Chapter One
Hazel
Nothing saysspring is heremore than dodging stressed-out parents while wild kids run around looking like lost puppies trying to find a soccer field. The early morning sun is warm enough to wear shorts and a tank top, but the chill in the air had me reaching for a jacket before making the trek from the car.
“The one by where the giant beehive was in that tree that one time,” my sister laughs obnoxiously into the phone. “Remember? A bee started chasing you and when you ran, you tripped on a branch?”
The image of that tree and a flashback to that day pop right into my mind. “I still have a scar on my foot from where that branch cut me, you know. And that beedidsting me.” I can’t keep the amusement from my voice. Although it wasn’t necessarily what I meant by “which soccer field?” it does the trick.
Wind rustles through the speaker. “Whatever you say,” her voice is thick with sarcasm. “The tree isn’t there anymore, but the stump’s still there. Right behind the goal.” I canhear Mason’s breathless voice ask her a question, drawing her attention.
“Got it. Be there in a sec.”
A great sense of nostalgia settles through me. Growing up, soccer was my family’s lifeblood. It didn't matter that I wasn't the most athletic of my parent’s three children—I still can't run to save my life—but every waking moment of Saturdays growing up was spent at the soccer complex.
I wonder if players still get free popcorn and soda after a game.
Families walk side-by-side, grandparents carry mugs of coffee and maps of the complex, while over-prepared soccer moms drag wagons of stuff behind them with their husbands trailing after them with their noses in their phones. None of them bother paying attention to me as I weave in and out of the unnecessary traffic.
It’s never fun walking into the complex alone, but I’m used to it by now. My brother’s daughter Betty has played for several seasons, but today is Mason’s big debut and I’m all for showing my support.
The crowds get thinner the farther into the complex I walk. Fresh footprints leave marks in the dew-speckled grass, the scent of spring filling my nostrils. There’s something about the soft scent of wet grass and fresh, cool air that’s comforting.
I take a moment in all the chaos around me to enjoy it. The spring sun warms my skin and I angle my face up to soak up the rays letting my eyes slip closed as I walk. Red paints my eyelids making me think of long road trips. I suck in a relaxing breath just as the world shifts. Like a slow-motion shootout scene from a movie, the bright sky streaks by in a blur as I brace myself for impact.
"Shit!" I hiss as quietly as possible because I know I'll get hateful looks from uptight parents if they hear the words spillfrom my mouth. The muscles and tendons of my ankle give way, buckling and rolling underneath me. My hot pink lawn chair slides off my shoulder as I lose my balance, smacking me on the shin as I throw my arms out to brace my fall. I bite my lip, my eyes squeezing closed against the onslaught of pain.
By some form of torture, I’m the klutziest person I know. If there's a single hole in an otherwise hole-less field, my foot will find it. Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve found myself in this exact predicament, calf deep in a hole.
Heat flames my freckled skin in pain and embarrassment. I'm just happy I didn't fall to the ground and that my ankle is one piece.
There's a distinct and all too familiar throbbing sensation centered around my twisted ankle, and I know there's no way I'm making it out of this hole unscathed.
No big deal. This sort of thing happens all the time. Surely, I'm not the only person to have ever twisted their ankle in this same exact hole, right?
Trying to look as unfazed as possible with a bruising shin and throbbing ankle, I readjust my chair strap over my shoulder and hobble—hopefully in the right direction— to my nephew's game.
The longer I walk the more pronounced my limp becomes. By the time I see my sister my ankle is swollen, my shin is pink and bruised and I look like I need a pair of crutches.
Rounding the corner of the field, Candice sees me limping toward her. "Hazel?" Her eyes go wide with concern. "What happened?"
"Oh, just another hole. I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle." I brush her concern aside, removing my chair from its sling and setting it next to hers. The ground is soft from recent rains, and I can feel the chair sink as I settle into it.
"At least let me look at it." Candice is way more maternal than me. She's the kind of mom full of hugs, kisses, and motherly affection.
Even though I don't have kids, I’m not sure I'm cut out for it. All the mothering genes went straight to my sister. My style would be more hands-off. Bleeding? Go play. Get up, brush it off—you’ll be fine.
She stands before crouching down in front of me. "Which ankle is it this time?"
I bend down and point to my swollen left ankle. "Really? It's the size of a watermelon and you ask which one it is?" I laugh.
"I didn't want to assume. For all I know, your ankle is always this big." She smiles up at me, her eyes crinkling as she does. Her hands are cold as she gently examines my injury. "I think it's just twisted."
"I could've told you that," I reply, my voice thick with sarcasm.
She ignores me and pushes herself up. "We should probably put some ice on it. Where's Tony?" She scans the field for her husband, but he's nowhere to be seen. "Wait here."
"Like I have anywhere to go," I mumble as she walks away.
