I do him the kindness of not looking at him after I say this, before adding, “But thank you for the compliment.”
I hear him swallow. He clears his throat. When I dare a glance in his direction his hands have tightened on the steering wheel. I get a sudden flash of Mama’s hands on the steering wheel of the old Volkswagen, the vinyl worn from use. Her smiling face in the rear-view mirror. Sandy curls bobbing in the breeze with the window down while she sings along to the radio.
“Everything okay?”
“What?”
“You went somewhere, just then. Are you worried about the match?”
“Oh … I was just thinking … tactics.”
“Well….” Ben offers me a kind smile. “We could talk about them now if you want.”
The restof the team are waiting outside the center when we arrive. Ben finds a parking space and we haul our bags out to meet them.
“You two travelled together?” Nate asks.
He doesn’t look happy about it. Is it wrong that I wish Ben had agreed to fake dating me? I’d like to see the look on Nate’s face.
Before anyone can say more, Coach Sanchez pulls up in a sensible sedan and he and Assistant Coach Rodriguez climb out with their bags.
The bus arrives shortly after. We all climb on, Ben looking uncertain as to who he should sit next to.
“You can sit with Nate if you want,” I say, letting him off the hook.
Nate’s shuffling down the aisle behind him. He pauses and assesses us critically before painting on a fake smile. “No, sit with Elias. You guys can … talk tactics.”
Ben takes the seat next to mine and immediately falls into some sort of weird mannequin state, barely blinking. I’m about to ask if he’s okay when Coach Sanchez starts speaking again. I listen to the inspirational speech and as soon as he’s finished, try to relax.
“If you need more leg room….” Ben gestures to the way my legs are squashed up against the seats in front.
“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Lack of leg room is the price you pay for height advantage on the court.”
Ben clears his throat. “How tall are you, by the way?”
“1.96 meters—six foot five.”
He nods.
“I’ve been almost this height since I was sixteen.”
“That must have made you stand out at school.”
I make a noncommittal noise. “Didn’t help on the football field though.”
“Football? Oh, you mean soccer.”
I groan. “No, it’s calledfootball,not ‘soccer.’”
“No, football is the thing with the weird-shaped ball and all those guys in shoulder pads and helmets.”
“English ‘football’ was invented first. That’s why we just call it football and whatever you’re talking aboutAmericanfootball.”
He squints at me and I grin.
At some point, he falls asleep and starts snoring between mumbling to himself about something. Maybe my English is off, but it sounds like he’s asking where his intestines are. After a while, Archer throws a pair of balled-up socks at him and he wakes up.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes.
