by Dahlia Adler
She closes the door gently behind her. “Look, I don’t want to pry, but it’s pretty obvious there’s something going on between you and Law. Are you…do you have something to do with why they broke up?”
“No,” I say immediately. “I don’t really know what’s going on between them.” There’s no point pretending she’s wrong about the rest, though; she’s been picking it up since day one. But that doesn’t mean I have to burden her with carrying around the shitty secret I am. “And there’s nothing between us…anymore. We were a thing, years ago. In camp. Before either of us knew Andi. And we just…thought it would be better not to mention that.”
“Ah.” She blows on her tea and takes a sip. “Is this, like, a ‘we held hands around a campfire once’ kind of thing, or…no, I’m thinking not.”
I shake my head, impressed she got a little smile out of me. “Not quite.”
“That…makes a lot more sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that it was obvious you guys are into each other, but I couldn’t put together how and when that would’ve happened. I thought maybe in the gym, since you’re both athletes, but—”
I hold up a hand. “You can stop right there. We’re not ‘into each other,’” I correct her.
She cups the mug in both hands and sits gently on my desk chair. “Yes, you are. I saw the way you were watching him at the game. And your reaction to their breakup wasn’t exactly garden variety ‘concerned suitemate.’ I don’t really know what it was, to be honest, but—”
“Okay, I think that’s enough of that,” I mutter. “Look, okay, yes, I’ve been a little thrown by him showing up again, but that’s it. And he’s made pretty clear he wants nothing to do with me.”
Samara huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Maybe to your face, but the boy is not as good at hiding his feelings when you’re not around.”
“What are you talking about?”
She glances at the door. “He looks at your stuff when he’s in here,” she says, keeping her voice low. “Not, like, through it, but just…the pictures on your desk. The posters on your wall. One time I saw him pick up your Gatorade in the fridge and smile at it like it was a private joke.”
At that, I smile too. “Well, we did have a thing with blue Gator—you know what? Never mind.” I’m getting deep into oversharing territory, and what’s worse is that I really, really want to. Mase looks at pictures of me? He remembers the thing with the Gatorade? If he really hated—or at least resented—me, why would he do that? Or were we actually okay until last night? The urge to spill everything to Samara is so strong, but then we both straighten up at the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door.
“Cait? You changing?”
I sigh. “Nope, just in here with Samara. Come on in.”
She does, but it’s impossible to tell from her expression what kind of call that was. I can’t really ask—not after I flew off the handle a bit when learning they broke up—but thankfully, Samara does. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Andi says lightly. “That was Law. He wants to talk over dinner, so, hopefully that’s a good sign.” Her smile barely shows any teeth, and it makes me think she doesn’t have all that much confidence in what she’s saying, but maybe I’m just seeing what I wanna see.
“That’s great.” Samara takes another sip of tea, probably as an excuse to avoid eye contact with me, and stands. “I’ll leave you to get dressed for that. See you later, Cait.”
I manage a weak goodbye as she walks out.
• • •
As I watch Andi leave for dinner twenty minutes later, I decide then and there to make my life a No-Mase Space. There are too many other important things happening in my life, and there’s no room for pointless drama. Whatever feelings Samara’s created in her head, they’re obviously not real; Mase’s attitude toward me has more than proven that. And I don’t have feelings for him. Missing our friendship and finding him attractive isn’t the same thing as wishing we were more than that. But clearly our friendship didn’t really mean shit, which means there’s nothing to miss.
So there.
I push him out of my brain, do the same with my father’s wedding, and devote the next two days to nothing but class, studying, and practice. By the time Wednesday’s game hits, I’m feeling peak.
Which of course is when Tish jogs over on the frost-crunchy field and says, “So, guess things worked out with Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”
Adrenaline and warmups had been keeping me primed, even with the chill, but her words turn my hands cold around my crosse. “What?”
“Up there, in the stands. You didn’t see him? He’s kinda hard to miss.”
