by Tina Ferraro
I crossed my arms. “What, that kiss earlier wasn't good enough?”
“They thought you lost a bet, that a gorgeous older girl wouldn't fall for a guy like me.”
I wanted to pause, to let that sentence drift lazily through the air for all to hear … but since no one who really mattered was on the field at the moment, what was the point? “Sounds like you've got smarter friends than I gave you credit for.”
“Yeah, well, we gotta straighten this out if you want to keep your friends fooled. So now that we've had this wonderful and very public conversation,” he said, bending down toward me, “I'm going to kiss you goodbye.”
“You are, huh?” Energy fizzled inside me, although— believe me—I tried to hide it. “The See- You- Later Kiss?”
“No, the Official Goodbye Kiss. Shorter, but you'll still like it.”
He was close now. Super-close. So close I could breathe him in, all male and clean.
“We'll see—” I said in teasing singsong. I started to say “about that,” but his kiss took the words right out of my mouth.
Tristan was right about the kiss. It was quick, just a brush of the lips, with maybe a second or two of contact before the pullback. As far as passion went, it was low-maybe a three on a scale of ten (and I suspected we'd gone as high as eight or nine with the Leave- Them-Wanting-More Kiss).
Still, I liked it. I liked it a lot….
Hartley, however, had a different take. (Surprise, surprise.) Her voice carried across the field, shouting my name— “Parrrrr- kerrrrr!”—with the demand “Get back to work!”
“I'm very important,” I deadpanned to him.
“I can see that.”
“They can't survive without me.”
“And they shouldn't have to.”
As I took a few steps backward, my gaze stayed locked with his. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
A smile crept over his face, and I had no doubt he would.
•
Practice resumed. Some of the girls were actually good, and not just the ones who'd played on JV last year. I saw some raw talent—players with speed, with tireless legs, and some who could use their heads to make judgments as well as move the ball. With enough work, I figured they could be league- title contenders.
I just didn't plan to be around to help make it happen.
“Game speed!” I yelled at a couple of the slower girls (Smurfs, as Chrissandra would have called them).
But once we divided into teams for scrimmages, the play started to get good, started to feel real. For the first time since the summer practices, I went to that hot, sweaty, stinky place where I didn't care if I was hot, sweaty and stinky, as long as my side was winning.
And, as corny as it sounds, I felt like myself again. Focused, in the zone. I realized that I'd missed playing, that it was an outlet for me. And that quitting for the sake of saving face would have been just plain stupid.
“Up the line!” Hartley shouted as an orange- haired newbie tossed a throw- in. A short, squat girl named Dayle trapped the ball with the side of her foot and slammed it forward to me. I rushed it, did a fast receive, then booted it past the goalie to put our team ahead.
My team cheered (and so did I). Sure, it was only a JV scrimmage, but some days you had to take what you could get.
I think I was still smiling when I spotted Tristan back on the sideline. I had no idea what he wanted, but no way could I break ranks and go to him, so I had to hope he was enjoying the show.
Energized and positive, I watched the redhead knock a through ball between two defenders, straight at me. Receiving the ball, I heard her yell “Man on!” at me, letting me know the opposition was hot on my tail. I jammed around behind the ball and wound my leg back for the soccer equivalent of the football Hail Mary, then connected with force and, to my relief, amazing aim.
“Way to go!” the redhead cheered, celebrating my second goal.
I nodded her way, then threw a look at the bench for a silent nah-nahnah-nahnah at Heartless, an in- your-face reminder that I was one heck of a player (and that she'd made a terrible mistake). But Hartley's attention was focused down the foul line.
On Tristan. Who was now sandwiched between two ninth graders, Emma and Marg. They'd been taking breathers on the bench—and had apparently decided that this breather would include Tristan. His arms were crossed over his chest, doing that pumped- up biceps thing (which they were so falling for). Marg was grinning at him madly, and Emma was talking with cartoonlike animation, her hand on his wrist.
