The Game Can’t Love You Back

  Eve doesn’t roll her eyes this time. Her brows come together in the middle, and there’s something I can’t read in her expression. Her gaze falls to the ground.

  When Scott’s regained his breath, he seems to get his spirit back at the same time, and good-naturedly endures some ribbing and accepts pats on the back from the guys. He doesn’t bother putting his clothes back on, but ambles over to the cooler to pop open a beer in his bright green boxers and running shoes. Then he fishes out a water bottle and holds it up in the air. “Eve. You want?”

  She’s already put her T-shirt back on and is fiddling with the tie on her sweats. “Nope,” she says succinctly, pulling on the drawstring with unnecessary force. “I’m good.”

  She looks over at Nathan, Brendan, and me. “Are we excused now? Or is the party mandatory, too?”

  “Uhh, parties are supposed to be fun?” Brendan says.

  “Yeah, come on, Eve, stay and hang out,” Scott coaxes her. He sits down on the cooler. “We all survived, right? Come have a drink.”

  She just presses her lips together and shakes her head sternly. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

  Scott stands and walks over to double-check with her. “You want me to come with?”

  She shakes off the offer, and he takes her arm and pulls her aside. It looks like there’s some back-and-forth, but Eve must win out, because Scott eventually returns to his buddies on the team while she fishes for her keys. She offers a vague wave to the group, and several people take a break from their beers and conversations to say good-bye. I’m not one of them.

  Then Eve turns on her heel and marches off toward the gate. She doesn’t look back.

  Good. She’s gone. Things can be normal now, for a few minutes at least.

  But even fifteen minutes later, I can’t get into the party. Frustrated as hell, I down a second beer in thirty seconds, crushing the empty can in my fist. This was supposed to be the thing that would break her spirit. And if this didn’t do it … then what the hell will?

  Chapter 5

  March 3

  Eve

  Parked in my driveway, I look at the front door of my house. Then I glance over at Marcella’s. There’s only one car in the driveway—her parents aren’t home from date night yet, and Brian’s surprisingly not taking advantage of the empty house. I look at my front door again. Evan and Eric, my two oldest brothers, have been out of the house for a few years, and Ethan left for NYU in August. Which means I have the full attention of our parents now, and they’ll probably ask questions about where I’ve been.

  It’s a no-brainer. I climb out of my car and head toward Marcella’s, opening the door without knocking. Even though I clomp up the stairs, she doesn’t hear me coming over the noise from the television in her room, and she practically jumps off her bed when I open the door, whatever she’s holding in her hands flying into the air before her.

  “Good Lord, Eve! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

  “Sorry.” I flop down onto the other side of her queen-size bed, which allows me to identify the chicken-cutlet-looking things that went flying into the air a moment ago. Marcella’s squishy, plasticky falsies. The ones she shoves inside her bra for pageants. And, I suspect, most normal school days. She’s hand washed them and was apparently drying them with a towel.

  “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  We’d been having a perfectly nice Friday night, fighting over the remote to tune her TV to Bravo (her choice), or TBS, which was showing A League of Their Own, when the text came in.

  My lips form a hard line, and I stare down at the familiar floral pattern of her quilt, tracing the stitch work with my finger. “Didn’t take long.”

  “What happened?”

  I tell the story, Marcella’s eyes growing wide when I get to the part about the captains ordering us to lose our clothes.

  “Oh my God, what did you do?”

  I shrug. “I went ahead and took my clothes off.”

  Marcella’s hand flies to her mouth. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? They probably could’ve gotten suspended or even kicked off the team for something like that! Why didn’t you say no?”

  My chest tightens. “Because screw them.”

  Screw them. Maybe they’ve done it for years, to humiliate everyone. But no way in hell I was going to let them find a way to humiliate me more. My underwear covered up just like—better than—a bathing suit. I refused to let them, him, see me hesitate for more than a second before following their stupid instructions.

