by Ginger Scott
“You know I love you, right?” It’s the first time he’s said that in person, and it’s just as perfect as it was in my dreams.
“I know,” I say, my smile undeniable against his lips. “You know I love you back, right?”
He pulls himself back, looking over me, his eyes moving down my body and back up again, the potency of his gaze making me sweat. “What?” I ask, unable to handle the heat of his stare.
“How’d I get so lucky?” he asks, teeth pinching the corner of his lip as he considers me, my worth—my worth of him.
I don’t have a response, and the longer he looks at me, the more I blush, and then out of nowhere, a tear slides from my eye, over my cheek and onto the sand. And I don’t even mind. I let it fall. This cry…it feels okay.
Ty
The Pacific Ocean is better than the Gulf. It just is. I’m probably biased because I spent an hour making out with a hot blonde on the sand. That’ll sway just about any location into my favor. But this morning definitely falls into my top ten favorite-moments category.
Cass’s strength is unreal. I’m not even sure Nate could have pushed through the sand like that. She took the towel to my wheels back at the car, careful to keep sand out of the grooves, and then she stowed it back in the trunk. She was still blushing when she turned the engine over, sneaking glances at me, catching me staring at her.
“So, I saw your legs…in Newsweek,” she says as we pull back out onto the main road.
“Yeah? What’d you think? Pretty hot and famous, huh?” I say.
“They were all right. I mean, I’ve seen better. The nerve graphic, the one they overlapped? You know, the one that made you look bionic?” she says, and I narrow my eyes, giving her my best suave Bond expression. “Yeah, that was pretty cool. But, still not quite Sports Illustrated swimsuit.”
“That’s only because they didn’t keep the Speedo pics in the mix,” I say, and she laughs so fast she snorts. She gets embarrassed by it; it’s cute. She keeps her focus on the road while we wait through four or five stoplights, but she seems pensive the entire time. Finally she breaks.
“I saw the pictures of you playing ball, too. In high school?” She’s being cautious. Truthfully, I forgot about those photos in the article.
“Oh yeah. I made that uniform look good, huh?” I turn the other direction quickly, watching the cars in the lane next to us, staring at drivers—anything to avoid the look I know she’s going to give me. I don’t turn when she speaks again, but I know the look is there.
“You…you were pretty good, huh? Good, like Nate?” It’s not quite pity, but it’s close. I know she doesn’t mean it that way.
“I was good,” I sigh.
The silence gets thicker before it starts to fade away the longer we drive. I keep my eyes on anything other than her…until I feel like that topic—the concept of me missing baseball—fades almost completely. It always leaves a little mark behind, and I’ll probably feel the punch of this conversation during my flight.
We get back to the house with just enough time to grab my bag and freshen up, shaking the sand from our clothes. My farewells from Cass’s parents are most definitely warmer than their greetings, but there’s still an element of trust—or resistance to fully trust—lurking. And maybe that’s just based on experience. I’m willing to put in the work, earn it over time.
Paige is another story. She treats me with the same huffiness and indifference as she always has. And that feels better. Nothing’s changed between her and me, but over the last few days, I’ve seen moments between her and her sister. I caught Paige looking at Cass differently, regretfully, perhaps. I haven’t mentioned this to Cass, and we try not to talk about Paige much. I can tell it makes her sad, so I don’t go there.
We get to the airport with little time to spare, and Cass doesn’t have time to park. Our goodbye is rushed, and I hate that. But even with my guaranteed spot on the plane, I get to the gate barely on time. I charm my way on in the middle of the final boarding group, and the male flight attendant takes quite the liking to me. I laugh to myself, and pull my phone out quickly to send Cass a text that she may have competition; then I shut the phone off and spend the next three hours learning about my flight attendant Shawn, and how I remind him of his ex. By the end of the flight, I’m honestly flattered, and I get Shawn’s number, with the promise of having drinks sometime—with his new boyfriend and my girlfriend.