“Parker,” Hartley boomed, calling me out for replacement, “will you go do something about your boyfriend? He's distracting the players.”
I felt heat race to my already mottled face, unsure if it was perverse jealousy that my non- boyfriend was flirting with girls his own grade or if I'd picked up a Chrissandra-type age-discrimination razz in Hartley's tone.
Nodding at her, I stomped toward the three of them, still very much in game mode. Coming to a halt, I reached out and plucked Emma's hand off Tristan's skin while tilting my head and squinting at Marg in a glare my dad and Tristan's would have envied.
“Mine,” I told them, in my most mature five- year-old voice. “Now, you two, back on the bench.” I waited until they stepped away. “And you,” I said, turning to Tristan, “Coach wants you out of here.”
“No problem, I was just—”
“Tristan,” I said, shaking my head, “you're making trouble.”
“I just wanted—”
My hand went to my hip, but I left the bite out of my tone. “You're just too good- looking. You're killing our concentration.”
“Your coach said that?”
“No, I did. Now go—and don't come back.”
He gave me a long, slow smile, then walked away. I hustled back to the bench, putting my glare back on for the two froshie Smurfs.
“Um, Parker,” Emma said when I plopped down beside her, “what's your favorite color?”
I opened my mouth to tell her to shut hers and watch the scrimmage (which would have sounded alarmingly like Hartley) when her friend Marg whacked her.
“Nice, Emma. Real smooth.”
“Well?” Emma replied. “Jeez, I don't know how to do these things.”
I let my stare bounce from one face to the other as I put the pieces together. “Tristan called you over to ask my favorite color?”
“Yeah,” Emma said. “Something about flowers.”
Marg rolled her eyes. “God! I'm not telling you any secrets, Emma.”
While the two of them bickered, my brain was trying to get around Tristan's request. Flowers! He was taking things way too seriously.
But Heartless was summoning me over with a crook of her finger, so I knew this was a subject for another time. “Focus on the field,” I told the girls, then jogged over to join the coach.
“He gone, Parker?” Hartley asked. She stood alone down on the sideline, a whistle the only adornment on her maroon sweat suit.
I nodded.
“For good?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“Okay. Thanks for taking care of that.” Her gaze went back to the field—Dayle was on a breakaway—but she kept her voice full and directed at me. “You're doing a good job with the team. The players like you, already look up to you. I can see it's going to be a much better season.”
Much better? For her, maybe. She wasn't varsity material trapped in a junior- varsity uniform. Besides, I wasn't sure what she even meant. We'd finished in the top tier last year and had had a heck of a lot of fun getting there.
“You might want to spend one- on- one time with some of the girls, boost their skills and confidence a little.” Staring at the field, she let out a wounded groan. I followed her gaze, to see Dayle falling on her butt. “Get back in there, Parker,” she told me, “and show them how it's done.”
I adjusted a shin guard and scurried off. Not because I felt like being obedient or earning more praise from Heartl
ess. But because I loved soccer. And because I totally related to the girl with her butt in the grass, waiting for someone to offer a hand, pull her up and give her a break.
I was waiting, too.
Nuzzling: As the perfect precursor
to the perfect kiss, rub your face
against his neck.
That night, I spotted Tristan out front, shooting hoops against a twilit sky.
A smile grazed his mouth as I crossed the street and headed toward him. He tossed me the ball. I caught it, aimed at the basket and shot. The ball bounced off the backboard, then thumped down on the pavement.
“Not bad,” he said.
“Not good, either.” I got my own rebound, then attempted to bounce the basketball from one thigh to the other, as I'd been doing with soccer balls since forever. But the weight and buoyancy of the ball was too different, so I gave up and tossed it back to him.
“So hey,” I said, “I hear I'm supposed to tell you my favorite color. Something to do with flowers?”
He cradled the ball in the crook of his arm and met my eye. “Someone's got a big mouth.”
