by Ally B
As soon as she delivers the line, my phone pings with a notification from Snapchat.
Violet wags her eyebrows, and I roll my eyes at her, but when I actually look at it, I have a new friend request—Graham Neilson.
I don’t know why I’m so taken aback by it, but I add him back quickly, setting my phone down on the counter and turning it over.
“He may or may not have asked me for your Snap in English today,” Kendall says, peering over my shoulder.
“And he may or may not be going to Jackson’s tonight after he sits with us at the game,” Violet shrugs, still curling her hair.
“And you two may or may not be insane.”
“Why? He’s hot!” Violet defends. “And he seems really nice!” She adds, obviously having her priorities straight.
“You should go for him then!” I suggest, mimicking her perky shrill.
“He’s too Asian for me. My mom would love him. We can’t have that.” She shakes her head. “He kept talking about you, though.”
“Yeah, he’s not very subtle,” Kendall adds.
“So you invited him to sit with us?” I ask them, picking up Violet’s forest green liquid eyeliner.
“Yes, I did,” she says. “Take that eyeliner. It’ll look good on you,” she says, the clear plastic seal proving she’s obviously never used it.
“He also showed no interest in going to Jackson’s until we told him you were going,” Kendall says, lining her eyes with black.
“I don’t even know if I’m going to Jackson’s,” I tell them.
“You have to now. He’ll be so sad.” Violet sticks out her bottom lip, fake pouting.
My phone buzzes against the counter, and I pick it up, taking a step back from the prying eyes of the peanut gallery as I open a Snap from Graham.
Graham
see u tonight? - Graham
I huff as I move back and sit back down on the stool between Violet and Kendall.
“Yes. You will see him tonight. At the game and then at Jackson’s,” Kendall says firmly.
“If you won’t do it for the hot muscle-y boy that obviously likes you, do it for Max,” Violet says. “If they win, he’ll want you there to celebrate, and you’re the only one that can ever get him out of his stupid little ruts when they lose.”
“I’m going for Max,” I tell them as I quickly reply to Graham.
Graham
See you there. - Phoebe
Holy shit.
After Violet and Kendall are done with their hair and I’ve allowed Violet to fix my makeup, I drive home and shove stuff in a bag. Then I hurry back and leave my car at Kendall’s before hopping into Clara’s white Audi SUV to head to the game.
I sit in the plush back seat next to Violet as we drive from her house toward the stadium. Music blares from Clara’s speakers as she drives well past the speed limit down the familiar streets.
I find myself staring over the shoulder of her seat and watching as the speedometer fluctuates between sixty and seventy in the clearly-marked fifty-five. I catch myself tugging at my seatbelt to make sure it’s tight enough as she turns the sharp corners much too quickly.
Thankfully, the back roads are nearly empty, and the drive is only a few miles.
I hate riding with anyone. Any. One.
Once we arrive, I finally feel like I can breathe again.
“Cover your drinks. Make safe decisions,” she says as we exit her car at the entrance of the stadium. “Text me if you need anything?” She asks Kendall.
“Of course. Love you.” She slams the passenger side door.
I give Clara a small “thank you” before following Violet and Kendall to the arena.
Every outdoor sport at our school shares an arena behind the elementary school. Practice fields are at the high school, but football and soccer practices—as well as games—are always in the arena.
The lights are bright as the clock approaches seven. The boys aren’t on the field yet, which leads me to believe they’re in the locker room waiting for their brand-new entrance music to start.
We pay the ticket fee and quickly head to the student section. Our typical spots on the bleachers are covered in jackets identical to mine. The forest green and white windbreakers belong to Gabby and Ava, of course. Our friend groups don’t exactly mesh, but whenever we’re running late to games, we save each other’s spots to make sure no one misses out on the front-and-center seats we’ve been working toward since freshman year.
When we arrive at our seats on the bleachers, Graham is sitting in mine. Violet quite literally shoves me into the aisle to take the seat next to him.
Ever the queen of subtlety.
“Hey,” he says with an inviting smile.
“Hey,” I smile back as Violet sits next to me.
“You look good tonight,” he says, looking me up and down.
I feel a bit insecure as he sizes me up, but I answer quickly. “Thanks, you too. Green is definitely your color.”
Really Phoebe? Now you sound like the fuckboy jock in every 80s movie.
“I figured it would be stupid to show up without school gear. You guys seem to take this pretty seriously.”
“Well, to be fair, you kind of got dropped into the eye of the storm. McArthur is our rival school. This is probably the biggest game of the season,” I explain.
“Except for states,” Gabby chimes in. “But it’s not looking great this season.”
“Have your guys made it to states before?” He asks.
“Last year, and our freshman year. They won last year. Lost to McArthur their freshman year,” Ava explains.
“Oh shit, so this is serious.”
“Absolutely,” Ava and I say at the same time.
It’s then when the music begins to play the entire green side of the bleachers stands. Graham follows suit.
Max leads the team as they run onto the field, earning deafening cheers from the crowd.
