Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  I’m immobile, my field of vision nothing but sun-dried turf and fresh dirt. Earlier, Shanks explained that if I get hit, the safest thing to do is to stay as still as possible while waiting for the pile to break up. So I stay still. But number fifty hasn’t moved yet. He’s taking his freaking time, and his girth is approximately equal to a Mack Truck lined with bricks.

  “Hey, Sanchez. Get off her, man—she’s not a mattress.”

  The voice is Coach Shanks’s, and I’m suddenly embarrassed that he’s noticed I’ve been squashed. Ten plays and this is the first time I’ve truly taken something resembling a real hit. And, God, it hurts. My ribs shudder like they’re going to shatter. Efffffff.

  “Just giving her a taste of what it’s like, Coach.”

  “Red shirt. No tasting menu for her. OFF.”

  Number fifty—Sanchez—rolls off my back and onto my legs, his butt pressing into my hamstrings before the weight is finally lifted. I get to my knees, and there’s a hand at the edge of my slightly blurred vision. Topps.

  I snag it and stand.

  “You’re doing good, girlie. Real good.”

  I nod, words still impossible.

  Topps shakes his head. “Sorry, you probably don’t like being called that.” He lowers his giant head like a freaking wild pony. “Do you have a nickname?”

  I nod again. Swallow. Find my breath in three heaving gulps. “O-Rod.”

  Topps smiles. It’s far too gentle for the mass of him. “Like A-Rod. I get it.”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re doing real good, O-Rod.”

  I want to believe that.

  10

  FRIDAY IS MORE OF THE SAME. MORNING DRILLS WITH Grey—who totally got razzed by Shanks for trying to wear his sunglasses again—Brady, and select receivers, followed by an afternoon of scrimmage, aka Liv’s red shirt doing abso-freaking-lutely nothing to keep her safe. I trust my feet more than a stupid jersey, even though my footwork sucks. I’ve been training my whole life to run from point A to point B, not elude four dudes who each have a hundred pounds and years of experience on little old me.

  By Saturday morning, all I want is to sleep in and then raid the noontime doughnut selection at Dillons.

  Instead, I roll out of bed, pull on my customary batting cage outfit of running shorts, a tank top, and cleats, and bribe Ryan with two of his own doughnuts if he leaves the house with me in his soccer gear.

  “Four. I’ll do it for four.”

  At this rate, he’ll be asking for three courses at The Cheesecake Factory by the time the season’s over. Teenage boys can eat.

  I drop him off at Jesse’s house with promises of carbs and head to Northland. I change, grab my helmet, and I’m at the field—cloaked in red and ready—at 6:59 AM.

  By myself.

  I do a loop in warm-up and scope out my surroundings. There are a few of Ryan’s soccer teammates a field over, taking turns on corner kicks. Two cross-country girls are running the bleachers in bright orange singlets. The cheer squad works formations on the stadium turf, a flash and whirl of ombré-patterned tights and pineapple buns.

  But nowhere in sight is a herd of fifty or so man-boys.

  My phone is in the locker room. But I don’t know who I’d call. I don’t have Grey’s cell, mostly because I’ve been too chicken to ask. Don’t know how to reach any of the coaches. And even though Jake apologized, I’m not totally comfortable texting him all idiot-like with a “I thought we had practice?”

  I do a loop back around by the locker rooms. No sound is coming from the boys’ side. And the coaches’ offices are dark.

  But there are cars in the parking lot.

  Lots of cars.

  Jake’s car.

  My Timex warns me that it’s now 7:14 AM.

  A chill runs up my spine as a burst of heat climbs my cheekbones. Parallel swells of feeling—stupidity and frustration—arm-wrestle in the pit of my stomach.

  I can’t be late. I am late.

  Not knowing what else to do or where to go, I end up back in the locker room. Check my phone. Nothing.

  Screw it.

  I scroll through and find Jake’s number. I hold my breath as the ghosts of messages past pop up on-screen. And even though I know it’ll be there, I still nearly drop my phone on the locker room floor when I see the last message in the chain.

