I had an off night.
Right. Cleo Nelson, who is the dictionary definition of consistency, had an off night. Going into last night’s game, you had a twenty-game points streak. She huffs as we climb a small incline. Even your pregame pep talk sucked.
I’m not used to having problems weigh on me. My usual solution is to get everything off my chest, then feel better. That’s what makes me a good player—the fact that I can forget about yesterday’s shitty game and focus on the next one. But there’s something bothering me right now, and I really need to talk about it.
Can I trust you with a secret? I ask.
She snorts. Please. Did I tell anyone when you got that super-embarrassing My Little Pony tattoo?
I laugh. Well, I can laugh now that I’ve had it painfully removed. Not only was it stupid and placed just above my ass, but the tattoo artist did a terrible drawing.
Why did I even get that? Was I celebrating a win over some horse-named team? If I can’t remember why I do stupid things, how can I stop myself from doing them again?
And did I tell anyone that you hooked up with that player from St. Clare? she demands.
Jesus, keep your voice down. Definitely in my hall of shame. He was such an asshole. And a lousy fuck. Sleeping with a player from a rival college was just dumb. The only reason it hasn’t come back to bite me on my non-tattooed ass is that I gave him a fake name and college.
And I never told Gilly who put the rubber rat in her hockey bag, Becks continues.
She knew it was me, she just couldn’t prove it. I giggle because Candace Gillespie’s scream when she opened her bag was epic.
Well, we could spend our whole run proving what a vault I am, or you could just tell me what’s eating you, she concludes.
Okay, but this one is triple-secret confidential.
Becks is ahead of me as we round the curve of the trail, but I know she’s rolling her eyes.
You know how I went to that donor dinner on Tuesday?
She snorts. With Mats? Yeah, complaining all the way about something anyone else would pay to do.
Whatever. Anyway, it went okay. Maybe I acted a little immature, but obviously Marjorie didn’t notice anything. Besides, he deserves it. Now they want us to go there for dinner every Tuesday.
Who’s they?
Well, the Alumni Office fundraising woman, and Marjorie Schultz invited us. She thinks we’re a cute couple.
Becks hoots with laughter. Is she blind? Why would she think you’re a couple? Wait, nothing happened, did it?
I scrunch up my nose. No, we both managed not to lunge over the dinner table and start making out. It’s tough to contain a sexual attraction that big, but we did it.
She giggles at that notion.
I don’t like spending time with him, I continue. And I really don’t want to go and pretend that we’re a couple. But Barb Peachy thinks I should overcome my scruples for the good of the college. My only hope was that Mats was going to pull out, but then he told Barb he was ready to keep going. When he asked for twenty-four hours, I had my fingers crossed for a reprieve.
We’re at the halfway point of the trail, so we take a quick break.
Becks puts her hands on her knees and looks up at me. Yeah, but you keep glossing over the real question. What have you got against Mats?
I inhale deeply and feel the chill in my lungs. Uh, do you remember when my brother got kicked out of school last year?
Something tightens in Becks’s expression. He didn’t get kicked out of school; he got kicked off the hockey team. He’s the one who dropped out, she says in a careful tone.
Same diff. Jordan loves hockey. He couldn’t stick around once he was off the team. It was too painful.
She snorts. Sensitivity isn’t something I associate with your brother.
That’s Jordan’s problem. He doesn’t make a good first impression, and he can seem like kind of a jerk. But I know what he’s really like and how hard he tries. I explain to Becks that Mats invented issues to get my brother off the team.