It’s 6:45 when they begin warmups. They look incredibly stupid doing their stretches across the field, but I’ve learned better than to pick on Max for that. Nothing irks him more. Of course, I still pick on him about it sometimes, but only on special occasions, mostly when his head gets too big after a big win, or on a really good hair day to bring him back down a bit.
The bleacher's buzz with excitement as the final moments of warmups are counted down, and the whistle blows, signaling the beginning of the game.
The first twenty minutes are exciting but completely uneventful. These teams have studied each other too hard for their opponent to use their usual tricks, but the clock is at 19:46 in the first half when Thomas scores the first goal of the game.
Naturally, the student section goes insane. Kendall shouts the loudest for her boyfriend, and the cheers don’t end until well after the game resumes.
With the clock reaches 10:22, St. Paul is too focused on their number thirteen to notice the ball being kicked to one of their forwards, and when he finally realizes, it’s too late.
The entire section lets out a collective exasperated sigh as the ref blows his whistle, signaling that the goal is good.
The rest of the first half is uneventful, the score 1-1. The crowd is on the edge of their seats, but the ball doesn’t make it anywhere near either goal. It’s apparent that both teams are getting tired, and I’m relieved for them when the buzzer signals half-time.
“Holy shit,” Graham says, relaxing back into his seat. “I never thought I would be so invested in a stupid soccer game.”
Ava laughs. “This game is intense.”
‘You’ve got this!’ I mouth to Max over-animatedly, leaning forward on the bleachers.
He cups his ear before entering the locker room.
I know he understands what I’m saying, but it really pissed me off the first time he pretended not to, so now we do it at every game.
“What’s that about?” Graham asks Violet behind me.
“I have no idea. They’re weird.” She shakes her h
ead.
“Sorry,” I tell him, leaning back.
“I get it.” He smiles. “Are you two…”
“No,” I respond quickly. “Noooooooo.” I shake my head.
“They’ve been best friends since they were little,” Violet explains. “They’re like brother and sister.”
I nod in agreement, leaning forward to allow my hair to cover my cheeks, which are definitely now burning.
“Oh.” He pauses as a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Good.”
Internally, I’m screaming. Very loudly. Externally, I just look to Violet wide-eyed and let out a breath.
Graham leaves to get a water, and Violet proceeds to do precisely what she does best.
“Holy shit,” she says softly, trying not to pull the attention of Gabby and Ava.
“I know!” I whisper scream, leaning in toward them.
“You have to,” Kendall tells me, grabbing my hand and joining the definitely-not-suspicious-looking-at-all huddle.
“Have to what?”
“Maybe focus less on the game and more on the hot guy sitting next to you!” Violet suggests.
“It’s the McArthur game!” I tell her.
“And he’s a hot new kid who I’m pretty sure Gabby is plotting to snatch up if you don’t claim him,” Violet lectures.
“Claim him?” I nearly exclaim, before remembering to stay quiet.
“Mark your territory. You know what I mean!” She shimmies.
“What do you want me to do, make out with him right here on the benches?” I joke.
“That would work.” Kendall nods.
“You two are insane.” I shake my head.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures! You’re a senior in high school, and you’ve never had a boyfriend!”
“I’m a senior in high school! I’m not ninety!”
“May as well be.” Kendall huffs.
“He’s coming,” Violet says, shifting her glace to the ramp leading to the bleachers.
We quickly exit our definitely-not-suspicious-looking-at-all huddle and trade it for our more casual position.
“I didn’t know who’d want one, so I just grabbed a bunch,” he says, handing out waters like a soccer mom handing out orange slices at half-time.
“Thanks.” I give him a small smile, wrapping my hands in the sleeves of my windbreaker before taking a sip from the freezing-cold bottle.
Even though it’s only early October, Upstate New York is never a reasonable temperature for outdoor sports. It’s either incredibly hot and humid, practically snowing, or actually snowing—a lot. And there are no other options.
“You good?” He asks me as he looks at how I’m holding the water bottle.
“Just cold,” I tell him with a reassuring smile, sealing the water with my covered hands.
“Oh, here.” He pulls a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket and hands them to me. “I’m not used to this, so I came prepared.” He laughs when I raise an eyebrow.
I take the gloves from him and pull them onto my hands, nearly laughing at the fact that they’re Patagonia. Of course they are. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He smiles.
That’s when I’m snapped out of my Graham-bubble by the sound of the buzzer, signaling the beginning of the second half.
Saying that Emerson’s players are tired is a gross understatement.
McArthur has already put what I assume to be their second string in, but they play just as well as their starters.
As great as the Emerson team is, our first eleven stay on for almost the entire game, only rotating out if there’s an injury or their coaches think they really need a minute off.
Which is never.
There’s still 22:54 in the second half when Jackson scores Emerson’s second goal.
The entire set of bleachers goes crazy, but by the time people have finally quieted down, McArthur’s number fifteen is halfway down the field, leaving Emerson in his dust.
