Scorched Turf

by Lilah Grey

  A few seconds later, James grabbed the miniature ball from kid’s hand, signed it, and then handed it back to him. His mother and father, who apparently had been searching for him, swooped in to pry him away, apologizing to James for the inconvenience.

  James waved at the kid, who continued to stare him while slung over his father’s shoulder. When James turned back around, he was wearing the largest smile I’d ever seen. It was genuine and made my heart flutter.

  “That. Kid. Was. Adorable,” I said as James returned.

  He sat down and slung his arm across my back, gripping my shoulder. “You’ll have girls his age asking for your autograph in a year’s time. I promise you.”

  Joy welled inside me, not only because James’s arm was wrapped around me, but also because I finally believed him.

  I could get drafted.

  The halftime break had nearly finished. I was leaning on a wall across from the restrooms, munching on a soft pretzel while waiting for James. My phone buzzed in my purse; I fished it out and groaned when I saw the text message.

  Violet: How’s the big date going?

  I regretted telling Violet about the game tonight. It wasn’t like I had a choice, though. She’d spotted me applying makeup, which I rarely did, and wondered what I was up to.

  “Just a game with James,” I’d told her as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Uh-huh…” she’d said with a deepening grin on her face. “I see.”

  “See what?”

  “Oh nothing,” Violet had said with a lilt, turning around and skipping out of my room.

  “It’s not a date!”

  Corinne: …

  Corinne: It’s NOT a date.

  Violet: Definitely not a date…

  Violet: :)

  I was busy mashing out my reply when I felt a hand on my lower back; I jerked away, jumping in the air and turning around, nearly dropping my phone in the process.

  “Sorry!” James said, holding his hands up. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  “It’s alright,” I said with a quick laugh. “I was caught up in a text message.”

  “Who?” he said gruffly, without any hesitation. “Sorry,” he added, realizing how harsh he sounded. I liked it, though, the tinge of jealousy that lined his voice.

  “Violet,” I said through a small grin.

  His jaw unclenched. “How’s she’s doing?”

  “Fine,” I said, dropping my phone into my purse.

  “Aren’t you going to finish the text?”

  “It can wait,” I said. “The game’s about to start.”

  James set his hand on the small of my back and guided me through the crowd of people around us and back to our seats. The loss today felt like a distant memory. James had a way of changing my mood, for better or worse, and everything felt right. We felt right. Together.

  But even so, I couldn’t help but think I was setting myself up for failure, giving me false hope for something that couldn’t happen. And even if it everything did work out, it wouldn’t last. After this season, James would be returning to his life, and I’d be starting my own journey to the professional league. I had no clue where I’d end up.

  “You okay?” James asked after I nearly ran into a support beam.

  I almost gave the automatic response, the one everyone gives when they’re asked if they’re okay or any variation thereof: I’m fine. But instead of falling into habit, instead of a canned response, I paused; I held back and actually thought about it. Was I okay? I’d never actually given myself the time to even consider the possibility that I wasn’t. The longer I paused, the more concerned James appeared; it shouldn’t be taking this long to answer.

  And then at once, as I looked into James’s eyes, I felt a rush pleasant feelings flood my senses. My entire body seemed to smile along with the one already stretching across my face. “Yes,” I choked out as my throat began to tighten. “I’m great.”

  And it was the truth. After last year, I never thought I’d feel a fraction of what I was feeling in this moment. And it’s all because of the man standing next to me. A light touch, a simple look or smile. All of it affected me in ways he could never imagine, in ways I could never explain to him. But I guess that’s how some feelings are: they’re better left as experiences because any attempt to describe them will fail to capture their essence.

  James wrapped his arm around me, pulling me sideways into him. I pivoted in front of him, sliding my arms around his torso and my hands up the muscled ridges of his back. Gripping his shirt in my fists, I breathed in his intoxicating scent.

  As uncertain as the future may be, there was still one certainty: that James and I would never be anything more than this if I remained silent about how I felt. I didn’t care about the timing, about the repercussions, because I knew the alternative would be just as painful. I couldn’t leave it all bottled up because eventually, that container would splinter and crack and its contents, like acid, would leech out, dissolving me from the inside out.

  I had to tell him, no matter how scared it made me feel.

  29

  Corinne

  “Beckham? David Beckham?” James cocked his head to the side as he surveyed my face. “That’s a joke, right? Corinne… please tell me you’re joking.”

  Red splotches formed along James’s neck. It was adorable seeing him get so worked up. Of course David Beckham wasn’t my favorite player of all time, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to mess with James.

  “It’s something about those eyes,” I said dreamily. “And how could I forget… that smile…” I breathed deep and let out a contented sigh.

  He laughed. “Okay, now I know you’re full of it.”

  I jabbed him lightly on his shoulder. “You should’ve seen your face,” I said, flashing a cheesy grin.

  The game had finished, and we were walking around the stadium, talking about nothing in particular as people shuffled around us. I hardly noticed anything other than James. It was as though we were in our own impenetrable bubble.