  Can’t deal with the crazy. I’m out.

  And by “crazy” he meant me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and start typing.

  I can’t find you guys.

  To my surprise, a new message pops up instantly.

  Weights. Meet me in the hall. I’ll show you.

  Oh, thank God.

  I toss my phone in my bag, slam my locker, and light out of there like my butt is on fire… only to turn right around because my clothes are all freaking wrong for weights.

  Off come the jersey and pads, tights, more pads. On go my shorts. I don’t have tennis shoes, but cleats won’t be too weird. I hope.

  “Took you long enough,” he says as I finally exit the locker room.

  “Wrong clothes. I’m new, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” There’s a little smile there as he takes a step toward the intersection of two halls, and I fall in beside him. The air is fat between us, a thick layer of blubber between normal and whatever we are as we learn to coexist.

  “So, um, that was super lucky you answered right away.”

  Jake shrugs, shoulders straining against a neon Northland T-shirt. “Kelly brought me my jersey and I had to put it away. My phone lit up the second I opened my locker.”

  “Ah.” I’m not sure what else to say to that. That I wish Kelly would do my laundry? Though, based on yesterday, it’d probably come back in shreds. “Anyway, thank you.”

  He snickers. “You might not feel like thanking me when you see how pissed Coach Lee is that you’re twenty minutes late.”

  Having Danielle as a sister has paid off in a myriad of ways, but in this instance, the most valuable of those is that I don’t look down when facing a pissed-off Coach Lee. I know how to take a look like that.

  Eyes up. Chin up. Respect written across my forehead.

  The rest of the team is going through what looks like a series of stations—back squats, bench press, TRX, clean and jerk, plyo, abs. And, though arms and legs are moving in my periphery, I know everyone is waiting for the yelling to start. Heck, I’m waiting for the yelling to start. But Coach Lee isn’t yelling. His lips are drawn up tight. The silence is deafening, even with the clank and swish of ambient weight room noise.

  I’ve already apologized. He didn’t answer to that in any volume. No acknowledgment except the glare.

  Finally, he says one word: “Squats.”

  I take off toward the back of the room as quickly as I can without looking like I’m running away, toward a series of squat racks lined up against a wall of mirrors. There’s an open one on the end, the quarterbacks and secondary assigned to the same rotation.

  The weight already on the bar is completely ridiculous. Quick math tells me it’s 260 pounds. With the bar added in, it’s 305.

  There’s no way in hell I can squat that.

  I start reracking the forty-five-pound plates on either end. I have no idea what the rep situation is or how many sets we’re doing. All I know is I can’t do 305.

  Grey silently swings over from two racks down and pulls a forty-five off the other side. Which is sweet and also completely embarrassing that he realized my problem right away.

  Coach Napolitano meets me when I’m hauling the second forty-five off the bar. “Eight reps. Start with fifty pounds on the bar.”

  These are the first words I’ve ever heard Coach Napolitano say, but I’m going to have to refute them. “I can do more than ninety-five.”

  While Coach seems nice enough, it’s obvious the guy doesn’t like anything going against the tide, including me. But I can’t sit here and squat two-hundred-plus pounds less than the rest
of the team.

  I can’t. Not when I’m already wearing the “otherness” like a glove.

  And without the benefit of pads and helmets, my differences are even more pronounced.

  More glaring.

  Every eye in here is judging me in my black tank top and the purple sports bra peeking out the back. The elastic is gone on my old shorts, meaning they’re rolled at the waist a few times just so they won’t fall down. And I’m damn certain they realize I’m still wearing softball cleats.

  Grey huddles in closer to me, angling his broad back so that it’s harder for the others to watch. Napolitano chews at his lower lip. “What’s your one-rep max?”

  “Two hundred,” I lie. Because I have no freaking clue. In the weight room, I just do what my sister says—the weight’s not mine to set.

  “Start with a hundred on the bar,” Coach says. “If that feels good, up it on the next round.”

  I nod, relieved if not still embarrassed.

  One hundred forty-five pounds. Eight reps. No big deal.

