by Hall, S. E.
The best news? Evan and I talk every Thursday in Algebra class, not exactly like the old days, but much better than not so long ago. He’s made fast friends with Sawyer, and even Zach now, and I couldn’t be happier about that. One great guy deserves another two!
Tate is all healed up and back at the dorm, which means my breath of sunshine roommate is back. I don’t think I realized just how much I’d missed Bennett until she came back.
All in all, the spring is shaping up nicely! Things are finally starting to feel normal again.
The only untouched left is my mom. I wrote her a long letter, but it has yet to even be stamped. Or sealed, for that matter. I don’t know the rules. Can she even receive letters? Not that it matters, since I’m nowhere near ready to mail it, but writing it was therapeutic, and dammit, I’m proud just for that! My dad says I should send it, as does Dane, but it’s not up to them.
So, it’s with a pretty happy heart that I grab my gear and head out to the flag football game. We’ve been practicing our butts off and Zach, it turns out, is quite the drill sergeant, but I’m pretty confident me and my girls are about to bring home the banner!
Dane’s waiting in his car when I head out the door but quickly scrambles out to grab all the stuff in my hands and load it up for me, treating me to a soft kiss first. “Hey, baby, you ready to score?”
It’s like the tenth time he’s used that line, he thinks it’s so cute. It kinda is.
Rolling my eyes at him, I get in the car, immediately turning on my “pump me up” music, “Let Me Clear My Throat” by DJ Kool. I mean really, is there any other choice? He’s chuckling as he takes the driver’s seat and acts like he’s gonna turn the music off, barely getting his hand pulled back when I move to slap it. The sun roof is open, as the air is, as usual, unseasonably warm, and I feel good.
The rules of the flag football tournament are simple: you win, you keep playing. No round robin, no break, no pool play—your win, your field, until someone knocks you off of it. This could be grueling for lesser women, but three wins in and the Lady Eagles softball team isn’t tired. If anything, we’re hungrier with each win; pumped, primed and ready for the next battle!
Game four is against none other than the Lovely Larks. I see Whitley prancing to the middle of the field for the coin toss, so I matter-of-factly tell my team I’ll Captain this game and make my way there.
I don’t even try to hide my bitchy smirk as I stare her down. “Winners’ call,” the ref, an upperclassman named Xander, and I only know that because he’s felt the need to tell me four times throughout the day, says as he sends the quarter in the air.
“Tails,” I say, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Tails,” Xander confirms.
Statistics say you should always pick heads and my dad has given me that sermon more times than I care to count, but I always go with tails. I knew that’s how it’d land just as sure as I know I’m about to school Whitley’s ass. I have no idea where her and Evan stand. We don’t broach the subject in our blossoming Algebra conversations, but I know what hasn’t changed—I still hate her.
***Dane***
I realize that taking over my father’s business ventures at a young age had put me out of touch with playing any team sports since high school, but I’m almost positive the word “flag” in the title of “flag football” carries some literal meaning.
Which is why I’m puzzled watching my girlfriend tackle Whitley for the third time. The first time she did it, Sawyer, sitting beside me, laughed his ass off, muttering something about a “spitfire.” So I thought, no big deal, it did kinda look like she just lost her grip on the flags and fell, taking Whitley down with her.
The second time, even Sawyer toned down his snickering and agreed with me it looked a bit suspect, especially when the official blew a whistle in Laney’s ear and moved the Larks up several yards. Zach had benched her after that one, but with a lot of her pacing and arm-flailing in his face, which was quite a show for us spectators, he put Laney back in.
But now, a third time? Laney is still laying on top of Whitley, showing no signs of getting up, until the ref runs across the field and throws the flag (not that Laney acknowledges flags), giving Whitley a moment of reprieve to once again brush herself off and adjust her clothing and hair. Evan and Zach both call time loudly and quickly march simultaneously onto the field, toward my girl.
“Go get her,” Sawyer groans as he bumps me with his shoulder. “I’ll bring the car around.”
