John opens his mouth. He looks around. Nobody’s running drills anymore; instead, we face a loose semicircle of judgmental faces. Not that I blame my teammates—my life is a high-quality shit show right now, and I’d probably be entertained if I weren’t the one drowning in the muck.
“I think you’re forgetting who cheated on who,” John mutters, his ears glowing red.
“I think you’re forgetting that I don’t give a shit,” Erin snaps back. “You’re on a team. Suck it up and play the game.”
Chris is nodding, and Elizabeth is, too, and Melissa coughs something that sounds like “Jackass.” Even Karey lowers her arms, crosses them over her chest, and pivots to stand with Erin between John and me: a living wall of support. John looks around, runs a hand through his hair, opens his mouth. His eyes dart around the pitch, never landing on me.
“I didn’t cheat on you,” I say. “You never asked if I wanted to be . . . a thing with you. So you didn’t know that I didn’t. I wish I could have found a way to tell you that was . . . nicer, and more timely. I really am having a bad morning, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. But, like, seriously, people don’t become your property just because you kiss them.” I know that extremely well now that I’ve been blocked by my one-night stand. “So that’s no fun, and I guess I’m sorry for you.” I glance at Karey, who nods. “But I’m not sorry.”
“Whatever,” he says finally. “Whatever. I have to . . . Whatever.”
He walks off the pitch. Past our bags, stopping to grab his without breaking stride. Into the parking lot.
“He’s not going to . . .” Elizabeth says, as we all watch him do exactly what she’s denying.
He gets in his van, starts the engine. Karey takes a few steps toward him, but he doesn’t even glance back at us as he pulls out of the lot and speeds away from the park.
“Wow,” Erin says, breaking our tense silence.
“Glad I didn’t leave my inhaler in there,” Karey spits. “How am I supposed to get everyone home now?”
“He fucked up,” Melissa mutters. Erin nods.
But my blank brain floods with one loud and clear message: this is my fault.
Karey checks her watch.
“Back to drills, y’all. We have to play now; logistics can come later.” She touches my shoulder and walks me toward the bags.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Karey says. “It happens. All the time. Usually people handle it better.” She takes a breath and then lets it go, hesitating. “I, um, I’ve seen my fair share of quidditch drama and love triangles.” She raises an eyebrow, and I laugh along with her. “It’s actually how I got into the sport,” she adds. “Chasing my ex-girlfriend. God, that was not a good look. But it got me onto the team, and I fell in love with it, and she never threw a fit about playing with me, because that’s not how it works.”
“But it wasn’t . . . I fucked up.” In so many ways all summer, but especially with John.
Karey tilts her head at me. “Okay, sure, but you’re not responsible for his emotions—that’s on him. Next time be upfront or whatever. Text him an apology if you feel like it.”
“But . . .”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. You fucked up, but you’re our fuck-up.”
“You’re a really good captain,” I whisper. “And I’m really happy for you and Melissa.”
Karey beams. “Thanks—hopefully I don’t ruin it by being myself. Now, are you going to be okay? Ready to kick some beater butt?”
“Please.” The prospect of pushing my sore muscles and tired brain past exhaustion has never sounded so appealing.
“That’s the spirit. Forget boys; make tackles.” Karey claps my shoulder and strides back to the pitch. I sit by my bag, fighting a yawn, more tears, and the urge to replay the whole scene in my head just to torture myself. Instead I reach into my bag for my cleats.
I don’t need to check my phone right now. I don’t need to imagine what John thinks of me, what Andrew thinks of me, what Dad and Connie think of me. Later I can feel terrible for all my bad decisions and all the bad will I’ve gathered in the past hour. Right now I need to focus on this game. I need to put on my cleats and finish this warm-up.
. . . I need to find my other cleat.
I empty the bag on the ground. An extra headband, old chapstick, my wallet, and a lot of dried mud falls out along with my left cleat. Only my left cleat. I shake the empty bag.
I check my big backpack, but there’s no reason for it to be there, and it isn’t. My heart pounds. I didn’t really think the cleats were a blessing from beyond the grave, so I don’t really think that this is proof that even my dead mom is disappointed in me. But maybe a little.
The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Connie when it hisses that this is exactly what I deserve.
“Not your day, huh?” Karey asks when I tell her. Elizabeth scowls sympathetically, and Lindsay gives me such a kind hug that I can’t help worrying that she’s secretly judging me like I’m judging myself. The cleat must have fallen out in Andrew’s room, when my bag spilled. What kind of mess was I last night?
Karey asks around, but my feet are small and people aren’t exactly falling over themselves to lend expensive equipment to an irresponsible out-of-towner. Plus, we have to start our game.
“You’ll still play,” Karey assures me. “We’re too low on players to leave you out.”
Which is also my fault. I nod, even though the idea of playing in tennis shoes—now that I know what I’m missing—frustrates me.
Lindsay and Erin take starting positions with the chasers, and I sit on the sidelines and try not to let my thoughts spiral. I refuse to check my phone to see if Dad’s called back. I remind myself that I’m excited for the team, for the game.
That is the whole reason I came to this tournament.
The game goes well, but I play badly. After some painful misses and a failed race to the third bludger that ends with my feet slipping out from under me, Lindsay quietly calls me off and doesn’t sub me back in.
“You okay?” Chris asks, hands behind his head as he catches his breath after subbing out. “That was . . . a lot.”
I look up (way up) at him. I can’t believe he knew about Karey and Melissa for weeks and just . . . played on the team like normal. Didn’t even make enough waves for me to notice. According to Karey, that’s the normal way to behave, but it still seems awfully mature for the team youngling. “You’re a good egg,” I tell him.