  Marcella shakes her head, looking frustrated. “Sometimes I really don’t understand how your mind works, Eve Marshall.”

  Screwing my face up, I point to the falsies, which she’s patting dry with inordinate care. “Same.”

  This makes her crack a half smile, and she prompts me with her hand. “So? What happened? Did you smoke ’em?”

  “I would’ve, but … Scott was struggling. I couldn’t let him go down like that. I dropped back to finish up with him.”

  “You went through all that and still ended up losing out?”

  “I couldn’t do that to Scott. He’s always stuck up for me. I owe him.”

  Then I’m quiet for a minute, outlining a peony on her quilt with my finger. “And … I guess some dumb part of me was trying to prove something.” Looking up, I stare out Marcella’s window. “Hanging back with Scott, I guess I thought maybe it would … show them something. Someone they want to have around. A team player, if they’d just give me the chance to be. But then when the stupid run was over”—I shake my head—“it just became obvious again that I’m odd girl out, no matter what I do. Maybe I was never ‘one of the boys’ back at South, either, but it’s like starting back at square one now with all this East bullshit.” My shoulders slump. “It’s a crappy feeling. And it’s an even crappier feeling that I fooled myself, for five minutes, into thinking it was worth it to try to prove myself to them,” I finish.

  She stares back at me helplessly, big brown eyes sympathetic, finally putting the chicken cutlets down. Marcella has no idea what to say to me. She’s always played with the girls; she has no idea what it’s like playing with the boys. “I have Phish Food downstairs?” she says.

  “Sure,” I tell her, smiling wanly. “Why the hell not.”

  Marcella hops off the bed and returns five minutes later, carrying a tray holding two ceramic cups shaped and painted to resemble ice-cream cones. The ice cream is scooped artfully and topped with swirls of whipped cream.

  “Your presentation never fails,” I tell her, taking my cup off the tray.

  She smiles broadly.

  “What time are you going with my mom tomorrow?”

  My mom has arranged a meeting for Marcella with the owner of the fitness and nutrition center that she manages. Marcella’s deep into fund-raising mode at this point. The Girls Across America Miss Pennsylvania Teen Pageant has been Marcella’s dream since she started competing. At the end of the year, she’d gotten “the call” that she’d been selected as a contestant. Sponsors help cover entry costs and related pageant costs, and Marcella needs to come up with nearly three thousand dollars.

  She nods. “Ten o’clock. I’m all set.” A fierce look of determination takes over her face. “I just want to reach my goal. Until then, the waiting is driving me mad.”

  I refrain from sharing my belief that she’s already mad, actually fund-raising to participate in something as antiquated as a beauty pageant.

  I arrange myself against her pillows, digging into my ice cream. “So where’s Brian tonight?” I ask around a full mouth. “I thought he’d be here.”

  Her smile falters minutely, but it doesn’t escape my notice before she plasters it back into place.

  “He must’ve gotten hung up. He was supposed to be here at nine thirty, but”—she picks up her phone, which is sitting beside her on the bed—“he hasn’t texted me to say he’s on his way yet.”

  “That’s weird.” The words are out of my mouth be
fore I consider their potential impact. But it is weird. Brian’s usually stuck on Marcella like white on rice.

  Her smile falls away altogether. “Is it?”

  “Or not,” I say quickly. “It’s just one night. People do get sidetracked. It’s only because Brian’s such an attentive little puppy dog that it seems odd.”

  She hits me with a stuffed pink poodle wearing a beret. “He’s not a puppy dog.”

  “He sort of is. And I mean”—I shrug—“you kind of keep him on a tight leash.”

  Irritation—or worry, I’m not sure which—glints in her eye. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Marcella,” I start, trying to keep my voice light. “You run his shit, and you can’t deny that. There’s this look you give him, when he says or does something you don’t entirely approve of, that instantly puts him back in his place. It’s funny.”