Max is the only one remotely close to him, and as number fifteen gets past the defenders, St. Paul dives in front of the ball, narrowly missing it as it enters the goal.
Everyone collectively groans as the scoreboard updates, tying it up again.
Everyone else is worried about the score, but I’m more concerned with Max’s slight limp.
“He’s hurt,” I say to Violet.
“Huh?” She asks.
“Right foot. Look.” I point to Max.
“Oh shit,” she groans. “He’ll be fine.”
“And if he’s not, we’re screwed,” Ava adds, clearly overhearing the conversation.
The ref blows his whistle, and the game stops for a moment. Max looks up to me.
I raise my eyebrows in concern and mouth ‘you okay?’ to him.
His response is a thumbs up with a totally fake smile.
“Such a little shit.” Gabby shakes her head.
The rest of the game is played far away from either goal. Any time either team gets within ten yards of it, the opposite’s defense manages to get rid of it.
There’s a minute left when people begin to get restless.
“St. Paul won’t be able to save us in a shoot-out.” Gabby shakes her head. “He’s good, but without defense, he won’t be able to stop them.”
“We have overtime before that.” I remind her.
“They’re too tired for overtime.” Violet shakes her head. “It would end in a shoot-out. Their double overtime wouldn’t be eventful enough.”
“Or one of them is going to pull this out of their ass,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
And that’s when the clock hits thirty seconds.
The crowd grows anxious as time ticks down. They’re still on our end of the field, with McArthur trying desperately to get past our defense.
There are twenty seconds left when Max takes off down the field.
He swerves around a defender, and as the final buzzer rings throughout the stadium, the ball enters the goal.
Everyone is on their feet, screaming as the team runs down the field and surrounds Max.
I finally relax, knowing Max will be able to breathe a little after beating the best team they’ll play for the rest of the season.
“Hey, do you need a ride to Jackson’s?” Graham asks me as the cheers quiet down.
I turn toward Violet, hoping she’ll come up with an excuse for me.
“She totally does!” Violet says over-enthusiastically.
“Great,” Graham answers.
Students and parents flood the field, leaving the bleachers near-empty as we all step onto the turf after the McArthur team dissipates.
“You’re crazy,” I shout to Max as he approaches us from the other side of the field.
“I really wasn’t feeling overtime!” he yells back, jogging toward us and pulling me in for a quick hug. “Are you going to Jackson’s?”
“I guess so,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says with a smile. “How did Vi bully you into it?”
“She told Graham I was going to be there.” I roll my eyes.
“His gloves?” He holds back a laugh as he takes a sip of his water.
“Patagonia,” I say, raising them up and wiggling my fingers, resisting the urge to let out the same laugh.
Ski gloves are an investment, a waste of money unless you actually ski. Thin gloves like these are something you buy at CVS for a dollar.
“Do you need a ride?” He asks me.
“Violet convinced me to ride with Graham,” I tell him.
“And you’re okay with that?” He asks me, taking another swig of his water.
“Yeah. It’s only a few miles.”
“I’ve gotta run home to shower. Do you need anything? I can grab your stuff for you.”
“No, I stopped at home before I went to Kendall’s.” I turn to him, showing off my gorgeous light blue monogrammed backpack from fifth grade. Very classy.
“Okay. See you at Jackson’s in
a bit?”
“See you there,” I tell him. “Good game or whatever.”
“Thanks, or whatever.” He mocks my tone, sticking his tongue out at me before jogging back toward the bench.
“You good to go?” Vi asks, approaching me with Graham in tow.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I tell Graham. “All good.”
“No worries.” He smiles.
“Do you know how to get to Jackson’s from here?” He asks as we walk toward the parking lot.
“Yeah, it’s like two minutes away.”
“So, do they do this after every home game?” He asks.
“Only on Friday nights,” I tell him. “If they’re late to school, their coach doesn’t let them practice, and if they don’t practice, they don’t play. On Saturday, there’s usually no practice, so it works.”
“Their coach is Max’s dad, right?” He asks.
“Yeah. Mr. Sanchez. He’s the gym teacher, too.”
“Yeah, I had him today,” he says, stopping next to a black Jeep Wrangler.
He unlocks the door and climbs in, and I follow suit.
Smiling, I buckle my seat belt and look to see if he has. “Where did you park on the first day?”
He sees that I was checking out his belt situation and quickly rectifies it before pulling out of the parking spot.
“There was a spot near the front, someone must’ve been running late,” he says as he joins the line of cars trying to exit the lot.
“That someone was me.” I nearly laugh, recalling how pissed Max was at whoever took our spot.
“So, you’re the red RAV4?” He asks.
“Her name is Rosie.”
He chuckles. “You named your car?”
“Of course I named my car!” I defend. “You didn’t?”
“What should I name it?” He asks.
“You can’t just name it. It has to come to you,” I explain matter-of-factly.
“You named your red car Rosie. It doesn’t exactly seem like rocket science.”
“She’s not named after her color. She’s named after Rosie from Mamma Mia.”
“How did that come about?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused as he creeps forward, keeping up with traffic.