It takes him a beat to respond; he’s still staring at me. “It’s at about three o’clock once you reach the bottom of the stairs. We’ve just gotta go hard. I’ll hold them off. You hit the target.”
“Why can’t I hold them off if you know exactly where it is? I’m a good shooter and you’re faster.”
“Do we need to argue about this? We only have seconds to get moving and you’re—”
“Because if we do this, we might as well do it in a way that makes—”
Loud footsteps interrupt us. Jamie throws his arms up. “Fine. I’m going in. Do what you need to do.”
We pound down the stairs like we’re leading some type of stampede, Jamie jumping from the fourth one, almost getting launched onto his face, but regaining his footing at the last second and sprinting toward the base camp, gun blazing.
I root myself into the ground between the approaching orange team and their base, firing with reckless abandon until my gun gives out, then bracing myself for the inevitable assault as the remaining active members of the orange team barrel toward me.
But in that last second before I get annihilated, a loud, piercing alarm starts sounding on repeat and the lights in the arena go on, nearly blinding me.
Jamie must’ve made it to the target, and round one is over.
I whirl around to find him running back toward me, a wide grin spreading across his face, our palms meeting with a loud smack of satisfaction.
I’m smiling so hard in return it almost hurts, and then out of instinct I’m curling my fists again, trying to keep my smile in check, trying to turn off the obnoxious combination of pleasure and heartache that courses through me when our hands touch.
* * *
Back at school two hours later, I’m suffering an epic adrenaline crash, feeling twice as exhausted as I do after extra innings, my ears still ringing from the loud, enthusiastic recap of the match on the bus and the buzzers and alarms we left back in the arena.
I end up waiting in the front lobby, standing next to the huge trophy case, so I can see my mom pull up. A few of my teammates, those taking the late bus home, file past, still giving me crap about being the sniper, or slapping my hand if they happened to be on my team.
I watch the bus pull away. I listen to the silence, which feels almost oppressive after so much noise and activity.
Then I hear a final voice behind me.
“Still hanging around, Marshall?”
I know who it is without turning, and I do so slowly, trying to put some kind of shield up as he approaches. He’s still wearing that tight black T-shirt, damn it, his face still lit up with exhilaration.
My gaze drops to the ground. “Yeah, waiting for my mom. Her car was getting inspected, so she has mine today.”
“Do you need a ride?” he asks.
He asks like it’s no big deal, like it wouldn’t be a big deal, sitting in a car with him, alone. I bet the interior of his car smells just like him, the way he smells right after he showers. I wonder what radio station is on; I wonder how he’d position his hands on the wheel.
“No,” I say at once, shaking my head adamantly, my words coming out in a rush. “She’s already on her way, so … she’ll be here any second.”
I turn robotically, staring into the trophy case like there’s some reason to do so.
But it doesn’t shake him, and he comes and stands beside me.
“I see what you’re looking at in there, you know.”
“Huh?”
Jamie points toward the tall Cy Young trophy, nestled among district championship trophies and other award plaques. It’s engraved with the names of past recipients. He raises an eyebrow as he turns to look at me. “We might get along okay these days, Marshall, but that trophy still has my name written all over it.”
I lean forward, squinting. “Huh. I see the 2017, but I don’t see any name next to it.” I straighten, turn toward him, and shrug innocently. “Looks like it’s still up for the taking. And do I need to remind you what happened yesterday?”
He chuckles and shakes his head slowly. “Too bad it’s not about one game, right?”
“We’re neck and neck and you know it.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him swallow hard. He has nothing to say. There’s no rebuttal because I’m right.
A moment later, he adjusts the shoulder strap on his bag. “Well. Gonna take off. Sure you don’t need a ride?”
“I’m good.”
He starts walking away, then turns back once more. “Nice job today. Pretty badass.”
Jamie lingers, looking at me, eyes questioning, lips slightly parted. Then, finally, he turns and leaves for good, and I breathe again, my brain instantly retracting its words, turning down the offer of a ride.
Don’t go.
It feels like I just lost something precious and rare, the opportunity to sit beside him in his car. My stomach drops, leaving me feeling queasy.
When I see my mom, driving my car, appearing in the fire lane, I dash out to meet her.
“Hey, baby!” she greets me cheerfully. She reaches over to tug on one braid, but I shrug away from her, still distracted. “So what was the big mystery today?”
I answer her succinctly, but she’s in a chatty mood, asking a lot of questions. But even though I was pretty badass in the arena and enjoyed every second of it, I hear myself giving her one-word answers, secretly wishing she’d be quiet because it’s taking so much energy to focus on what she’s saying. My hands are at my side, but no matter how hard I clench them … it does nothing. It doesn’t cut off the feelings the way I want it to.
And if I’m being at all honest with myself, nothing I tried over the weekend kept them from tormenting me, either. I still ended up … time after time … reliving the conversation on the bus with him, replaying his words. Remembering how … okay, how good he looked all dressed up like that, how he looked even better when he untucked his shirt and turned his hat around. Like an MLB player getting off the bus from a road trip, which is pretty much the height of hotness.