  She doesn’t seem to see the humor. “Brian’s never once complained about how things are between us.”

  I notice the way her arms are suddenly tensed at her side, how I can see the tendons in her neck.

  “Marcella, I’m just joking. You guys are going to be Class Couple, Most Likely to Get Married and Have a Million Babies, and all that jazz,” I assure her, dragging my spoon along the bottom of my cup. “It’s a given.”

  Then I set the cup on her nightstand and start undoing my braids. I ended up letting my mom schedule a haircut for tomorrow, after she actually looked at the calendar and pointed out I haven’t had even a trim in nine months. I’m not sure the last time I actually combed my hair before putting the braids back in, and if I don’t at least try to detangle it tonight, I won’t be able to sleep in like I want to.

  I stare at Marcella’s face as my fingers busy themselves on my braids. She’s still not laughing and has set her ice cream aside.

  “I’m just teasing,” I say. Then I pause. “You’re not honestly concerned, are you?”

  She considers for a minute. Then she waves her hand. “No. You’re right. It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine.”

  She’s lying. But if she doesn’t want to say whatever’s bothering her, I’m not gonna press.

  “Want me to help?” she suddenly asks brightly.

  I nod and she crawls behind me, some oddly shaped purple plastic rock in her hand. She tries to bring it near my head, and I recoil. “What the hell is that?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s a Tangle Teezer. I can’t believe you don’t have one of these. All that hair.”

  “Somehow I’ve survived,” I answer dryly.

  I let my best friend brush my hair. It feels good, actually. We sit there in silence as Marcella works; she has a nice rhythm going, except for when she stops, every two minutes or so, to check her phone.

  When she’s done, I shake out the wild, crimped mass that is my hair. It’s longer than I remember, ghosting over my shoulder blades.

  Marcella slides back over to the side of her bed, lying down and propping herself up on one elbow. She stares at me and smiles. “So did your new teammates totally lose their minds when you got all nekkid? I bet their eyeballs popped right out of their heads.”

  Funny thing is, the only person’s reaction I can remember is Jamie’s. I don’t know what anyone else did. And yeah, there’d been some eyeball popping going on, but that was only because I’d obviously surprised the crap out of him. He’d underestimated me, again.

  “Hardly. It was a test. It wasn’t, like, a sexual thing.”

  “Oh my God, Eve.” Marcella huffs in exasperation and yanks on my elbow, pulling me off the bed. She directs me in front of the full-length mirror attached to the back of her door. “Look at you. With your hair all down and wild? And your body? You look like a before picture from the makeover show on America’s Next Top Model. All fresh-faced and naturally gorgeous. You’re like a young Adriana Lima or something.”

  This actually makes me chortle, even though I don’t know who Adriana Lima is. This look is not gorgeous—my hair is its own entity right now. “More like someone who just stuck her finger in an outlet.”

  “You don’t always have to make a joke out of it, you know,” she informs me. “When you get a compliment. You’re such a confident person. Why’s it so hard to acknowledge that part of you that’s beautiful?”

  I roll my eyes. Marcella’s practically made a career out of acknowledging the part of her that’s beautiful. She doesn’t get it.

  “That’s just not the way I see myself. When I look in the mirror, I just really don’t see … that.”

  The packaging. The body. Rather, I’ve always looked in the mirror and seen what my body can do. Its strength. Not its … beauty.

  “Yeah, well, Eve, my friend? Those teenage boys with the raging hormones you just got half-naked in front of?” She regards me, eyes serious. “I can assure you … they do. And I know you probably hate it, but it’s only going to get harder and harder for them to accept you as one of the guys.”

  Looking at myself in the mirror, seeing the way my tight T-shirt hugs my new curves, noticing the way my sweats cling to my butt, suddenly I can actually feel Jamie’s gaze on me in that second I shucked my clothes. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, the remembering, and I turn from the mirror to get away from it.

