Still in her uniform, she’s wet from the storm, sitting on the ground, knees up, legs on display, phone in hand. And are those tears on her cheeks?
Is she crying?
For a second, I consider that they could be rain droplets. But then she sniffs and wipes away a newly fallen tear with the back of her hand.
Not rain droplets, then.
“Oh,” I say, stopping in my tracks.
The one word lifts Maggie’s eyes up to mine. Her brows furrow as she takes me in, then she swipes away the rest of the moisture on her face.
“Sad episode?” I ask, referring to whatever she’s listening to.
“What?” She blinks from me to her phone and back. “No.” She clears her throat and pauses the melodic voice talking about “feline friends.” “What are you doing in here?”
“I came to check on you.”
Her chest deflates with an exhale.
“You’re alone.”
“I’m the only woman on the field. I’m usually alone in here.” She sets her phone in her lap. “You haven’t changed.”
“Neither have you.” I motion to her wet uniform.
She sighs. “Yeah. I was trying to distract myself from a text.” Her cheeks puff with air. “It wasn’t working.”
“Was that a podcast?” I ask—it feels safe enough.
“Yeah.” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug, her face sheepish, as if she’s sharing her deep, dark secrets with me. “I like cats. But my dad is allergic.”
Cats? Huh.
Slowly, as if I’m approaching a wild animal, I walk over to where she sits. “Do you mind?” I ask, motioning to the ground next to her.
“You really shouldn’t be in here,” she says, but there’s no conviction in her tone.
“I’ll take that as an invitation to sit.” I plop down next to her, my arm brushing hers. Her skin erupts in goosebumps. Either she’s chilled, or she isn’t as unaffected by me as she likes to claim. She is wet, though. We both are. “Are there any blankets in here?”
“There’s towels,” she says, motioning to a closet.
I lift from my seat and bring back an armful. Shaking open the white folded linen, I lay it sideways across her lap, then another and another, until she’s covered from foot to waist.
She clears her throat, glancing back at her phone. “Thanks.”
Sitting once more, I don’t bother to put an inch of space between us. “So, why has a text message made you emotional?”
“That’s really none of your?—”
“Asking as a friend.”
She peers down at her makeshift blanket. “I’m not sure we can be friends, Lucca. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. Remember?”
“Actually,” I say, bobbing my head once in her direction. “Idolike you. And I’m confident that, given a little time, I’ll be fighting you off with a stick.”
She rolls her eyes and grunts out a curt laugh, but I think my humor translates as intended.
I lean back and cross one ankle over the other. I don’t know this woman well, but I’d place bets on what would get her upset like this. “Is Wyatt okay?”