So, ever the level-headed one in our relationship, I jog down the bleacher stairs in my quest to contain one very fired up Laney Jo Walker. If she wasn’t so damn adorable, with her cute little football pants and black streaks under her eyes, I’d be upset right now, because I know why she’s attacking Whitley. She feels powerless over the situation with Evan, so she’s going for the easy, direct hit on the girl who’s been sniffing him.
Laney’s been great about things lately, slowly having friendly words with Evan in their class together, and I can see her mood lightening each week. It’s giving her some sanity, some resolve and closure, so she’s my happy, witty sparring partner again, not talking about the woe is me that is Laney and Evan all the time. Because of all this, I’m gonna take it easy on her. I’m not gonna berate her for her real intentions and what that means. But I am gonna drag her off this field and take her home where she can really take her frustrations out…on me. Yes, please.
Keep a straight face. Keep a straight freaking face. I chant the mantra in my head as I open the gate and jog over to gather Laney “Killer” Walker. Whitley looks like a hot mess—steam is rolling off her, there are bits of the ground in her hair and her clothes are covered in grass stains. Evan is on one knee in front of her, using a water bottle to wash the dirt and blood off her legs. Laney, however, is glowing, bouncing on the balls of her feet from side to side, literally begging not to be thrown out.
“You bout ready to go, badass?” I ask her, reminding myself again about the whole straight face thing.
“Oh, thank God,” Zach huffs out, finally relaxing his shoulders, which have been pulled up to his ears since the first quarter.
“I don’t see what the problem is,” Laney says in a sugar-coated voice, which I’m sure hurts her throat. “She’s the quarterback. Of course I’m gonna gun for her. I can’t help it if the grass is slippery. And,” she holds up one finger democratically, like the point she’s about make will really bring it home for her, “it’s hard to stop forward momentum.”
“Which is why football players are able to do it every day, Laney?” Zach is trying so hard not to get mad at her, visibly struggling, with clenched fists at his sides, to restrain himself. “Anyone who pummeled the QB after the ball left his hand, repeatedly, would never see the field. We won’t even talk about the flags you’re simply supposed to pull!”
I have to turn my head and feign a cough to camouflage my laughter at Zach’s reply. She really thought she had him.
“But—” She starts to whine and actually stomps her foot, but I’m way ahead of her. Before the next word leaves her mouth, she’s over my shoulder, flailing and slapping my butt and back. “Put me down, Dane! The game isn’t over and my team needs me!”
“Ha! You cost your team thirty yards in penalties, hothead. I’m surprised they’re not clapping right now, thanking me! Now stay still,” I swat her ass hard and she yelps, “or I’m gonna drop you.”
Sawyer’s pulled the car right up to the exit, and as soon as we come into his line of vision, I see him throw his head back and laugh hysterically.
“Open the door!” I yell, which thankfully he hears, jumping out to open the back door for me since my hands are full.
“There she is, ladies and gentlemen, the MVP!” he teases her.
“Shut it, Sawyer!” she hisses.
“I’m gonna throw her in here, then you stand in front of her door while I walk around. When I’m in, I’ll lock the doors, with yours open, then you hop in
and gas it. Got it?” Sadly, I know Laney, and it is completely necessary to have a covert op planned out if we don’t want to chase her down again.
“All over it,” he salutes me.
“Hear that, baby? We got it all figured out, so no escape attempts.”
She grumbles something under her breath as I toss her in the back and slam the door, running hastily around to the passenger seat.
“Okay, Sawyer, go!” I yell, turning to look at Laney pouting in the backseat with her arms crossed at her chest, a scowl on her face and her eyes purposely looking anywhere but at me.
Stone silence fills the car as we make our way down the street. At the first stoplight, Sawyer plugs his phone into the radio. I’m grateful for the upcoming distraction, but only for a split second, when I see him adjust the rearview mirror with a smirk. Whatever he has planned, he wants to be able to see Laney’s reaction—God help us. Seriously, being with the two of them together is like a bad Heckle & Jeckle cartoon. But right at the moment the music starts, he’s reeled me in. I slap my leg and bust out laughing. “Mama Said Knock You Out” blares through the speakers, and when I shift to look at how pissed Laney is, she’s air-punching, singing every word with a beautiful smile.