Before I get through the gate to where Nate should be waiting for me, I pause and turn my phone back on and chuckle at Cass’s response.
CASS: Yeah, well, I finally watched The Departed. And Leo, yeah, uhm…I’m a fan. Does that sway things in my favor?
ME: I think you may have taken this Leo thing too far, it sounds like you like him not in the ‘bad-ass’ way but in the ‘hot for his bod’ way.
CASS: Your fault. You made me look.
ME: I think that’s enough Leo.
CASS: Too late, already started Gangs of New York. I’m marathoning. Gotta go.
ME: K I don’t like this.
“Dude, move your ass,” Nate yells the second he sees me.
“Are you seriously pretending you have any power over me?” I say, eyes back to my phone, waiting for Cass. I think she was serious, and I may have created a monster.
“I’m parked weird. That’s all, and what’s up your ass?” he says, grabbing my bag and swinging it over his shoulder.
I look up with my lips pushed into a half frown. “I think I may have pushed Cass into Leo’s arms,” I say, and Nate pinches his brow.
“Good, you and Cass can share your man crush then. Come on,” he says, leaving me behind. I push hard to catch up.
“I don’t have a man crush,” I say in defense.
“Yeah, sure you don’t. Saying every one of his lines along with him is totally normal. Totally,” he says, laughing over his shoulder.
Damn. I do have a man crush.
“Yeah, well…shut up,” I say back, and his cackle echoes into the elevator.
Chapter 30
Cass
My bags are packed. Paige’s bags are packed. My cleats, my old knee braces, my shin guards, my ball—I packed it all. I know I have new things, but sometimes I like the way my old equipment feels. My parents and I haven’t talked about it. There’s nothing to talk about. I’m playing.
I’m about to zip the bag closed when my dad walks in, a large envelope in his hand. His focus goes right to the bright green ball I’ve managed to wedge into my suitcase, and he smiles tightly when he sees it, then nods.
“I have to play. I need it. I just…I need this,” I say to him, and inside I say please, please, please over and over again, praying we don’t make this a thing—that they don’t try to take this away.
“I know you do,” he says, tossing the envelope on top of my things and helping me to zip my suitcase the rest of the way. “You’re going to need those. They’re medical forms, judge endorsed, explaining your treatment, any steroid injections. There are three copies, and there are two doctors’ signatures—Peeples and one of his colleagues.”
“Dad—” I start, but my breath leaves me quickly. His warm arm wraps me from the side, and he pulls me to him tightly, kissing the top of my head. “We still worry. Just promise me one thing, if you feel something…if you feel off…at all? You’ll talk to someone and listen to your body. It doesn’t mean you have to quit, it just means…we modify. Can you do that?”
“I can do that,” I say, pulling both of my arms around my father’s chest and holding him tight, my cheek resting against the wool of his suit jacket. “You’re off to work?”
“Time to make the donuts,” he says. He’s been saying that to me since I was a kid, when I used to get up early just to see him before he left for the office. He kisses my head one more time, then turns to leave through the door, his hand knocking once on the frame as he passes.
My phone buzzes, and I sit at the edge of my bed to answer. It’s Rowe. I’ve texted
her a few times, but we haven’t talked. I’m afraid to talk to her, afraid she’s mad that I kept this from her.
“Hey,” I answer, my heart beating fast with my nerves.
“Hey, when do you get in? I just got here. Our room…Cass,” she’s talking a million miles a minute, and I fade out for a second as she goes on, awed that our friendship is somehow just the same as it’s always been. No MS. No questions, no mention—I’m just still Cass.
“What about our room?” I ask, smiling nervously, for a different reason now.
“It’s…brown. Like…I’m sorry, but it’s caca brown. Maybe a little orange? No, it’s brown. Definitely brown. And not a cool brown, like taupe or chocolate. It’s awful, like that burnt sienna color you get in your box of crayons that you never wear down because you don’t use it, because it’s seriously the ugliest color ever made,” she says, breathless by the end of her panicked speech. “Cass…we can’t live with this. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think they had it in them.”