“Apparently Emma's not real good at secrets.”
“Apparently.”
I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't, I sat down on the curb and lifted my chin up at him.
“Tristan, you don't need to buy me flowers. In fact, don't waste a penny on me, okay? I think a kiss now and then at school is enough to keep everyone believing.”
“I'm not buying you flowers. And I don't really care what your favorite color is. It was just something to say. A way to chat up the girls.” He moved the ball over his head and lined it up to shoot. “Very soon this thing between us will be over, and it doesn't hurt for me to get to meet as many girls as I can now, while I have the opportunity.”
He fired off the shot. I didn't bother to watch where it went. I was too busy smacking my leg (and wishing it were his head). I knew I should be relieved that he had such a good handle on the limitations of our so- called relationship, but the last thing I wanted was him making time with other girls on my dime.
“You're using me to meet girls?”
“Not ‘using’ …”
I jumped to my feet. “Hey, bad enough I'm dating a freshman. But one who's hitting on girls behind my back? Now the only way I'll save face is by murdering you in your sleep.”
He retrieved the rolling ball, then walked toward me in long, even strides. “You're reading too much into this, Parker. Don't you realize that no girl would take me seriously right now? That she'd know that if I didn't realize how the gods had smiled on me by giving me you, I was not worth having?”
Huh? Man, was he good at double- talk.
“And not just because you're two grades ahead. But because you're totally beautiful and way out of my league. Not to mention kind of fun when you let your guard down.”
Beautiful?
“The thing is,” he continued, “I know it's not in the stars for us. And I'm okay with that. But you can't blame a guy for looking out for himself. Trying to better himself.” He turned and threw up a shot that swished. “Because that's what this is all about for you.”
I opened my mouth to argue but couldn't quite find the words. Then I tried to frown, but I felt the touch of a smile oddly shining through. So I went for the rebound, passed it back to him and watched him shoot again.
Still sorta mad. But sorta not, too.
We shot hoops for a few more minutes, then scheduled a “lesson” for the next afternoon. I shuffled on home, feeling oddly excited.
•
As planned, the next day, Rachael met me at my locker before lunch. We zoomed off campus in her adorable two- door sports car, which stopped being so cute the fourth or fifth time we circled the Taco Bell lot in search of a double- wide parking space where no one could accidentally ding the bodywork.
Clearly, Rachael had some issues. Including waffling on her commitment to soccer. But, hey, turning Tilt- A-Whirl green with car sickness was still better than eating alone—and it could only help my social life to be seen out and about with an A-list senior.
Inside the Bell, we quickly discovered we had more in common than being team captains. We both ordered Baja Chalupas, were into mixing sodas for the perfect, personalized taste and had mutual heart attacks when Luke Anderson cruised through the door.
Rachael started gasping because, well, he's Luke and has that kind of effect on females. And I went scrambling for an oxygen mask because I knew the slip of a lip here in front of her could ruin everything.
“Hey, Parker,” he called out, spotting me. He had the sloppy college- student look going on, flip- flops, long shorts, wrinkled T-shirt and uncombed hair. I wondered if he'd just gotten out of bed or if he'd yet to go there.
My neck suddenly stiff, I managed to nod.
He cruised up to our table, then did a first: leaned in to give me a cheek kiss. I felt my eyes go so wide, I could take in all of the restaurant in one blink, while Rachael made a strangled noise deep in her throat.
When he pulled his lips away, I searched to find my own voice. “What are you doing on this side of town?”
“Laundry. I couldn't find any clean socks this morning so decided a trip to Mom's was more important than my first two classes.” His glance shifted to Rachael and he studied her face. “You're Dan the Man's girlfriend, right?”
“Ex,” she said. “We broke up over the summer.”
He made a hmmm noise that I was pretty sure meant he could care less. While Rachael turned heads at DHS, I knew from conversations between Luke and my brother that Luke's idea of heaven was one of the girls closer to his dorm room. High school girls who lived with their parents no longer had a chance.