Leave it to Sawyer.
CHAPTER 11
Balls of Steel
***Evan***
Laney: Don’t say no right away. The Crew is hanging out tonight at Dane’s house. I know it’s weird, but Sawyer and Zach, your friends, will be there so we’d all love 2 have u. Please.
Where do I start? There are so many things wrong with this, I don’t even know where to start. If somehow Laney took my civility in Algebra to mean “may I please hang out with you and your boyfriend at his house?”, then I really need to work on my delivery.
“What’s wrong?” Whitley sits across from me, peeling away most of the bread from her sandwich.
I eat lunch with her almost every day, and except for the whole picking her food apart thing, she’s great company. My favorite thing about her? She’s always humming. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it, she’s completely lost to the music in her head. I find it especially precious that the song she chooses always fits the mood or scene too—it’s like she’s scoring the soundtrack of our day moment by moment. One day we were walking together after class and a downpour came out of nowhere, soaking us to the bone. Whitley hummed “Umbrella” by Rihanna the whole time we were running to the car. I didn’t comment on it out loud, mostly because I was busy running for cover, dragging her behind me, but I laughed inwardly at how cute it was.
“Evan? Hello?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head and grin at her. “What’d you say?”
“I asked what was wrong. That text you got obviously didn’t make you happy. Your face looked like you smelt a skunk.”
Whitley’s a very down-to-earth girl once you look past the fancy, never-chipped manicure and the bread picking, and a straight shooter. I’m more than used to that and like it, so I go ahead and hand her my phone. We’ll see what she thinks, since I’m having trouble wrapping my brain around it.
“Hmm.” She chews her lip and takes her time looking up from the phone at me.
Now I may not be the most perceptive guy on the planet. I’ll never be able to name the artist when you show me a painting, I don’t see meaning in brushstrokes and colors, and chances are I’ll never be able to distinguish between all the different shades of pink, which Whitley swears are legitimate, distinct colors, but I damn well know one thing when I see it—piss and vinegar. And the girl sitting across from me is giving me a look right now that’s full of just that.
She smirks and licks her lips. “We should go.”
Told ya. Piss and vinegar.
“Why in God’s name would we do that, Whitley? I don’t exactly care for Dane and he hates me. Laney hates you, you hate her. Last time you two were together, she tackled you three times! Flag football is NOT a contact sport! So let’s all hang out together on purpose? Why do I even need to explain what a bad idea that is?”
“I don’t hate anyone and neither do you. And I know Dane; he doesn’t hate you at all. I think we should go and see what happens. If you want to leave, we’ll leave. But I think we should at least try, show we can handle it.” She runs one finger in a circle around the rim of her drink. “Unless you don’t want to be seen with me…”
I laugh out loud, knowing exactly what she’s doing. “Nice try, woman. You really think that’s gonna work?”
She peers up at me, blue eyes shining and treats me to a slow grin. “Did it?”
“Yeah, it worked,” I grin, but in defeat, “we’ll go.”
Game. Set. Match.
“Wonderful!” she squeals, jumping up and coming around to hug me. “I’m proud of you,” she says, running her fingers in the front of my hair and pushing it back off my forehead where she lays a soft kiss, “playing all nice.”
“Uh huh,” I mutter, leaning over to pluck the orange flower that just caught my eye. “Here you go, troublemaker.”
The last time I was at this door, I got handed my heart—mangled, battered, and broken. This time, I’m carrying a bottle of wine and dressed all fancy-like because the little pixie with her hand laced through the crook of my arm said to.