Replaying that moment in the parking lot, when our hands touched, when he winked at me. Sure, it’s probably a practiced move of his, but yet … it didn’t seem like Jamie was putting something on with me.
I stare out the window and swallow hard. I draw my fist up to my mouth and end up biting down on a knuckle, knowing that after today there will be even more moments to replay, more sensations to squelch. After being pressed into that dark corner with him, his body making contact with mine, conjuring thoughts of kissing.
Suddenly, I’m full-on nauseous, because as hard as I try, I can’t keep the feelings at bay, and I can’t play dumb, either.
I know what that obnoxious combination of pleasure and heartache is … I know it’s a crush.
My shoulders collapse as I finally acknowledge it, my eyes going skyward toward the clouds that pass in a blur.
Dear Lord, please spare me the indignity of having a crush on Jamie Abrams.
Chapter 18
April 14
Jamie
As practice is ending, cars start pulling into the parking lot and taking the spots nearest the cafeteria. My teammates and I file past the lunchroom, its windows open, the scent of garlic wafting out. The girls’ lacrosse team is having its yearly spaghetti dinner fund-raiser tonight.
Coach encouraged all of us to go, support the team and their event, make sure the female athletes knew they’re recognized here at school beyond Title IX. I hadn’t felt like paying twelve dollars for lunch-lady noodles and watered-down sauce, but Naomi had slipped me a ticket “on the house.”
Pitchers were working together at the end of practice, and everyone else cleared out ahead of us. I’m walking next to Eve as we head to the locker rooms, and I sneak a glance at her. I clear my throat. “You staying for the thing tonight?”
“Uh, yeah.”
She glances over to meet my eye, then quickly looks away again, but not before I see irritation, or anger, flick
er across her expression. It’s happened a bunch of times these past few days, and I don’t understand it. I don’t think I’ve pissed her off again, but that’s how she looks. Pissed.
“I was going to go later, with some of my friends from the basketball team, but…” She shrugs, then reaches for the door of the girls’ locker room. “Here now, so might as well stay.”
“Cool,” I say. “Save me a bread stick.”
Eve gives me a weird look and ducks inside.
I stand in place, squinting into the distance, feeling like a dumb-ass.
Save me a bread stick? What the hell was that?
I open the door, head to my locker, and peel off my sweaty clothes. I take an extra-long time showering and getting myself together, to the point that most of the other guys have left the locker room before I’m done. I get dressed in an old gold-and-white tee, my jeans, and gray New Balances. I brush my teeth for five minutes. When I’m done, I check the mirror once … smooth my hair down … check again.
I look myself in the eye in the mirror, asking why I’m taking so long getting ready. I turn around before I have to answer.
When I make my way down the long hallway from the gym to the lobby that leads down into the cafeteria, I find Naomi, Colleen, and Erika manning the money box. As I hand her my ticket, Naomi slides down in her seat and nudges my foot under the table. “Hey you.”
“Hey.”
“Stick around when you’re done, okay? We all did prep work and have the first lobby shift, but then I’m done. I’ll find you.”
I’m already looking past her, down into the crowded cafeteria. “Yeah, okay.”
I take my time walking down the steps, scouting out the scene, finding that most of my teammates have already been through the line and claimed a table. None of them took as long getting ready as I did.
Shit, even Eve didn’t take as long getting changed as I did. She’s with them, now wearing a zip-up hoodie and running leggings. She turns to look for a table, and I try not to stare at her ass.
All right, I don’t really try that hard.
The line’s longer now, and I start feeling frustrated as I wait behind lacrosse team parents and siblings, chatting with the girls behind the counter. I’m not here for the food, and I’d wish they’d dole it out faster.
I strain my neck, glancing toward the seating area of the cafeteria, lips pressed together in irritation. What am I here for, anyway?
What feels like four hours later, I finally have some spaghetti and a can of Coke on my tray, and I walk toward the table where my team is sitting together. Eve is sitting with them, out of a sense of obligation, I guess, even though I see that the majority of the girls’ basketball team is here now. She’s doing her own thing, though, reading from a textbook, flipping its pages with one hand while she holds her fork in the other. There’s a blank worksheet beside her.
I consider the seating options. The table’s crowded, and I only see one chair at the other end, next to some of the seniors who came over from South. Otherwise, the only open chair with the team is the one directly across from Eve’s. No big deal. I set my tray down across from hers and sit down.
Apparently, it isn’t a big deal. She doesn’t even look up.
Pat’s to my right, and I end up talking to him for a few minutes. But periodically I look over at her, kind of amazed at the level of concentration she’s able to maintain in a loud cafeteria at a table full of loud guys. How is she capable of blocking everything out so entirely? Her sitting there, doing that, is actually distracting me.
And after about ten minutes of being ignored completely, irritation gets the better of me. I lean forward, nudging the back of her hand with mine, causing her eyes to fly upward. It startles her, and her cheeks turn pink, like she’s been caught doing … I don’t know what.
“It’s rude to read at the table,” I say. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you that?”