Truth be told, I hadn’t looked at the stands at all; only but the most die-hard fans come to a mid-week game in February. But she’s right—there he is, sitting in the back with a couple of guys I don’t know, looking down at his phone.
He’s here. Mase is sitting in the stands at one of my games. A rush of warmth fills me at the familiarity, the memory of the first time he did that at Stone Creek. It was close to the end of the summer, and I’d been pretty sure we were eye-flirting, but I had so little experience with guys, I couldn’t be sure. And then one day he was there, sitting in the bleachers, a sly grin on his face as he gave me a little nod while looking me over in my lax uniform. I still don’t know how the hell I got through that game, since I couldn’t think about a damn thing other than that he was watching, but I got a pretty sweet goal toward the end of the first half. When he jumped up and roared a cheer, I knew I wanted to make him do that over and over again.
I did. Four more times in the second half. It was my highest-scoring game ever at Stone Creek, and I’m pretty sure they still talk about it.
Afterward, he’d walked over, shaking his head. “There was a rumor you were good, but damn, Johannssen. That was badass.”
“Thanks.” I hadn’t even been able to keep the smile off my face. People kept walking by and smacking me on the back or tapping me on the shoulder with a crosse; honestly, I could not have looked more awesome in that moment, red-faced sweatiness and all. “So what brings you to our humble bleachers?”
He’d been so adorable right then, scratching the back of his neck as he looked back to the friends he’d been sitting with, who I realized only at that moment were watching us. They’d catcalled and laughed, and he’d laughed too. “My friends called me a sadass cliché for crushing on a white girl. I said if we came to your game and you scored, they had to shut the fuck up for the week.”
Luckily, my cheeks were already burning from exertion, masking my hot blush at the “crushing” part. That answered that, even if I was a cliché white girl. “How long do they have to shut up for scoring five times?”
He’d laughed again, that low rumble, but then my coach had called my name, and Mase’s friends called him back. We’d said goodbye and agreed to find each other later, which we had.
Somehow, tonight, I don’t think there’s a bonfire, marshmallows, and pickup game in our future.
What the fuck is he doing here, anyway? I’ve barely seen Andi since the night they went to dinner, but I assume that once he got his rocks off with me at the Sig Psi party, he went running back to her. So why the hell is he showing up here?
For the first time, I realize that I am angry. And I don’t want him here—at all. But if he’s gonna insist on watching, he’s gonna get a hell of a show.
Throughout it all, I keep my eyes on the field and my teammates, refusing to acknowledge for even a second that Mase is in the crowd. This isn’t about him; it’s about me, and my team, and the sport I’ve loved for as long as I can remember. If he’s going to hold his resentment over my head that I can still play, then he’s right—we’ll never be able to be friends, and we’re certainly done being more. This is who I am, and I fell for the guy who understood that.
When the game ends, with me having posted two assists and scored three goals—my third hat trick of the season—I ac
cept nonstop cheers, hugs, high-fives, and back slaps with what I know is the world’s biggest goofy grin on my face. Only when I am one hundred percent sure that whatever Mase is expressing right now can’t hurt me do I look up at the stands.
And see that he’s gone.
I decline to spend the night celebrating, and I end up being beyond glad for it in the morning: the campus is a total madhouse. Even people who don’t give a shit about sports are congratulating me all over the place, thanks to the fact that a seriously badass picture of me wielding my crosse is splashed across the top of page one of the campus paper. Congrats are flooding in for destroying Eastern Mass, and while I obviously can’t take all the credit for that and always respond about it being a team effort, part of me is dying to say, “I know, right?”
Because, dammit, I was awesome.
Clearly, rage is every bit as good fuel as support was once upon a time, and now that I’m riding high on it, the sting is definitely soothed. Let Mase and Andi fuck all over the damn campus if they want to. I don’t care. I’ve never been about romance, and I’m not gonna start to be now. For the first time in years, we have a real shot at the championships, and I’m sure that once my dad sees that—and sees what a huge role I’ve played in getting us there—he’ll talk to Abigail about changing the date. There’s no way he’d miss this, or let me. The first thing I did when I saw the paper this morning was send him a link to the site with a note that said, “Let’s talk about that whole championships thing ;)” and I’ve been checking my phone non-stop waiting for his response.
