by E. M. Moore
Dawn looks back around and we both watch as Alec catches a flyball to end the inning. At least, that’s what I watch. I have no idea if Dawn even knows what he’s doing. And, like she says, she doesn’t care. “Vanity isn’t all together sexy,” she finally says. “But confidence is. The Ballers have that in spades.”
“Swagger,” I agree.
She makes a guttural groan in the back of her throat. I agree completely. I was an awkward middle schooler at basketball camp, but it seemed as if Ryan, Alec, Lake, Sloan, and Hayes had moves before they’d even known what to truly do with them. If that didn’t give me a complex, I wouldn’t know what would. Maybe that’s partly the reason why I still look up to them, as ridiculous as it may sound.
One second my brain is saying fuck them, the next, I literally want to fuck them.
I roll my eyes at myself. I sound like Dawn now.
“Do you really think that rumor about them not dating is true?” Dawn asks.
“You’ve seen girls all over them,” I tell her. I finish my ice cream and use the napkin I got from the Scoops counter to get rid of any evidence. “Why would they?”
A familiar voice draws my attention to the bottom center of the stands. It’s the rest of the Ballers. The same girl who was hanging over Ryan in the cafeteria is currently on his lap, kissing a line down his neck. I try not to get jealous, but red-hot heat falls over me anyway. Each of the guys has a girl with them. Lake’s sucking face with one, his hand dipped precariously just inside her shorts. Another girl has her head on Hayes’ shoulder while his arm is draped over her casually. Sloan and his girl are a little less show and tell. He taps the edge of her nose and smiles. Every remnant of the sneer he gave me earlier is completely gone.
My stomach churns. I tell myself I don’t want to be those girls, but at the same time, I’m looking at them like I would trade places with them. My head is so fucked up I don’t even know where to start brushing the tangles out. It’s ridiculous that no matter how mean they are to me, I still want to be a part of them. Maybe it’s my own determination not to let the patriarchy win. I should be down there with them, not as the trophy hanging off their arm, but as an equal.
I smile to myself. That’s exactly why I’m jealous. I don’t want to fawn over them. I want to be one of them.
The crowd cheers, and I look up to find Alec walking toward home plate, taking practice swings with his bat. Butterflies erupt in my stomach. The guys and girls below us stand, yelling encouragement at him. Well, the guys are yelling encouragement. The girls are just screaming.
But beyond that, my heart starts to flutter. It’s so close to basketball season I can feel the need to play, to walk out on the court just like Alec’s walking up to home plate right now. No wonder why he wants to play these extra baseball games as well as basketball. Playing sports is like a drug. It’s an obsession, for sure, but a drug if you’re any good at it. Competition. Camaraderie. Nothing beats a game. I take a quick peek at the scoreboard and see that the Warriors are down by a run. My leg jumps up and down. My hands itch to clap. Come on, Alec, I’m saying inside my head. You got this.
He most certainly does, too. First pitch, Alec’s first swing. He nails it. The second I hear the crack of the bat; I know it’s a good hit. I follow the ball’s arc through the sky and jump up when it goes over the fence. On instinct, I clap and yell as Alec rounds the bases. Dawn’s right next to me. She knows enough about the sport to understand Alec’s just done something amazing.
Alec rounds second and looks up into the crowd. His gaze swings up and connects with mine. His eyes flash with ice before he sweeps his stare right past me and to the rest of the Ballers and their cronies. Then, he throws his hand in the air in a fist pump before stepping on third and heading home.
My hands have frozen mid-clap. I sit as ice settles in my spine from the way he completely looked right through me like I’m nothing. Like I’m worse than nothing. If I was a casual observer, I’d never know that me and this guy—all the guys—have a history together.
“Ready to go?” Dawn asks. She’s still standing, but she looks down at me with a frown.
“Yeah,” I tell her. So ready.
8
After I drop Dawn off, I drive through the small town. The high school is empty now. There are only a few families walking the sidewalks away from the fields. I can’t shake the need unfurling inside me. Thank God basketball season is almost here. Hell, Sign-Ups are tomorrow.
