The Game Can’t Love You Back

by Karole Cozzo

  My hands slide off the bar and I fall, him steadying me as I come to the ground, ending up with my body nearly pressed against Jamie’s.

  “Whoa,” he exclaims.

  I turn around without meaning to, finding myself face-to-face with him, his skin smelling shower fresh, his hair still damp and darker than usual. His eyes looking right into mine.

  I swallow hard, realizing his hands are still on my hips.

  Blushing, I take a step back and away. “I slipped.” I wipe my hands on my sweats, even though in truth they’re bone-dry.

  Jamie studies me. “Come on. You’re actually shaking. Why don’t you conquer Everest another day? We’re all fucking beat.”

  “Today,” I insist.

  He shakes his head with a resigned sigh. “How many do the Marines have to do?”

  “Three.”

  “Please, God, tell me we’re not going to stay here till you do three.”

  When did this become a group activity?

  “You don’t have to stay anywhere,” I say. “And I just want to do one. To prove to myself that I can.”

  Looking at the expression of defeat on Jamie’s face, it occurs to me that dealing with me might be more exhausting for him than the last two hours were. This makes me smile a little bit.

  “Make sure I’m aligned the right way,” I call over my shoulder as I grab on to the bar again.

  Jamie guides me through one pull-up, using his strength to lift me as he comments on adjustments that need to be made in order for me to do it by myself.

  “Now you know how it feels when you’re positioned correctly.” Gently, he releases his grip on my legs. “I’m gonna let you go now.”

  This time, shaking with adrenaline more than weakness, all the while feeling like I’m grinding every gear in my body, forcing my muscles in a way they’re not meant to be forced, I move. I strain, and push, and demand … and I get my damn chin above that bar.

  I release the bar, throwing my hands up in victory, and with a burst of renewed energy, take a victory lap around the half-court.

  Jamie’s expression is perplexed when I return. He has his backpack on again and shakes his head. “You’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met. Are you done now?”

  I walk toward the door, collecting my things. “Yes.”

  Now ready, willing, and able to leave the gym behind me, I immediately begin making my way down the dark hallway toward the parking lot, Jamie beside me, nodding in the direction of the janitor, who is likely the only other person still in the building.

  We step outside, and once we’re in the parking lot, Jamie glances toward me. “You know what I heard?”

  I shake my head.

  “In the locker room … I got the sense that the thing with the mascot last night, it was someone from South. One of the guys who had personal issues with someone from Westdale.” He looks me in the eye. “Someone who hasn’t been with Coach as long, someone who doesn’t care as much about respecting the Pirate name.”

  I feel my hackles start to go up, and I open my mouth to protest, but Jamie keeps going.

  “Which sort of sucks. Because it was kind of starting to feel like we actually were one team.”

  He’s right, I think, feeling surprised. It kind of was.

  “It wasn’t me. And I don’t know anything about it,” I say.

  “Wasn’t me, either. And neither do I. Besides what I told you.”

  “I know that.”

  “Anyways … just sucks.”

  I don’t say anything in response, because I happen to agree with him. For once.

  Jamie reaches his car first and nods in my direction. “Later. Go eat a banana.”

  “What?”

  “You’re gonna be sore as shit tomorrow. The potassium helps.”

  “You’re gonna be sore, too,” I retort. “So … you eat a banana, too.”

  I think he might be smiling in the dark. “All right. Later.”

  “Later.”

  I climb into my car—it hurts—and drive home. Climbing the steps to my room hurts, too, but I need to lie down for fifteen minutes before dinner, and I very much want my bed.

  When I open my door, it’s obvious the cleaner was here today: vacuum lines on my carpet, clutter arranged into a pile at the foot of my bed. Atop it sits the mailing envelope from Sports Illustrated, the one they’d sent me the copy of the magazine including my feature in, along with a personalized letter. And a very nice check. I’d forgotten it was still here.