  I can’t control the way my shape is changing and how it impacts my game; I can’t control how my teammates respond to it. And after being forced to change schools and become a Pirate, I’m just about sick to death of things beyond my control.

  Chapter 6

  March 7

  Jamie

  “Ugh, I’d do anything to have gym every day and skip the health class rotation,” Naomi complains as we head toward the gym after lunch. “Mrs. Syler is such a troll. She pulled me aside the first day we were back from break, all dramatic about my attendance. She seriously acts like I get off on skipping her class.”

  “Well, you did miss more than once.” I glance down at her and smirk. “If I’m remembering.”

  “Whatever. Her class is boring as hell.”

  I grab for her hand and draw her closer. “Feel like skipping today? If she’s harassing you anyway…”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Coach Karlson pop his head out of his office. He does a double take and focuses on me.

  “Abrams, get your hands off the lady and your butt in my office,” he orders.

  Naomi takes advantage of the situation and frees herself from my grasp, purposely rubbing up against me as she heads toward the health classroom. “We can revisit the topic later,” she promises, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she saunters away from me.

  I watch her for a long minute before sighing and doubling back toward Coach’s office. “What’s going on, Coach?” I lean against the wall, looking down at him. He’s sitting at his desk, riffling through a stack of mustard-colored papers.

  Report cards.

  Shit.

  He points to the chair across from him.

  “I’m cool.” I’d rather keep my distance.

  Coach finally looks up, and he’s not happy. “Sit.”

  Slowly, I pull out the chair and sit. He gets up to close the door, and then sits back down, directly across from me. I don’t meet his eye.

  “Your GPA last quarter? Garbage.”

  “Jeez, be blunt already,” I mutter out the side of my mouth, looking toward the window, wishing I could teleport myself through it.

  “Jamie.”

  I don’t want to, but him saying my first name, it makes me look at his face. When Coach says my first name, he’s going above and beyond being my coach. The softening of his voice reminds me how much I respect him. How much I respect the idea of a man who knows how to soften his voice.

  My sneakers tap against his floor while I try to squelch his worries. “Come on, Coach. I know the eligibility requirements. It won’t drop too low. Spring semester, I always buckle down so it doesn’t.”

  “I’m not just talking about the eligibility requirements,” he says
. “You have college applications to think about in the fall.”

  This makes me laugh out loud. “Yeah, right. Because my grades are going to have anything to do with that.” I square my shoulders and stick my chin out. “I’m going to college to play ball.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Coach chews thoughtfully on the corner of his lip for a minute. “You have any idea how few full D1 scholarships are out there? They don’t go to the kids who care only about playing ball anymore, not when there are kids who can play and keep their grades up.”

  I keep my chin high.

  “Well, then maybe I’ll just get drafted next spring. Skip college altogether.” I grin, but Coach isn’t in a joking mood.

  “Be serious,” he chastises me. “Just for a minute.” He stares at me hard, wanting me to get this. “Most athletic scholarships are only partial. And more and more, schools don’t want to invest in kids who aren’t there for an education, too. Sure, you can take out a shitload of loans, but I don’t think you want to do that. And loans might not be enough if a scholarship doesn’t come through at all.”

  A sense of powerlessness, a feeling I fucking hate, presses against my chest. “You’ve always said I was good enough.”

  “You are good enough. You’re so good I have no doubt that plenty of schools will want to offer you a full ride.” He shakes his head. “But no college coach is going to want to take the risk on a starting pitcher if he’s concerned he’s going to drop out or fail out after one semester.” He gestures toward the hall. “Lord knows you like your ‘distractions.’ Class isn’t really your thing, either. But from now until next year? You’ve got to be a little smarter.”

  I have nothing to say to him. So I keep staring at my toes, which are still tapping, now with frustration and irritation, too.

  His eyes are still on me. It feels like hours that he sits there staring me down. But his voice is kinder when he starts talking again.