I pull down the side street next to the school and take the road all the way back. I pass the baseball field to my left and keep going. Right after, there’s the track. I pull to the side of the road like I used to do with my dad. Surprisingly, there’s no one on it right now. I couldn’t even count the number of times someone came up to my dad while we were on this track training with one another. Maybe I even came down here expecting him to be here. Neither Mom nor I know where he is right now. It’s almost like he has a secret life we’re not privy to.
I push the car door open and move around to the trunk where I always keep an extra bag with a set of workout clothes and shoes. Grabbing the essentials, I slide into the backseat and do a quick change. It’s crazy how I’ve perfected this over the years. I’m easily the most talented girl out there at changing without showing any skin. Easily.
That’s what happens when you’re a girl who plays with a bunch of boys.
When I’m done, I push the backseat open and put on my track shoes. I may have lied about having only one pair of extra shoes in the trunk. I have running shoes, basketball shoes—that are separate from game and practice shoes—and one general pair of sneakers. In case.
After grabbing my phone from the passenger seat, I lock the car up and head toward the track. On the way there, I shoot my mom a quick text that I’m out running. She’ll understand. She always tells me that whatever crazy drive my dad has for basketball, I inherited it too. We’ve been known to wake up in the middle of the night to shoot baskets. There’s just something about it that’s calming.
After some stretches, I start with an easy jog around the track. I don’t want to sound conceited, but the exertion is nothing for me. Running back and forth down the court hundreds of times a night? That’s tiring. This is a leisurely stroll. After a mile, I pick up the pace, running sprints for 100 yards, 200 yards, with breaks in between. I do that for another half hour or so until I end out the final sprint with a mile full out. By the time I finish, I collapse onto the track right next to where I started. Sweat drips from my forehead down the sides of my face and into my eyes. I pull my tank top up and wipe at it, still trying to catch my breath. My lungs burn as I gulp in air, but my limbs are tingling with power. There’s nothing like it. I feel unstoppable.
“Damn, Tessa. Looking good.”
I quickly wipe my eyes again and look up. A pit opens in the bottom of my stomach as I stare up at Lake O’Brien. The evening sun makes his dark features even darker.
“Got some abs, I see.”
I roll my eyes and go to get up, but he stands over me. The look he gives me while he straddles my hips sends predatory shivers down me. Out of all the Ballers, I think it’s safe to say that Lake hates me the most. Same player position puts us in automatic competition with one another. He’d deny it in front of my father, but I know he hates the idea of losing to a girl. He sucks down his pride at camp, but the lingers of his creepy stare always stay with me. “Leave me alone, Lake.”
Another figure steps up next to him, startling me. Holy shit. There’s two of them. This kid is the spitting image of Lake when I met him when we were thirteen. How did I not know he had a brother?
“This is River,” Lake says, his gaze narrowing, and his cheekbones sharpen to points. “River never gets to come to camp because of you.”
The urge to eye roll is strong. How else is stupidity supposed to be conveyed?
I try to scoot back so I can stand, but Lake just moves until he’s over my hips again, eyes just as menacing if not m
ore so. “He plays shooting guard, too.”
Ohh. I see. Camp Dale only takes the best of the best for each position. For shooting guard, that’s me, Lake here, and Grover Lane from the opposite side of the state. I get comfortable on the ground like he’s not intimidating the hell out of me. I refuse to sit up and have his crotch be in my face. Reaching my hands behind my head, I lay back and stare over at River. “Just keep trying,” I tell him, meaning to be helpful. I glare at Lake for making this about anything other than talent. “If you want it bad enough, you need to work for it.”
“Like you do,” young River scoffs.
I look back and forth between the two of them. Of course River would have perfected the asshole stare too, and the fact that things should just be given to them because they have dicks. “I work for my shit.” In my head, I envision all the nights staying up late playing by the spotlight my dad added to the court. The work here on this track. The time spent in the gym. Fuck these guys.