  I pick up the check for about the hundredth time, holding it away in disdain. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to cash it, because it felt like selling out after the way the photo shoot had turned out. All that pink clothing they’d brought and made me wear. Some with sequins spelling out the word phenom. Vomit.

  But if I don’t take it to the bank soon, it’s going to become void. Might as well make a run to the drive-through ATM and get it over with. So it’s out of my room once and for all. The desire to be rid of it is stronger than my desire to rest, even though I have no plans for the money. I drag myself back downstairs, find my parents in the kitchen, and tell them where I’m going.

  Catching sight of a bunch of bananas in the fruit bowl, I remember Jamie’s words and grab it as I go.

  Chapter 16

  April 7

  Jamie

  It’s silent in the locker room, and when I shut my locker, the noise is unnaturally loud. Once the door closes, I catch my reflection in the mirror at the end of the row. My expression darkens at the sight of my pale blue button-down and khaki pants, and I shove both hands in my pockets, trying to make the stiff pants more comfortable.

  Did I say I hated working Friday nights? Because right now I’d kill to be on my way to the Burger Barn, about to walk into a tiring five-hour shift. But Jenn asked me to switch with her because of some last-minute plans with some guy, begging me to take her Saturday shift instead. And when I realized there was somewhere else I should really be tonight …

  I glower toward the mirror. Screw you, William Shakespeare.

  I failed the test on Hamlet. Jabrowski hasn’t handed them back yet, but I know it. SparkNotes didn’t help at all, and there were a few short-answer questions I left blank because I had no idea how to respond. All that iambic-whatever and quotes that didn’t make any sense. Why can’t authors just say what they mean and tell the story, damn it?

  I hadn’t gotten the story when we’d discussed it in class, and I couldn’t bring myself to sign up for a tutoring session if Coach didn’t do it for me. Even if working with Eve might’ve helped me pass the Mockingbird test.

  As we left class yesterday, Jabrowski stood at the door, handing out flyers for an extra-credit opportunity. Like she was counting on some of us failing or something. She’d arranged for a bus to take interested students to a local college production of The Taming of the Shrew tonight. To hell if I’m an interested student. But the extra-credit points will bring my grade back up to passing and ensure that I’m not benched next week. In all my other classes, I’m doing enough work to hang in there, but English keeps kicking my ass.

  I took my sweet time getting changed, goofing around with the guys, acting like I had nowhere to be since I had the night off. No way was I letting them see where I was actually headed tonight; it’s bad enough I have to give Jabrowski the satisfaction of showing up. It’s six fifteen before I leave the locker room, heading away from the gym wing and down the long hallway toward the opposite end of the school and the auditorium where we’re supposed to meet.

  I’m not surprised by the small group of kids I find waiting there—some faces I recognize from drama club assemblies and a few overachievers who have nowhere better to be on a Friday night. I lean against the wall, Pirates hat still in hand, squeezing and unsqueezing the brim, wishing I was anywhere else.

  Jabrowski starts calling us together, and I’m trying to force myself to join them, but I do a double take, rooted in place when someone rounds the corne
r, one final overachiever I’d forgotten to consider.

  Eve.

  Her damp hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. She’s wearing a casual dress and shoes that aren’t sneakers for I think the first time ever. Considering the no-jeans-no-T-shirts-no-sneakers dress code Jabrowski dictated on the flyer, I have a bad feeling we have the same Friday night plans. Why in God’s name is she here?

  I don’t think she even recognizes me at first, but she actually stops in her tracks when she does. I watch as she pulls herself together, smoothing her hair and lifting her chin before sauntering over to me.

  “Jamie Abrams.” She sounds sort of haughty, actually. “Secret fan of the fine arts. Who knew?”

  I give her a dead stare in return, but she keeps pressing.

  “Didn’t know you had this sensitive side.”

  I exhale loudly. “You know exactly why I’m here, and that it has everything to do with baseball and jack shit to do with the theater.” I look her over head to toe. “Better question is why are you here? Do you actually take every single opportunity to get an extra-credit point?”