Still nothing. But I’m not worried. I’m sure negotiating takes time. Matt, Cammie, and my mom, all of whom have always been considerably less interested in my lacrosse career, have been awesome about showing me their pride this morning, and I know that when my dad does too, it’s gonna be good.
Spending a morning getting showered with adulation works up an appetite, and by the time I meet Jake in the cafeteria for our last meeting for our mid-term project, I am utterly starving, and, apparently, beaming like a fool. “Holy shit,” he says when I slide into a seat across from him. “I have never seen you this cheerful. Guess you’re enjoying your day of celebrity, huh?”
“Damn straight,” I say, cutting into a huge piece of grilled chicken. “Eyes on the prize, Moss. Eyes on the prize. Those championships are going to be ours, and that captainship is going to be mine. And,” I add, spearing the chicken with my fork and waving it in his face, “we are getting no less than an A on this project. Hear me?”
“I hear you, General Johannssen, sir!”
“Good. And one more thing.”
“Yes’m?”
I put down the fork. “I figured out what favor I’m going to collect from you in exchange for…well, you know.”
“Is that right?” He crosses his arms.
“Yep.” I drop my voice. “In exchange for being your beard, you’re gonna be mine, of sorts. How would you like an all-expenses-paid trip to San Diego?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What’s the catch?”
“Only that you need a tux. And you’ll have to wear it to accompany me to my father’s wedding. Date still to be determined. You in?”
“You sure? That seems like kind of a big deal. Don’t you wanna bring a guy you—”
“In or out?”
“For you? Anything.” We bump fists and go back to work, and to lunch.
One more problem down. Life, you are back in my control.
• • •
When I finally do hear back from my father later that night, the whole thing just says, “Congratulations, honey. We’ll talk.” It’s not the flailing excitement and ready agreement I’d hoped it would be, but it’s a start. And it’s enough to push me to make my own effort, to show I’m worth making this change for. I take a deep breath and call up my sister.
“Sup, celebrity sis?” she greets me, and I grin for a brief moment before I delve right in.
“I need to ask you a huge favor you’re going to hate me for.”
She sighs. “No, Cait. Just…no.”
“Just the bridal shower,” I say quickly. “Please, Cam. I really think I can get Dad and Abigail to move the wedding off, and I would never ask you to go to that. But you know it’s important for me to go to this. They’ll never do it if I don’t at least make the effort to show up to the bridal shower, though, and I can not do that alone.”
“So bring one of your friends,” she grumbles.
“Lizzie’s going home to spend spring break with her brothers and meet her boyfriend’s sister, and Frankie doesn’t exactly make the best first impression with strangers.”
“Hey, I thought she was very sweet.”
“Yeah, because she hit on you.”
“And she has great taste!”
“Cammie, come on. Please. Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious? She’s freaking carrying our future brother or sister. That kid’s going to be related to you whether you like its parents or not. That has to matter.”
She’s silent for a moment, and that’s when I know I’ve got her. “Fine,” she says, “but, I reserve the right to leave as soon she proves to be utterly horrible.”
“Deal.”
“And ditto if you utter one word to me there trying to convince me to come to the wedding.”
“Also deal.”
“And I want that black-and-white top.”
“Cam, we’ve been over this. That shirt is not going to fit over your new boobs. If you wanted to blackmail me with my clothing, you should’ve maxed out at a C when you got them done.”
“Whatever, no regrets. And bring it anyway—I’m not taking your word for it, especially if I’m traveling all the way from Boston. Do we have a deal or not?”
“We have a deal.”
• • •
As expected, my dad is thrilled to hear that I’ll be going to the shower, while my mom is considerably less excited to hear I won’t be going to her at all. In fairness, I’d never committed to going back to Burlington for any of the week, but the knowledge I’ll be with my dad and his child bride does not seem to please her. Not that I can blame her, but I gotta do what I gotta do.
