“Uh, thanks?” he says. “I didn’t do anything. But I can if you want someone to beat up John.”
“Will people stop offering to beat people up for me?” I groan. “New rule: if I want someone beaten up, kicked, or otherwise physically harmed, I will do it myself!”
From somewhere behind me, where the spectators sit, I hear Alex cheer. “That’s the spirit, Ellen! Kill them!”
* * *
• • •
“The downside of bracket play,” Karey warns us after we win, “is that scheduling is more complicated, so we’ll have a while before our next game. Stay hydrated and grab snacks if you need them. We’re still in this!”
Everyone grins, proud that we didn’t get eliminated. I want to be proud, too, but I’m mostly exhausted, hot, and anxious.
The tree near our bags offers almost enough shade to lie in, so I stretch out with my face relatively cool and my toes scorching. With my bag as a pillow and a beater headband over my eyes, I take the opportunity to cry some more.
I don’t fall asleep, exactly, but my moping becomes gradually less conscious until someone kicks my sunbaked shoes. I startle, wiping sweat and drool and snot as I sit up and blink at a stranger with a highlight-streaked ponytail.
“Hey, are you Ellen?” The girl looks bored, or maybe angry, but I have no idea what I’ve done to offend her.
“Um, yeah?”
She tosses a white plastic grocery bag into my lap. “Apparently you lost this.”
“Ah!” I feel the shape—and the spikes—through the bag. My cleat. “Thank you! Where did you find it?”
“Hard to get your stuff back if you don’t even bother with a ‘Thank you for a funky time,’ huh?” She rolls her eyes.
I blink back at her. Why does this magical cleat-deliverer make no sense?
“I’m supposed to say”—she sighs and squints at the sky—“that he had a lot of fun last night, and that he totally gets if you don’t want to see him again, but that wasn’t what he wanted, necessarily, and you ran off before he could tell you that. And that if you ever want to talk, his number’s on the Post-it.” She gestures at the bag. “And he would’ve come himself, but he had to get back to San Antonio for work. Lucky me.”
I blink at the plastic bag, brain working slow. “But . . . I left a note. I friend-requested . . . San Antonio?” I untwist the knot and read the note stuck to my missing cleat. I look up into the mildly annoyed face, my brain spinning in confusion. “Who the heck is Nico?”
The messenger turns with a hair flip and an eye roll. The back of her jersey says McAllister.
“Um, wait,” I say. “Are y’all . . . Are you mad at me?” It’s an extremely awkward way to ask my question, and it earns a grimace from McAllister, but she turns back to me.
“I’m protective of my friends, especially when it seems like someone is treating them like crap. He was confused and sad and very annoying this morning.” I start to protest again, and her face softens. “Look, you’re good, it’s all okay. Just maybe text him and clear up whatever you need to clear up.”
I need to clear up so many things. I reread the note, pull out my phone, and start putting the pieces together.
* * *
• • •
“Nico Whose-Last-Name-I-Still-Don’t-Know,” I say, holding my phone out for Melissa to inspect the profile. “Also known as Nico X from the feminist Facebook page, also known as the guy I kissed and stuff last night, also known as the guest staying in Andrew’s apartment yesterday, also known as not Andrew.”
“Also known as cute.” Melissa nods in appreciation. It’s almost time to warm up for our game, but I dragged her away from Karey’s side to gossip with me in the shade of the tree. She inspects the note. “And thoughtful in the face of a delicate situation.” She nods again. “Approved on all counts.” She hands the phone back. “So are you going to text him?”
“Oh . . .” I glance down at my phone. “I already did? Should I not have?”
Melissa laughs. “So I guess I don’t need to ask if he was a good kisser?”
I would answer, but my phone buzzes and my stomach somersaults and Melissa laughs louder.
Text from Nico: (1) That’s hilarious, but sorry you thought I rejected you! (2) I *told* McAllister to be nice even if you didn’t want to see me again . . . but I’m really glad that isn’t the case. (3) Gotta work—I’ll text you later if that’s okay. (4) Good luck with the tournament!
I text back a smiley emoji while smiley emojis explode across my face. It’s a small win, in the midst of everything, but I’ll take it. Until the second Dad pries my phone out of my hands, I’m going to enjoy this.
“And to answer your question,” I tell Melissa, putting my phone back in my bag, “fantastic.”
29
Between my cleats and Nico’s (Not Andrew’s) text, it’s easy to fly at Brooms Up. The bracket has us facing the Louisiana team, who must’ve partied too hard last night, because they lag behind us in speed and goals from the start. I help Lindsay regain bludger control and then let Elizabeth sub in as I jog to my water. The sharp stab of each breath and the buzz of tired muscles feel familiar by now, but still consume my attention until Melissa taps my shoulder, her sweaty face grim.
“Is that . . . ?”
I follow her nod to the parking lot, bracing myself to see John even as I irrationally hope to see Nico (Not Andrew. Nico).
Instead, I recognize a pair of heeled sandals stepping out of a familiar car, manicured hand pulling a smaller fidgety hand out of the back seat. Connie, Yasmín . . . and Dad. Standing a few feet ahead of both of them, he must’ve been the one Melissa saw first. He shields his eyes and surveys the two pitches, the tent of volunteers and bracket coordinators, the players and spectators gathered in sweaty groups. I don’t know if he finds me. I can’t see what expression he makes.
With zero idea whether I’m violating some obscure clause of the rulebook, I jog away from the field. My family does not disappear like a mirage or a stress-induced hallucination. They see me before I get close enough to speak, and only Yasmín returns my hesitant wave.
“Hi.” I stop a few feet from Dad, brush loose strands of hair away from my face, cross my arms. “What are y’all . . . What’s up?”
Dad and Connie turn, inexplicably, to Yasmín.
She shrugs. “I wanted to see the tournament.”
“She insisted,” Dad says quietly, stepping closer to me. “Wouldn’t let it go.”