  Now she’s glaring at me. “No.” She squares her shoulders, then turns and focuses her attention on Jabrowski. “That day I ended up in detention. She wouldn’t admit she was wrong and it cost me twenty points. I’m here to get them back. I’m not giving her a reason to give me anything less than an A.”

  “You still haven’t moved past that?”

  Eve shrugs as the group starts moving toward the double doors. “Nope.”

  The word pops off her lips, and I turn my head before she catches me smiling.

  We end up at the back of the line together. “And you do know the show is The Taming of the Shrew? I have to think it’s like, against every single one of your principles.”

  “I don’t think you really know all my principles,” she responds coolly, “but yes, it is a misogynistic piece of garbage.”

  I bite back another grin.

  “I’ll probably just take a nap once the lights go down,” she says, getting onto the bus.

  She picks an empty seat near the middle, and out of habit I head toward the back. Only when I’m there do I realize I’ve invaded some sort of nerd territory, and they’re all staring at me like I’m an alien or something. I glare at them as I plop into a seat, then stare at the back of Eve’s head for the duration of the ride, her presence on the bus something familiar and oddly … comforting.

  Jabrowski’s waiting to line us up as we file off the bus, and so I’m stuck with the same group as we file into seats in the darkened auditorium. I think it would be somewhat more tolerable to sit near Eve and trade barbs once in a while.

  The live-action version of the story is every bit as boring and difficult to follow as the book, and it just doesn’t hold my attention. I lean my head against the top of my chair and close my eyes. An eternity later, I’m jerked back to reality by the sound of applause and the lights coming back on.

  “It’s over?” I mumble to the person beside me.

  “No.” He gives me a look, astonished to find I wasn’t captivated by this nonsense. “It’s intermission.”

  Crap. It’s only half over.

  Stepping into the lobby, I glance at the clock and realize it’s eight fifteen. I notice the theater department has set up a table, selling snacks and drinks, and automatically my stomach starts rumbling. I’d forgotten about dinner, that there wouldn’t be a chance to eat any. And suddenly I’m starving.

  Walking over, I grab a soft pretzel and a bag of peanut M&M’s. Only when I reach into my pocket to pay do I remember I left my wallet back at school, in my jeans pocket when I was changing for practice. “Oh, sorry,” I tell the girl behind the table. “Just realized I don’t have my wallet.”

  “I got you.”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I find Eve standing two people behind me, two pretzels from the Philly Pretzel Factory box in her hand. She steps forward and picks up a couple of bottles of water. “Want something to drink?”

  When I don’t answer, she shrugs and pays for all of it without a second thought. I’m too busy staring at her wallet, which is about an inch thick and stuffed with bills.

  Annoyance flickers within me. She just … walks around with that much money on her.

  And instead of saying thank you, I end up running my mouth instead, nodding toward her wallet and asking, “Wow, did you already get an endorsement deal with Lady Foot Locker or something?”

  She presses her lips together, her expression darkening. “Yeah, no,” she tells me, before shoving the snacks into my hands and walking off. “Enjoy the second half.”

  I open my mouth, wanting to take back what I said, just say thank you instead, but I don’t. I find a bench away from the crowd, stuff pieces of pretzel into my mouth, and try to calculate how long the second half will be. It has to be shorter than the first, right?

  I stay awake this time, counting down the minutes, occasionally staring at the back of Eve’s head again. When the female lead delivers some big speech near the end, says the line “Such duty as the subject owes the prince, even such a woman oweth to her husband,” Eve rolls her eyes so hard her entire torso moves.

  Even I get the gist of what the actress is saying, and Eve’s reaction is so predictably intense, I can’t help but smile in the dark.

  Another decade passes, and finally we’re out of there. The show did nothing to convince me that live theater’s a good use of a Friday night, and that it’s a better use of my time than working. The second we step outside, I untuck my shirt, loosen the collar, and put my Pirates hat on. Jabrowski can’t say shit about it now.