The laughter creeps in quickly, and soon I can’t control it, and it infects Rowe; she’s laughing on the other line just as hard. “I’m serious, Cass,” she says, practically through tears, she’s laughing so hard. “It’s hideous. I’ll go to the hardware store and start repainting so maybe when you get here, I’ll be almost done.”
“Don’t you dare,” I warn her. “We don’t give in, just like they don’t give in. I’ve got this.”
“Okay, but I’m not kidding when I say it’s ugly,” she says, and I smile, because I know the trump card, and it’s going to be awesome to throw it.
I needed Paige’s help, and I was nervous to ask at first. Our relationship was healing, but slowly. She seemed more excited at the prospect of beating Ty—so I used that in my favor, and she called a few friends to help pull things off.
We needed to time it just right, everything like clockwork from the moment our plane touched the ground. I called Rowe, and she made plans with the boys for dinner at Sally’s. We’d meet them there, so that way they could save us a table before it got too crowded. The only risk left was whether or not they left their room unlocked—their keys inside. Something they do…often.
Rowe is jumping up and down at the elevator when Paige and I get upstairs, and her smile means we’re in luck. I leave my things in the hallway, by our room, and we hand Paige all the keys she needs, and she promises that her assistants are on their way.
In exchange, I promise Paige a free bailout, no questions asked, the next time she’s a little in over her head at a party—something that hasn’t happened in a while, now that I think of it. Her lips curl at the edges, a faint smile at my promise—a baby step. And maybe just saying this to her was enough.
“I can handle this,” she says, reaching into her bag for a band to tie her hair. She pulls her jacket from her shoulders, and rests it on my suitcase, kicking her gigantic pumps off so she can work barefoot. The scene makes both Rowe and me laugh.
“What? I’m not lifting things in those,” she says, blowing her bangs up and out of her eyes. It’s funny mostly, because Paige isn’t likely lifting anything. Our suspicion is even more confirmed when we swap places with three extremely large guys on the elevator, and as the doors shut, I think I catch a glimpse of one of them lifting her in his arms.
“Do you know that guy?” Rowe asks. I’m glad she saw that too.
“No idea who he is,” I say, my eyes wishing they could see through the elevator doors as we start our decent. “Someone’s been keeping a secret.”
Whoever he is, he isn’t a jock or frat guy…or anyone I’ve seen around any of Paige’s parties. He’s way off the radar, and nothing like anyone I’d ever pair with my sister based on her tastes. I hope like hell I see him again.
Rowe and I somehow manage to keep our smiles in check throughout dinner—even pretending to be pissed about the brown room, about how they one-upped us…finally. And when my phone buzzes in my lap with a message from Paige that “the deed is done,” I tug my ear to signal Rowe, and her smile grows wicked.
“I almost want to sprint home,” she whispers in my ear as we wait at the front of Sally’s while Nate and Ty linger by the bar to check the score of a game.
“Play it cool,” I say, and she folds her arms and smirks at me.
“Look at you. When did you get all ballsy and good at this?” she asks. “The student has become the teacher.”
“Okay, you and Ty seriously need to stop with the Kung Fu thing,” I say, and Ty catches the end of it.
“You can never talk too much Kung Fu,” Ty says, and Rowe nods in agreement, jutting her fist forward for a pound.
“Damn straight,” she says.
“So what has my young grasshopper mastered?” His question makes me panic, but only for a second, because Rowe is way better at this than I am.
“Oh, you’ll find out,” she says, waggling her eyebrows, and instantly Ty assumes we’re talking sex. It’s easy to take his mind there, and Rowe is a genius for thinking of it. She didn’t really lie, because he will find out soon. He’s just going to be even more disappointed now.
We take our time getting back, as if there’s nothing to be excited about. I stop at our mailbox downstairs, and pull the sets of keys out, dropping them in my pocket before anyone can notice, and we continue to the elevator.
“Mail’s empty,” I say, winking at Rowe behind their backs.
