Fingers crossed*
Indie: Maybe a little.
Lincoln: I’m such a good friend, it’s borderline disgusting how good I am.
Indie: And modest too.
Lincoln: Always. Okay, good luck, Mayhem. Sprint as if there’s a strawberry lemonade donut at the finish line.
Indie: The only true motivator. And thank you.
I set my phone down and look up to find Scarlett staring at me. We’re the only two in the locker room because we like to get here early and prepare.
She motions her finger at me and says, “What was that all about?”
“What was what about?” I ask, tearing my shirt over my head, leaving me in my black sports bra. Thankfully, even though we’re lower on the totem pole when it comes to sports, we do still have a lot of perks—like an equipment manager dedicated to our team who washes our uniforms and practice clothes and hangs them up in our lockers for the next day.
“You were totally gone for a second. I said your name twice.”
“Oh, shit, really?” I laugh. “Sorry. Just texting Lincoln.”
“Lincoln . . . Castle?”
“Yeah,” I answer, casually.
“Umm, am I delusional or were you totally hating on him before?”
“I wasn’t hating on him, just . . . indifferent. But we’re cool now.”
“Cool as in—”
“As in friends.” I pull down my white workout shirt from the hanger with the Brentwood women’s soccer logo on it. I slip it over my head and pull my ponytail out the back.
“Are you sure you’re just friends?”
“Positive. Trust me, if I were to start something with someone, and we both know I won’t, but if I were, it would not be with Lincoln. There’s too much fanfare surrounding him. It would be far too much to handle.”
“But he’s hot.”
“He is,” I admit. “But too much, which reminds me. Rusty’s coming over tonight with Deacon, bringing pizza to celebrate.”
“Deep-dish?” Scarlett asks, as she changes into her shorts.
“No idea.”
“If he’s a smart guy, he’ll bring deep-dish.”
The locker room starts to fill with our teammates, and before we know it, we’re all walking out to the soccer practice fields, white shirts and green shorts flashing in a single line. Our cleats click against the concrete sidewalk until we reach the turf, where the field is set up for what is known in Brentwood as the most rigorous physical test amongst the teams. Some of the other coaches threaten their players with the women’s soccer yearly physical training test as punishment.
Coach splits us into heats, so we’re not all going at the same time. We’re separated by class, the poor freshmen being the last to go. As a freshman, I’d wanted to go last, but the nerves that eat away at your stomach, doing strange things to your system where you feel like you’re going to pass out or vomit—or maybe even both at the same time—are horrendous.
“Hope everyone is well hydrated and got plenty of sleep last night,” Coach Wilson says. She’s a badass, with her dark hair flowing out the back of her hat. She played professionally for a few years before she tore her ACL and had to quit. She has five championships under her belt as head coach at Brentwood and is a recruiting genius. When she sees a weakness, she knows exactly how to remedy it, or replace it. “As you all know, we’re starting with eight laps around the field, staggered starts. You have twelve minutes to complete eight laps. And that’s just your warm-up.”