  But when I glance at my reflection in the mirror at the top of my first rep, that feeling of otherness crushes hard on top of that hundred pounds.

  And then another weight: I miss my softball girls. I miss people I know. I miss being a true part of something. I know it’s early, but just this scene alone is enough that I worry I won’t ever fit in here. On this team, at this school, anywhere.

  But I won’t know for sure unless I try.

  I close my eyes and squat.

  Twenty minutes late to the start of practice means it’s twenty minutes I have to stay after practice to make amends.

  Luckily, it’s just twenty minutes of running.

  Unluckily, the person making sure I complete the laps is Kelly Cleary.

  For the most part, she’s sitting on her duff, ignoring me. Playing on her phone. Scratching out notes on her clipboard. Checking her silver-painted nails.

  Basically, doing anything other than interacting with me.

  Eight laps in and fresh perspiration crowds my hairline and rests under my eyes when the door to the boys’ locker room clangs open. Out comes Jake with a few of the A team guys. Keys stuffed in their hands, pristine sneakers on their feet, and tank tops clinging to hungry muscles. They’re laughing at something that feels a lot like they’re two seconds away from high fives. Still, Jake notices us and waves an arm through the air.

  My hand automatically shoots up in response as I scream around a turn. But as it’s returning to my side, I see that Kelly’s hand is up, too. I stop on a dime.

  Her eyes catch mine. “That wasn’t for you.”

  Ugh. I take three steps, but the second I find my stride again, it hits me.

  Kelly brought me my jersey and I had to put it away.

  Oh. God.

  I stop and turn around. Kelly’s messing with her phone. “Are you and Jake a thing?”

  She doesn’t look up. “Keep running, Rodinsky.”

  A subtle hint of satisfaction hangs in her answer, her cheeks pinking atop her freckled skin.

  Goddammit. Kelly definitely did something with Jake last night that required the removal of his jersey. Wonder how Stacey feels about that.

  I step away from her, glance at my Timex, and get back at it.

  Two more laps and Kelly stands up and walks away without saying a word. Fine. Whatever. I don’t care. I decide to do a cooldown lap before grabbing my gear and running off to spend my allowance on brother bribery. When I finish and head toward where chain link separates the stadium track from the locker rooms, there’s someone standing there.

  Grey.

  The sunglasses are back, his hair is wet, and the smell of soap hits me almost as hard as the fact that I must totally stink. He holds a hand up, an iPhone generations newer than mine in his big palm. “Your number?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “So you can give me shit for being late between now and this afternoon’s practice?”

  “No, so I can make sure you’re not late again.”

  He unlocks the phone and hands it to me. I see he’s already filled in the contact information—“Olive Call her Liv or Else Rodinsky.” I’m blushing, like instantly blushing, and I furiously hope he can’t tell postrun flush from heart-flutter flush.

  With shakier fingers than I’d like to admit, I type in my number as we meander toward the girls’ locker room.

  When I hand the phone back, my fingers brush his. And goddammit, I’m blushing again. But I look back up at him like there’s nothing wrong and my face is always beet red.

  “My mom’s waiting,” he says, gesturing toward the parking lot. They must have carpooled; Coach Kitt seems like the type to be in her office at any available moment. “See ya.”

  He leaves and my heartbeat slows as I push into the empty locker room. I grab my stuff from my usual locker and fish out my phone, ready to add him the second his text buzzes through. But, to my surprise, I’ve already got a text from a new number.

  I click it open and it’s a copy of the team’s day-to-day schedule. And a winky smiley face.

  Of course.

  11

  “HE SAT ON YOU?” ADDIE CACKLES, SHOULDERS quaking. “Like he just thought you’d be a good place to rest?”

  “Yeah. Two hundred pounds of Goldilocks and I’m still not sure if I was just right or not.”

  Now she’s laughing so hard she chokes midsip on her Dr Pepper. Instant coughing fit. More pop. She wipes her eyes, wetness catching the meager overhead lighting in the oregano-scented dim of Bruno’s Pizza, our favorite carb-delivery supplier. Finally, when she’s not going to cough or laugh anymore, she shoves two garlic knots in her mouth.