  I hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him about how I felt. Nerves fluttered in the pit of my stomach each time there was a lull in the conversation, and I was left to the whirlwind of thoughts in my head. I wanted to tell him, but it didn’t feel right, not here with everyone around us. I should probably talk to Violet first, though. She’d know whether it was a good idea or if I was out of my mind.

  “So what about you?” I asked, bumping my shoulder in his arm. “Who’s your favorite soccer player?”

  He snorted, looking at me as though I had asked him the silliest question in the world.

  “Me, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” I mimicked, rolling my eyes.

  He shrugged. “I’m kind of the best soccer player to ever live.”

  “Okay, Kanye. Humble much?”

  Whenever James didn’t want to answer a question, he’d make up something ridiculous in order to deflect. I saw right through it.

  “Can I get your real answer now?”

  “What makes you think—” The glare on my face stopped him mid-sentence. “Alright, fine.” He sighed and then scanned the area around us as he thought about it.

  “I dunno,” he said finally, drawing out the syllables as he threaded a hand through his ruffled hair. “It’s like asking who’s your favorite band or what’s your favorite book. I’ve looked up to so many different players over the course of my life that it’s hard to pin down my favorite. Who’s impacted me the most. They all had their moments in my life, and I’m not sure I could pick a clear winner.”

  I bobbed my head in agreement. I’d had several idols, both male and female throughout my life, but I think Samantha Meadows had the most impact on me. My age was still in the single digits when I discovered her. I remember sitting in front of the TV watching her play in the Olympics, and then after each game, I’d head outside with my soccer ball and pretend I was her.

  “Who’s your favorite now, then?”


  He smiled at me. “I’ll get back to you on that one.”

  It wasn’t the answer I was looking for, but then again, I hadn’t exactly answered the question either.

  I tossed the souvenir ball that he had bought me at his chest. He caught it, grinning at me.

  “When are you heading back to the Stars?”

  James hadn’t offered much information about his suspension, only that he’d be returning, part-time, until our season ended. I knew that it would be coming up soon, and that it might interfere with our workout arrangement. I dreaded the idea of missing out on more one-on-one time with James, but I knew he had his own career to worry about.

  His jaw tightened as he caught the ball and let his arms fall to his sides. “A few weeks.”

  “Try to contain your excitement,” I said, trying to cut the tension, but it didn’t work.

  We turned a corner and were met with a large crowd gathered around one of the exits to the stadium. Cameras flashed as kids held out balls and pens and jerseys while players slowly filtered outside.

  “Ohhh! This must be where the players exit,” I said, momentarily forgetting about James’s awkward silence. “Do you think Marybeth will still be here?”

  “We should head out,” James said abruptly.

  “What? Why?” I asked, stopping in my tracks.

  James turned around and grabbed my hand. “Come on,” he growled. “Let’s go.”

  He pulled me for a few seconds as I struggled to figure out what had gotten into him.

  “You can head to your car,” I said, breaking away from him, “but I’m not leaving without an autograph from Marybeth Adler.”

  James cringed.

  “Let me borrow your pen. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

  Reluctantly, James fished his pen out of his pocket. He opened his mouth to say something, but then let out a sigh and shook his head. After shoving the pen into my hand, he turned tail and stormed off to his car.

  What in the world had gotten into him? Everything had been fine until I mentioned the Stars, and then things worsened when I mentioned Marybeth Adler.

  I turned around and headed off to join the mass of people already waiting for the players to leave. A woman was walking toward me, and behind her, trailed a group of children and parents. She was tall and slender, and as she came closer, I realized it was Marybeth Adler.

  Holy crap.

  She was even more gorgeous in person. I was dumbstruck.

  I spotted a young girl, no older than six, rush over to her with arms outstretched. One hand held a pen while the other held the same souvenir ball I had.

  Marybeth, glanced at the girl, sidestepped out of her way, and continued on. A lump formed in my throat. How could she ignore that little girl? The girl turned around, arms still outstretched until finally she collapsed onto the ground, tears streaming down her face.

  Her mother rushed in, trying to comfort her, but the damage had already been done. She’d never forget that moment, and neither would I. Marybeth lost two fans in a single moment.

  Heat rose in my chest as I tried to fight back against the spell of dizziness that hit me. I couldn’t believe the person I’d idolized was so selfish.

  Marybeth glanced at me the same as she did the little girl. Her bag struck me on my arm as she passed by without so much as an apology. My light-headedness disappeared instantly, replaced with anger as I rubbed my arm. A cloud of sickly-sweet perfume trailed behind her as she called out for James.

  I watched her continue walking toward James who had stopped but not yet turned around. She called after him again, but this time, he finally turned around. There was a fake smile on his face. It was the same smile I’d seen him flash in interviews. And as Marybeth came closer, it began to morph into a grimace.

  “Hey—” I shouted as a photographer pushed by me, nearly knocking the ball out of my hand.

  And then it happened. My heart was ripped out of my chest and handed to me on a platter, still beating as life slowly left it.

  Marybeth kissed James. It was a long, deep kiss, her hands entwined around his head, pulling him into her.