“This is Rachael,” I said, remembering my manners. I didn't bother introducing Luke. Her gasp when he walked in the door, and her moan when he kissed me, had told everyone that she knew who he was.
He waggled his brow, then slid his gaze back to me. “You working hard—doing those, uh, drills we talked about?”
Everything inside me tightened.
“Because, you know, Parker, when the game starts, you're going to need to deliver.”
I felt like delivering a kick to his shin. Shut up, already! “Yes, Luke. Don't worry about me.”
A slow smile tugged up one side of his mouth. “It's important that you prove yourself a clutch player, someone who can be counted on, who doesn't give a teammate the kiss - off when the heat is on.”
Okay, that was it. Now I'd have to strangle him! Rachael was no idiot; she was sure to put two and two together.
I wrung my hands in my lap. “Well, Luke, since you missed some classes, it sounds like you 're the one who's got some studying to go do.” I nodded toward the food line. Like, go!
He held my eyes; then his grin widened. “Yeah, I need to get going. But I'll see you soon, right?” Then he glanced at Rachael like he was adding a PS to a letter. “Uh, nice to meet you.”
“Yeah.” She watched him lope off and, without changing her gaze, directed her attention back to me. “Wow, Parker … how do you know him so well?”
“My brother.” I grabbed my soda cup (three parts Pepsi, one part lemonade, for a perfect lemony- cola taste) and took a long drink, hoping the icy- cold liquid would chill me out.
Because omigod, how lame was Luke? I mean, he could take lessons on confidentiality and keeping it real from my freshman boyfriend.
Still, I had to remain cool around Rachel, so I swallowed and tried to control my breathing.
“If I'd known Luke Anderson was that into soccer,” Rachael said, still looking after him, “I never would have quit last year. I would have gone to him for drill advice. And anything else he wanted to give.”
She grinned, and I tried to. “But you were with Danny, right?” I asked innocently.
“Don't remind me,” she said, crumpling her paper chalupa wrapper into a ball. “I can't believe all the time I wasted on him. I was so
sure we were soul mates, thought any sacrifice I made was an investment in our future. But all it got me was a year of staring at his feet sticking out from under his car and a let's- see- other-people speech after his grad night. Ass.” She shook her head.
“But now,” she said, brightening, “I'm all about meeting new people. Especially guys. Which reminds me, I don't suppose Luke hangs out at your house on weekends or anything?”
“Not so much, now that he and my brother are in college.” But no way was I slamming that door shut. “I'll keep you posted, though.”
“You do that.” She smiled, then leaned across the table toward me. “And I'll keep you posted on a couple varsity players who may not be making it through the season.”
My heart sped up, in a new and better way, better than when I'd spotted the town hottie.
“You know AJ?” she asked. “Even though her doctor gave her the okay to play on that knee, she's limping when she thinks no one is looking. And everyone knows Jessie struggles with her grades. So stay sharp. You just might get the call to move up.”
I did a slow nod of appreciation. But the truth was, I was hoping I already had the gears of that move- up in motion. The question would be who I'd replace. Before today, Rachael had been my first choice, but as I sat across from her over lunch, sharing “secrets” and Baja Chalupas, guilt was raising its ugly head. I didn't want it to be someone I knew, someone who could get hurt the same way I had.
Still, I had to hang tough. It was Heartless's decision, just as it had been her decision to slam the varsity roster shut without me on it.
•
At school, Rachael and I parted ways. I moved in sync with the after- lunch crowd, doing that look- straight-ahead thing where you don't look directly into anyone's face.
But my gaze sharpened when I spotted Becca at her locker.
“Hey …,” I said, stopping and tapping her on the shoulder.
She looked back, briefly met my gaze, then turned away.
Huh? My brain scrambled, but all I could think was that she'd heard about Tristan and me. But that didn't make a lot of sense. Becca wasn't like that—wasn't judgmental.