  Starving, but ironically too exhausted to keep up with Addie in the food department, I spear myself a garlic knot and try to straighten my slouch from an S to an L. But somewhere in the middle, my back muscles seize up and I pitch to the side against the wall of our booth. It’s Saturday night and I’m zonked from my third two-a-day in a row. Honestly, it’s all I can do to stay upright across from Addie. My life’s been a blur of laps, drills, and scrimmages since Thursday.

  And I still have a final round of two-a-days tomorrow, right before dinner with my family—a dinner in which I can’t look like I’ve been mentally and physically destroyed for four straight days. And the day after that, I get to trudge my way through my first official day as a Northland student. Yippee.

  “So, other than being sat on, how’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  Addie’s eyebrows rise so high on her forehead that they graze the baby hairs that have managed to escape her head of tiny black braids. “Liv.” When I don’t say anything else, she blinks slowly, exaggerating her disbelief to the point of animation. “You’re running around, getting tackled by a bunch of boys in tights, and all you have to say when I ask how it’s going is fine?”

  “Technically, they aren’t supposed to be tackling me.”

  “But they’re sitting on you.”

  “Yes, in lieu of tackles.”

  “Okay, whatever. Just give me the scoop.”

  I wave a hand. “Eh, enough about me. Tell me what’s up with you—how’s the volleyball team looking?”

  Addie sputter-sighs into her drink. “We’d be looking a whole lot better if Barbie and I weren’t the only ones to hit the court this summer.”

  “I mean, to be fair, you get bonus points because you hit the court with me, and I can’t even keep the ball in play seventy percent of the time.”

  “God did not make you a volleyball player, that’s for sure, but you were excellent target practice.”

  We both laugh, because that’s totally true.

  “And what about the rest of Windsor Prep? How’s your schedule?”

  “Well, I got into Danielle’s Honors English section, so that won’t be weird or—wait.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re avoiding talking about it.”

  I poke at my plate. “I am not.”

  “Oh,
yes you are, Olive Marie.” She pauses, eyes narrowing further as if she’s trying to read my mind. Then her whole face lights up. “It’s him, isn’t it? Grey?”

  I feel the sudden urge to stuff my piehole with ten garlic knots—I barely have the energy to eat, let alone manage Addie’s expectations on what isn’t happening with my teammates and myself. “Um, it’s him what?”

  Addie doesn’t skip a beat. “You know what. You’re being antidescriptive because you’re afraid of describing something. And that something is Mr. Surfer Newscaster.”

  And suddenly I’m blushing because… yeah.

  Just then our server materializes with an eighteen-inch monstrosity fashioned from mozzarella, cured beef, and stinky miniature fish. Oh, and carbs. Glorious carbs. The nectar of the gods. Or at least the nectar of athletes ambling through two-a-days.

  Addie and I each yank a slice onto our plates and dig in. She takes a giant-ass bite and launches back into her assault—she clearly has it in for me.

  “Seriously. You’ve been at practice. With boys. For hours.” She presses both hands into the Formica tabletop on either side of her plate. “In case you’ve forgotten, there are no boys at Windsor Prep. None. Zero. Zilch. Feed my hormones, Liv. A girl’s gotta eat.”

  I’m not exactly sure what to say. Yes, I’ve spent hours with boys. One of whom happens to be Jake. He’s been fine since apologizing to me in the parking lot. I’m neither a stalker nor the girl who has somehow won back his heart. I’m just there. Even though I really do wish he weren’t so stinking pretty. As for Grey—oh, God, he’s pretty, too. And kind. And smart. And so damn good at what he does.

  Addie chucks a burnt hunk of crust down on her plate and picks up another slice, her eyes never leaving my face. “You seriously have to think about this? What is there to think about?” She sighs. “If you don’t start talking in about two seconds, I’m going to get up from this table and go assault that boy over there in front of his family, just to hear about his day. Information: I needs it, preciousssss.”