She put me in khaki pants and a light blue button down shirt, tucked in of course, and some brown churchy shoes that she’d run out and bought for me. The pants are stiff, the collar on this fucking shirt is seriously inhibiting my breathing, and the shoes look like I ought to be walking up to the front of the pulpit to get baptized. I look like a fucking idiot until I stand next to her in her gray pants and light pink sweater, perfect blond hair straight down her back and pulled from her face in a ribbon. When I stand next to her, I look like the other half of the picture she wants to paint.
I’m already in a mood and the outfit isn’t helping, but when Dane opens the door, dressed how he wants to be and Laney is behind him, comfortable in yoga pants and a jersey, I feel like a whole different kind of ass.
“Hey, guys, thanks for coming. Come on in,” Dane politely greets us and steps back for us to enter.
Laney moves with him, and because I know her like my own skin, I know exactly what she’s doing. Right now she’s deciding if she’s pissed that I brought Whitley without asking her or if she wants to bust a gut laughing at my clothes.
The latter is the obvious right decision, but I’m relieved she restrains herself.
“Thanks for having us,” Whitley responds cheerily, taking the wine from me. “We brought you this.” This she says to Laney, handing her the bottle with a sincere smile.
My ugly mood tapers a notch because that was a classy move.
“Th-Thank you,” Laney manages to say in a shocked stutter. “That was sweet, Whitley. Would you, um, like to come with me and we can try a glass?”
“Yes, please.” She lifts her face to me and pats my chest. “I’ll be right back, Evan. You want some?”
“Are you gonna be okay?” I lean over and ask quietly in her ear. She gives me a subtle nod that she is, so I straighten and answer loudly, “how about a beer instead?”
“I’ll grab that for you,” Dane offers, so I part ways with Whitley and awkwardly follow him.
“Hey, there he is!” Sawyer jumps up from the couch as we enter the room and comes over to give me a one armed hug/back slap. “Glad you came, man! Dane never lets us come here, so you picked the right night. This place is killer.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Dane grumbles, returning to us and handing me a beer.
Not that I’m thirsty, or have to drink beer all the time, but I’m gonna chug this bitch because it’s exactly the relaxant I need right now.
The doorbell rings, so Dane excuses himself, leaving Sawyer and I alone. The second he’s gone, Sawyer starts in.
“So you gotta be feeling awkward as fuck right about now, huh? I’m glad you came, though. Shows me you got some balls. I feel even better about
being your friend now,” he says with a laugh. “I see you remembered how to get here okay.”
“Even if I hadn’t,” I down half of my bottle, wanting it to kick in before Dane gets back, “Whitley knows.”
He coughs and bangs his chest. “Whitley? As in, Whitley came with you?”
“Yeah,” I respond casually with a one shoulder shrug, “why?”
“Fucking balls of steel!” He laughs loudly, slapping me on the back again. “Damn, dude. This is gonna be hella fun! Where is she?”
“In the kitchen with Laney.”
It’s the only, and probably the last, time I have ever seen Sawyer Beckett speechless.
“Guys,” Zach says as he walks in, Avery on his arm, “what’s up?”
“Hey, Zach.” I shake his hand and turn to Avery. “Avery, nice to see you.”
She smiles. “Hi Evan, how are you liking it here?”
“Not bad, I—” I stop because the look on Zach’s face distracts me. “What is it?” I ask.
“Look at Sawyer. What the hell is he doing?”
I had totally forgotten about him, but follow Zach’s stare to find Sawyer poking his head around the doorway to the kitchen, holding up his phone. I creep up behind him, Zach and Avery following, and tap him on the shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh,” he spits out, turning back around to face us, “I’m filming. Any minute now…”
“Any minute what?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“They’ll go at it, and this time I’ll have it recorded. I’m gonna sell this shit to Girls Gone Wild and be rich. You ever watch those chick fights? High dollar stuff, man.”
I poke him in the forehead a few times, just making sure he’s real, while Zach starts hee-hawing and Avery slaps him on the back of the head.
“Sawyer, you are unbelievable. Come on, Evan,” she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the kitchen, “this is not a good idea. We need to get in there.”