  I couldn’t breathe. It felt like my insides were being twisted and pulled in every direction. A deafening hum rose in my ears, and I could feel a painful lump forming in my throat. It was the same pain I felt when I caught Tyler with Rylee, but more intense.

  Of course James was already seeing someone; it was silly to think otherwise. There was nothing between us and there never would be.

  I stood there, a spectator in another couple’s love story.

  30

  James

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  I tried to peel Marybeth’s fingers away from their vice-like grip around my skull, but it was no use. Her perfume flooded every breath and left me on the verge of gagging; she was drenched in it, a smell reminiscent of bubblegum, sour apples, and strippers. Mostly the latter.

  Get. Me. Out. Now.

  My eyes darted around, pleading for someone to help me pry this woman away from me. The only person I could see was a tall, spindly photographer with wispy black hair.

  Fuck me.

  “Jamiejamiejamie!” Marybeth squealed, jumping up and down after finally coming up for air. “I thought you weren’t coming! You never responded to any of my texts. I thought you hated me. Do you hate me? I didn’t know what…”

  And the rapid-fire chatter of Marybeth began to dissolve as I glanced over her shoulder and spotted Corinne staring at us. I’d thought that my feelings were one-way street, but the dejected expression on Corinne’s face told a different story. I had no interest in Marybeth, but Corinne didn’t see that. All she saw was that kiss.

  “So where’s Corinne? You said you were going to bring her.”

  “Over there.” I nodded, pointing at Corinne who still hadn’t moved.

  Marybeth turned around, shuffling her feet slowly. “Oh. Her.”

  “Something wrong?” I waved at Corinne, motioning her to come over, but she remained still.

  “Oh, no. She’s… pretty.”

  I’m not sure if that was woman-code for something, but I didn’t care. I needed to get out of here and try to explain what happened to Cori, but I had a feeling that neither would be easy.

  “Should we…” Marybeth said, looking back at me over her shoulder.

  “No,” I said, “she’s coming.”

  Cori finally began to move, a slow, cautious rhythm to her step, rather than her usual quick, purposeful gait. About halfway to us, she picked up the pace and flashed a large smile at both of us. She never smiled like that, and it made me even more uneasy about the situation.

  “Corinne,” Marybeth cooed, holding out her arms. She sounded as though she were addressing a toddler, not someone a few years younger than herself.

  “Nice to meet you,” Corinne said, holding out her hand, which still held her souvenir ball.

  “I don’t normally do autographs,” Marybeth said, grabbing the ball with a sigh. “But for James’s sister, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Stepsister,” Corinne said sharply.

  “Oh, that’s nice, sweetie,” Marybeth said, narrowing her eyes. She snatched the pen from Corinne’s hand and signed the ball.

  Corinne refused to make eye contact with me. I stepped forward, standing in between Corinne and Marybeth like a referee before a fight, and then grabbed her shoulder. But when I did, she jerked away from my grasp, shooting me a look that told me not to try that again.

  “Here you go, dear,” Marybeth said, handing the ball to Corinne.

  Sweetie? Dear? Corinne must be seething from the condescension.

  Marybeth turned to me, placing a hand on my chest. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon,” she whispered. “Why don’t you swing by after you drop her off. We can—” Marybeth giggled.

  Corinne dropped her façade, glaring at me while Marybeth continued to whisper in my ear. I had to get out of here now if I wanted to repair the damage that had alread
y been done.

  I pulled away from Marybeth. “We’re meeting my dad for dinner tonight,” I lied, checking my watch. “And we’re actually running a little late.”

  “Oh, okay,” Marybeth said. She grabbed her purse from the ground and slung it over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Corinne,” she said, flatly.

  “A real pleasure,” Cori shot back.

  I choked, trying to bite back a laugh.

  Before Marybeth turned to leave, she leaned toward me again. “I stay up late,” she whispered, dragging her finger along my chest as she pulled away. She gave Corinne one last look, turned on her heel, and left.

  “Man, that Marybeth sure is something else,” someone said as they clapped a hand on my back. I turned; it was the spindly photographer I’d noticed earlier. “Are you two…” he said, dragging out the words. Rather than finishing the sentence, he waggled his eyebrows.

  Chrissakes.

  “You should probably go now,” I gritted out.

  The photographer shrugged, readjusted the carrying case for his camera, and trudged off toward the stadium where a crowd still gathered for autographs.

  “Well…” I said, placing an arm around Cori. “I guess we should—”

  Cori walked off without so much as a glance, leaving my arm hanging in the open space she’d left.

  “Go,” I finished as she marched toward the crowd outside the stadium.

  What was she doing? I stood, dazed, watching as she veered away from the crowd toward a woman holding a wailing child. Corinne handed the miniature ball Marybeth had signed to the mother, who then handed it to her child after setting her down. The girl grabbed the ball, looked at Corinne, and then hugged her.

  When Corinne finally turned back around, she had a wide smile on her lips, but it vanished as soon as she neared me.

  “Don’t,” she said as I opened my mouth, brushing by me on her way back to the car.

  This ride home was going to be most enjoyable. Most enjoyable, indeed.