  I wait at the end of the line to get back on the bus, deciding there’s no way I’m putting up with that group in the back again. Their jokes are horrible and they’re still talking about Harry Potter, years after they started talking about Harry Potter.

  I see that Eve’s reclaimed her seat in the middle. It’s dark as I make my way past her, holding on to the seat backs as I go. I pause, two rows beyond her.

  Then, with a frustrated sigh, I double back. I drop into the seat beside her without even glancing her way, pulling my hat low.

  Given her reaction, the way she scoots as far away as possible, drawing her limbs closer to her body, she doesn’t really make me feel welcome.

  “What are you doing?”

  I stare straight ahead. “I don’t think the group in the back will miss me too much.” Then I look at her pointedly. “I’m sorry—was someone else sitting here?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Okay, then. I am.”

  Eve shrugs. “Okay, then.”

  I lean back, staring out from beneath the brim of my hat at the seat back in front of us. Both of us are silent when the bus starts moving, and we’re still silent when I pick up on the sound of the wheels moving steadily over the expressway.

  My body feels tense; the silence is uncomfortable. What was I expecting, anyway? What was I hoping for?

  Our conversation last week. During the assembly, on the picnic table.

  I guess I was hoping it would be like that.

  But it’s not. That was probably a fluke, anyway. I grip the seat back in front of us, thinking about standing up and leaving her in peace.

  “Did you recover from yesterday?”

  She’s still facing away from me, and I barely catch the question. “Huh?”

  Eve turns around, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear she looks kind of disappointed to find me getting ready to go. I slowly drop back into the seat, and she repeats herself. “Did you recover from yesterday?”

  I nod. “I crashed at home pretty much the second I walked in the door. Didn’t even eat dinner. But my mom cooked a big breakfast today, and I felt all right by the time I got to school.” I raise my eyebrows in her direction. “You?”

  A wry smile appears on her face. “Didn’t you see me hobbling around school today?”

  My lips curve upward. I had notic
ed her going down the steps like an old woman in need of a hip replacement. “Maybe.”

  “I ate two bananas,” Eve says. “They didn’t do anything for me.” She folds her arms over her chest and gives me a look, like somehow it was my fault she pushed her body past repair. “I can’t lift my arms past my shoulders.”

  “Well, go figure. You’re the one who decided to enlist in ‘basic training’ after that shit show at practice yesterday.”

  She looks away for a second, but I catch her biting her lip. When she’s sure she will not, in fact, laugh at something I said, she turns back around. “Has Coach ever pulled something like that before?”

  “Yes and no. Nothing that bad.”

  “Didn’t think so. It felt unfair, and fair is the first thing I ever had him pegged as.”

  My eyebrows go up. “I’m sure he seems fair to you. Doesn’t necessarily feel that way to everyone else.”

  She stares at me.

  “You got your special tryout.” I shrug. “Not sure how many people he would’ve done that for, especially when you were too busy with another sport to make his tryouts. But I guess not all of us are on the cover of Sports Illustrated.”

  Even in the dark, it’s impossible to miss the anger flashing in her eyes.

  “God. Everyone thinks the Sports Illustrated thing is something I’m so thrilled about.” She shakes her head against the back of the seat. “I told you before; it wasn’t like that at all. I wish those pictures didn’t exist. I mean, did you see it?”

  I’m stuck on how to answer her, because I can’t really tell her to her face I threw it out before actually looking at it.

  “They made me … Baseball Barbie.” She practically spits out the words. “I thought the article was going to be the focus of the feature. Truth is, they were more interested in designing a pink jersey for me to wear and making sure my makeup was just right for the lighting.” Eve sighs heavily. “It was such a fucking disappointment.”

  She’s quiet for a minute, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, considering something, before she starts up again, voice softer. “That’s why I have all that money.”