“Daddy gives it to you,” Lake spits.
I want to laugh, but this shit is getting old. “Don’t lie to yourself, Lake. That’s the worst thing you can do. If you spent as much time working out than you did complaining that I beat you, you might have bested me already.”
His eyes flare. He kneels down, one knee by my hip now. “I’m better than you,” he says through gritted teeth.
What’s sad is that he looks like he believes it. He legitimately believes his lie about my dad giving me my recognitions because he doesn’t want to believe I can beat him. Little does he know, my dad never judges me. Never. He lets the other coaches do that, so he won’t be tempted to score me higher. Which is outright ridiculous anyway. My dad is far harder on me than he’s ever been on any other player.
Suddenly, though, this has turned from just a war of words to something more. Lake’s pulse is throbbing at his neck. His muscles are strained and shaking. He looks as if he wants to kick my ass. I look from one O’Brien to the other. They mirror one another, each one of them feeling as if I’ve taken something from them. What words am I supposed to come up with to placate them now? I know what my mouth wants to say, but I’m also a hell of a lot smarter than that. “Let me up,” I say finally, trying to hide the shake in my voice.
“No,” River says, moving to my feet.
I glance at his brother then back to him. “I’m not fucking around, Lake. Get off me.”
They glare at me. I can’t even fathom the animosity in their dark eyes. “Hold her legs,” Lake says casually.
For a beat, I don’t move. The whole thing sounds just so preposterous. When I realize I should’ve been more worried than I was, it’s too late. River snatches my feet. I try to kick out, but he’s strong and has a good grip. He holds my ankles under his armpits and then wraps his arms around my calves where his fingers dig into me. Struggling, I reach up to push Lake off, but he holds my arms down and then leans his knees on them, pinning me to the ground.
Knots tie up my stomach. The only body part I can move is my hips until Lake sits back, taking an object out of his pocket. He smiles at the Sharpie. If it wasn’t such a sadistic smile, I’d say he was handsome even then. He pops the top and throws it to the side. He leans forward, aiming the marker for my face. “What are you doing?” I cry, thrashing harder now.
Lake chuckles darkly. The closer he comes, the more I move my head around. He growls, then forces my head to the track, leaning his weight against my head until it throbs. I buck and turn, but the O’Brien boys are too much for me. Lake’s writing on my face now. He does it fast as tears spring to my eyes. They’re marking me. I’m helpless. I can’t move, powerless to stop them.
“Help!” I yell. I call out several times, but just as the last scream exits my body, Lake sits up, tossing the marker to the side. River drops my legs and they fall to the track. They seem so much heavier now than they did right after I finished running.
I scramble to my feet, but Lake has his cell phone out taking picture after picture.
I turn away, eyes stinging as tears run down my face. I grab my cell and keys I left on the track and run for my car. My heart pounds in my chest, beating a fast rhythm of ‘get the fuck out of here’ while you can. After I start the car, I peel out of there so fast. My whole body is shaking. I’m embarrassed. I’m scared. I’m fucking livid.
Slamming the steering wheel, I can’t keep myself from crying. I scream once, then try to slow the beating of my heart. I wipe at my face and stare at my hands, but whatever he wrote on me is there like a tattoo. My stomach churns, sick with the violation.
I knew they hated me, but I never thought they’d take it that far. I thought we would fight it out on the court. Fight it out with words and fucked up signs posted everywhere on the school grounds, but never did I think any one of them would go so far as to do something physical to me. No, Lake didn’t punch me. He didn’t hurt me even. What he did was far, far worse.
The curves up the mountain to my house go by quick. Before I know it, I’m pulling past the TD pillar and driving up to my house. I shut the car off and lean back in the seat, my chest rising and lowering in short gasps. Looking up at the visor, I know all I have to do is pull it down to see what he did. The tears have since dried on my face. Now my skin is clammy and sticky. Without thinking too much, I close my eyes and then quickly reach up to flip the visor open.
My stomach freefalls.