With my eye on the date-changing and championship-winning prizes, I actually do manage to keep Mase out of my head. Every day, I wake up to practice; take notes in class like a fiend; lunch with Lizzie and Frankie, girls from the team, or Jake; study my ass off; and get to sleep by ten. And yes, I completely destroy again at the final game before break on Saturday.
When I toss my stuff into the trunk of Lizzie’s car the Friday night classes end, it’s with the confidence of a girl on top of the world—a girl for whom failure is not an option. I’m going to this shower and I’m going to leave with the promise of both a bumped wedding date and my father’s attendance at the championships we will be at. It’s only two months until quarterfinals, and we’ve been at the top of our conference and the offensive scoreboard all season. I’m nationally ranked second overall in goals per game, but with only a .02 differential between me and the leader, I know I’m gonna take that top spot in our first game after break.
“That everything, Tiger?” Lizzie asks as I hop into the backseat of her car, thanks to her graciously offering to drop me off at my dad’s on her way down to Pomona. She’s taken to calling me “Tiger,” declaring that I seem to be in a state of permanent ferocity now. I roll my eyes at the nickname, but secretly, I kinda love it.
“That’s it. I didn’t really put an end date on my visit, but I can’t imagine it’ll be more than three days, tops.” Though no one would be happier than me if I’m wrong. Part of my newfound optimism includes hoping that I’ll like Abigail once I spend a little more time with her, that despite the fact that they’re moving across the country, we’ll somehow be a happy long-distance family. That we’ll video chat and I’ll spend some time there this summer, or something. All I need is for this to go well, and I’ll have everything I want.
Almost ev
erything, my traitorous heart mentally amends as I watch Connor haul bag after bag of Lizzie’s stuff to the trunk. Watch him subtly check out her legs when she pauses to send a text before getting in the car. Watch him remind her that he’s happy to take over when she gets tired on the five-hour drive down to her house. Watch him produce a handful of grape lollipops for the drive, and see her laugh at the joke I clearly don’t get.
Not that I’m a little lonely or anything.
“So what’s it feel like to actually make Radleigh care about sports right now?” he asks as soon as we’re on the road.
I laugh. “I wouldn’t give me that much credit.”
“I would. You know I’ve had two guys in my program ask me for your number already?”
“Bullshit.”
“It is bullshit,” he admits. “Only one’s in my program; the other’s in med school but lives in my hall. Historians don’t generally have the balls to beg for athletes’ numbers.”
“God, that’s sad. But I haven’t gotten any mysterious phone calls from date-seekers lately,” I point out, patting the phone in my pocket.
“Because you’re taken, remember?” Lizzie says wryly, and for a split second, I think she means Mase, before I remember that of course, to the entire Radleigh campus, I am the girlfriend of Jake Moss. “Don’t worry, Connor headed them off at the pass.”
“Oh, good,” I grumble.
“Always watching out for you, Tiger. So, did you ask Jake to come with you to your dad’s wedding?”
“I did. And he is.” Assuming I’m going to my dad’s wedding, I mentally add, though I’m well aware that’s not something I should be saying to Lizzie.
Lizzie beams with approval, but I ignore it. Just because she’s got into her head now that love is wonderful and fairytales exist and blah blah blah doesn’t mean happy endings are an option for all of us at present. At least I have Jake to keep me company.
“Enough about me,” I say, because I really need it to be. “Excited to see your sister, Connor? Where’s she been lately?”
Connor fills me in on his travel-blogger sister’s adventures, which turns into Lizzie talking about what they’re all gonna do in New York City for a day during break. That’s interrupted by Frankie calling to ask us for wardrobe advice for a party, which turns into her telling us a hilarious story about how she met this girl at a rest stop when she was stretching her legs after pushing it too hard on her Vespa. Before I know it, there we are, in front of my dad’s little white house. There’s no sign of Cammie’s Prius, which means I’m on my own for now.