“Well duh, we just got here. Nobody has any mail yet,” Nate says, totally going along with our plan. Ty, however, makes a face, and the second I see his eyebrow tick up, I look away; I know I won’t be able to bluff him if he looks right at me.
I have to nudge Rowe in the ribs once to get her giggles under control, and when the doors open, we step from the elevator and move toward the boys’ room.
At least, what used to be the boys’ room.
“I’m kind of tired. You know, I think I’m going to go to bed early. Long flight. Hope you don’t mind,” I smirk, and Ty knows instantly.
“Son of a bitch,” he says, his head shaking as he looks to his lap and bites his lip, then lets out a reluctant laugh and folds his hands together, his thumbs tapping one another because he knows. He knows!
“Oh, that’s fine,” Nate says, trying to be polite, still not caught up with the rest of us.
“Good, well…you’re going to need your keys,” I say, tossing them to him. He catches them at his chest, and then realization settles in slowly. Rowe and I push in through our new door, all of our things inside, as if we’d always been here.
“Good night boys,” she says, and we both blow them kisses as we close the door behind us, locking it too, just in case.
My phone buzzes about two minutes later with a text from Ty.
TY: Well played, Ninja.
ME: Enjoy your shit-brown room ;-)
TY: Oh I will.
ME: I don’t doubt it.
I think I may be more proud of this than I am of making the women’s soccer team. I fluff out the Barbie comforter and layer it with my quilt, then crawl into bed, kicking my shoes off and letting them fall to the floor. Rowe does the same.
“You know, I kinda like their room better,” she says, scooting into the deep corner of what used to be Nate’s bed with her blankets and pillows piled around her.
I smile at her, then say, “You mean our room.” I let myself relax, and when my phone buzzes under the blanket, I dip my head underneath to read Ty’s message privately.
TY: You know I love you, right?
ME: Yeah. I know.
TY: Good. Now watch your back…babe ;-)
My face buried deep in my sheets, I shake my head and grin from ear-to-ear, stopping short of kicking my feet and squealing because of how he makes me feel. I’ll let him get over this, and stew for a little while. Then I’ll give in and make my way to the brown room to spend the night—trading places with Nate, because that’s where I really want to be. I’ll watch my back, and he’ll probably get me with somethin
g way better than this prank eventually. But I won’t care.
I won’t care, because I love him. I’m in love with him. I love his funny side and his serious side. I love that he’s protective, and I love the part of him that sometimes misses baseball and won’t admit it out loud. I love the way he can talk to me with his eyes, yet never say a word with his mouth. And I love the part of him that thinks he can do anything—especially the impossible.
Tyson Preeter is my boyfriend—a real boyfriend, the kind that takes me on dates and leaves me love notes. The kind I wished for—the kind I promised myself I would have. The kind who loves me.
The kind who made me love me, too.
And I love him for that most of all.
Epilogue
Four months later
Ty
“Okay, so this series…it’s important,” I say, leaning over Rowe, ignoring Cass’s glare.
“She knows that, Ty,” Cass says, and I wave my hand at her, hushing her.
“I’m just making sure. This series, if we win, moves us to number one. Number. One.” I hold up one finger. Just to make my point totally clear.
Rowe leans forward, effectively ignoring me, talking to Cass. “Does he think I’m stupid?” she asks, pointing at me. “He thinks I’m stupid.”
“Yeah, I kinda think he thinks you’re stupid,” Cass jumps on the bandwagon. I pull my hat from my head and rub my face.
“Oh ha ha ha, yes, very funny ladies. Let’s cut the cutesy,” I say, and Cass punches my arm. “Oww!”
“You’re kind of crossing the line,” she says, giving me the face. The one she uses when I’m being too Tyson, as she likes to say.
“What was too much? Cutesy? Fine, I take back cutesy. Now focus,” I say, and now they’re both laughing at me. And I’m frustrated. “Forget it. This is no use. I’m just going to hope you don’t fuck up baseball, since you’re not taking me seriously.”