She rolls her eyes. “What? Yours did? I highly doubt you were ever caught reading at the dinner table.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Anyway.” Eve turns another page. “I’m not reading. I have to put this worksheet in my teacher’s mailbox before the weekend. He already let me take till tonight.”
“Working on a Friday is overrated.” I stab a meatball with my fork, pop it into my mouth, and smirk at her.
She tilts her head and purses her lips at me. “Says the boy who spent Friday night watching Shakespeare. Are your grades really that solid one week later?”
I nod, wiping my hands on my napkin. “I’m not even close to the ineligibility list,” I tell her. I wink at her. “So don’t get your hopes up.”
She bows out of the exchange, looking back down at the equations on the page.
I spear another meatball, bring it to my mouth, and take a bite of it. I chew, shaking my head. “Man. These meatballs are garbage.”
Eve doesn’t respond.
“I’m going to guess the ratio of bread crumbs to meat is about eighty–twenty. Should be the other way around.”
With a sigh, she finally looks back up. There’s a small, wry smile trying to hide at the corner of her lips. “You’re not going to give me any peace and quiet, are you?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“And what the hell are you talking about, anyway? Meatball ratios?”
“Yeah. My nana’s one hundred percent Sicilian. I know some stuff.” I put my fork down and tick the points off on my fingers. “It’s about ingredient ratio. It’s about brand. From the Italian specialty store, not Giant. And it’s about density. You don’t compress them enough, they fall apart in the gravy. You compress them too much, they taste like golf balls.”
“What do you mean, gravy?”
I shrug. “Sunday gravy. When she lived nearby, Nana used to make Sunday gravy.”
“It’s sauce.”
“Do you even have any Italian blood?”
Eve hesitates. “No.”
I lean toward her slightly. “Didn’t think so. It’s gravy.”
A chair screeches as someone backs it away from the table. I turn toward the sound, see Nathan rising from his seat, getting ready to take his empty tray over to the trash. He does a double take when he sees me. He stares for about ten seconds. And then his mouth slowly widens into an obnoxious grin.
“Aww. You guys are really cute down there.”
My response is instantaneous as I spear my last meatball with more force than necessary. “Shut up, Nathan.”
But he doesn’t.
“Didn’t even know you were here.” He raises his eyebrow toward us. “Looks like you’re in your own world down there.”
Neither Eve nor I bother responding.
“Brendan, looks like they’re in their own world, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, gotta say … looks like it,” he says.
“Grow up.” I stand suddenly, striding toward the condiments, getting napkins that I don’t really need. I take my time, first getting too many, neatly putting the extra back on the pile, and by the time I return to the table, my jackass friends have moved on to something else.
But something else has happened in that time as well. And it’s evident when I casually ask her if she’s ready for the game on Monday.
Her eyes are flat when she looks up this time. They look far away, and her face is practically grim.
“I really should”—Eve gestures toward her paper—“ya know, finish this. Like I said. So…” She trails off, gaze returning to her text. Shutting down. Shutting me out.
I don’t like the way it feels.
I feel my internal temperature drop a few degrees. My tone turns nasty, and the muscle in my jaw twitches. “Whatever.”
There’s nothing but silence between us anymore, but it feels different from when I first sat down. It feels heavy and cold.
But three minutes later, a warm pair of hands covers my eyes and there’s a voice in my ear. “Guess who?”
I don’t
have to guess—I know her voice and the smell of the perfume at her wrists.
I shift around to find a smiling Naomi behind me. Her smile falters some as she assesses my tablemates, one in particular, but it’s Naomi, and she always bounces back quickly.
“I’m done with my shift now.” She looks toward my table again. “Do you have to sit with the team?”
“No. Not at all.”
She tugs on my hand. “Come sit with me, then.” Naomi points across the room toward some half-empty tables, where her friends are already camped out.
I let her pull me to my feet. “Yeah, sure.”
Eve doesn’t even look up as I gather my tray, napkins, and plastic utensils.
“I’ll be over in a sec,” I tell Naomi. “Let me get rid of this.”
As I walk away, I only glance back toward the baseball table once. What am I doing sitting down there at the end, anyway? I could’ve squeezed a chair in somewhere near Nathan or Brendan. Why didn’t I sit with my friends?
What am I doing here?
I empty my tray and roll my neck before heading over to Naomi.
Deciding on a path that will not take me back past Eve.
She pisses me off.
Sure, sometimes I like talking to her, more than I like talking to other girls.
More than I like talking to most people.
And I think about her. A lot.
And somewhere over the course of things, I’ve gone from rooting against her to rooting for her, from hating her to …
But what?
What was I thinking was going to happen here, anyway?
Clearly, she’s not one of my girls. It wouldn’t be like it is with them. It wouldn’t be easy; there wouldn’t be this understanding.
With Eve, things would be different. More. And I don’t know shit about any of that.
I chuckle and shake my head. Not like she cares anyway. This past week, it felt like things had changed somehow. But she was pretty blunt tonight about a complete lack of interest in even talking to me, so again, whatever. I don’t need this. I don’t need her.
I settle into a chair beside Naomi, and she promptly slides her tray over, hops into my lap.