I lean in closer. The words ‘I suck’ are written across the right side of my forehead. And on my cheek, next to the dried tears, looks like what’s supposed to be a crudely drawn cock.
“Motherfuckers,” I say, breaths still coming out short. I lean back against the seat and stare up at the car ceiling. Tears threaten again, but I’m far too pissed to cry.
I throw the car door open and grab my bag. The front door is closed with the foyer light on. I can only hope my mother’s not right there waiting for me. I need to wash this off before she sees it. Will it even come off? It’s a fucking Sharpie.
Peeking inside, I don’t hear or see Mom, so I walk in and lock the door behind me. I start to tiptoe, but then she calls out from the kitchen, “Tess, is that you?”
I run for the stairs. “Yeah.”
“Wait a minute,” she calls out.
“Can’t!” I yell back. “Need to take a shower.”
She groans in frustration, but I barrel up the stairs, run to my room, and slam the door behind me. With shaking hands, I grab my phone and Google how to get rid of permanent marker. Out of the list of ingredients that show up, the only thing I have in my room to use is nail polish remover, so I go into my attached bath, yank out a crap ton of toilet paper, and then soak it with the nail polish remover before running it over my face. The smell makes my nose scrunch, but I rub and keep rubbing. When I’m done, the black marks are faded but not entirely gone. My skin is raw and red, but at least it looks like I’m not eating a dick anymore.
I lean my head against the cool granite of the bathroom counter. Forget my face, I think. I need to bleach away the memories of their unwanted hands on me.
9
Today’s a big day. It’s not just because it’s Sign-Up Day anymore. It’s because I need to walk into Rockport High to show Lake fucking O’Brien he doesn’t scare me.
This morning, I took the nail polish remover to my face again. My poor skin is dry as fuck, not to mention streaky red, but that’s why God invented makeup. I’ve attended Sign-Up Day every year since my dad built Timothy Dale Court. Every year I dress up, smile, and be the dutiful, doting daughter. Not this year. Oh, I’m dressing up, but I’m dressing up to slay. I’m dressing up so that when I walk up to the sign-up sheet and write my name down, they’ll not only be forced to say my name, they’ll be forced to take pictures of me, and I’m going to look as sexy as I can while they’re doing it.
Look, I said everything about Rockport High Basketball is a big deal. I wasn’t lying. Sign-Up Day is a media frenzy. The coaches, players, and my dad usually know
every freshman—and the very rare upperclassmen—who want to throw their hat into the ring to join the team, but they won’t know me. The local newspaper and news stations will be there. I’d planned on wearing just what I wear to a regular day of school, but not anymore. They can eat their hearts out.
I finish applying my lip gloss and then dump my freshen-up makeup in my bookbag. Sign-Ups isn’t until after school ends, so I’ll need to retouch. I step back to look in my dresser mirror. My skirt is just on the cusp of being too short. I look classy, yet sexy. It’s exactly what I wanted to pull off. The shirt I’m wearing just grazes the top of my skirt. If I reach for something or pose in a certain way, hello stomach. After all, Lake said I had abs now. He might as well see them more often. All they are is proof that my dedication is paying off.
My bookbag clanks, the makeup containers hitting one another as I throw it over my shoulder and head downstairs. Mom’s sitting at the breakfast nook again. Steam from a pile of French toast is wafting in front of her face. When I come into view, she looks up. Her eyes widen a bit, and then she’s smiling. “Today’s Sign-Up Day, isn’t it?”
I smile wide. Despite the fact that I’m wearing this as some sort of revenge, nerves are still battling inside my tummy because of what today means. I feel like I’m outing myself to the world. “Do I look okay?”
“Oh, honey,” my mom says as she stands. She moves forward and wraps her arms around me. She’s lost weight, I think, as she squeezes. I can even feel her ribs. She stands back. “You look beautiful.”
She looks away, her smile slipping a little. This will be the first year she won’t be standing next to my dad during this particular event. Hell, there’ll be so many events this year she won’t be standing next to him at. This is just the first of many. “You can come to watch me, if you want.”