Hart nodded and winked at us both before calling over the softball player from before. Her tight, coily brown hair was tousled from the wind or wrestling. Maybe both. Her dark brown skin was dotted with acne scarring, and her sharp jaw was the envy of movie stars of all ages, I’m sure.
“Rissa, this is Yara.” Hart gestured to me. “Yara, Rissa. She’s the captain of the softball team and the captain of our flag football team.”
Rissa smiled and offered an elbow to bump. “Yara… have I seen you at the Rivere?”
“Maybe.” I nodded. “It’s my favorite place to sulk between classes.”
She laughed, flashing a gorgeous smile that rendered Hart, Nat, and me temporarily speechless.
“David’s Yara,” Hart said in a, ‘you get what I’m talking about’ tone.
Rissa’s brows lifted with recognition. “No shit?”
The title, “David’s Yara,” wrapped around my shoulders. I shouldn’t like how it felt like a perfect fit. I didn’t jump to correct them. I rationalized the need to practice getting used to it for at least the next couple of months. To my family, Iwouldbe David’s Yara… or he’d be Yara’s David —a title which felt even nicer. I was going to be sick.
“And she’s a track star,” he said.
“Former,” I amended, still reeling from being seen as anyone’s anything. Hart had gone from telling me David didn’t bring me up to calling me his on a date. This was a date… wasn’t it? Or the preface to one? I studied Hart as if I could read his mind and confirm we’re romantically linked, even by the smallest thread. But from the moment he scaled the gate at the football field, I had felt little of anything except the budding friendship we’d cultivated last semester.
“Any experience is more than enough,” Rissa said. “You’re a receiver, kid. If you want the position, of course.”
The three of them looked at me, expectant. If they thought, even for a second, I could help them win against David’s team, I was game.
“Position filled,” I decided. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”
17
Rissa,Hart, and Nat made everything very clear. But my brain translated their detailed explanations to something far simpler: get the ball across that white line. A white line that was at least fifty yards away. A white line guarded by seven soon-to-be pro football and softball players.
I glanced over at Haven on the sidelines just in time to see her hold up a pink, glittery sign that read,Go Yara!I laughed as she waved it back and forth with a grin on her face. When she had time to make it and sneak it into the van, I had no idea.
“Got your own fan club already.” David was on my side of the field.
After our team’s strategy meeting and break, we’d split up to our designated places. The yellow team took longer to discuss. Their captain, Weston, kept his team in a tight circle, and his gaze continued to flicker to his friends and me as he spoke.
“He knows our plan,” Hart had murmured in disappointment.
“Doesn’t mean it won’t work.” Rissa had nudged him inthe side. “Don’t pout; it’ll make them think they already won. We’re going to make them work hard for this.”
We’d waited fifteen minutes before Rissa got impatient enough to start shouting teasing taunts about them being afraid of our team. That seemed to nudge them right along with hopes she'd eat her words.
“So do you,” I said, and glanced over at the group of students on the sidelines who seemed like Haven, friends of friends of athletes. They couldn’t keep their eyes off him.
“I can’t believe he convinced you to run.” David moved closer, a couple of feet between us. He’d found a headband. It was yellow with an embroidered flower. Its whimsy suggested it wasn’t his. This hinted that someone, once more, liked him enough to lend him favors, and he was comfortable enough to ask.
I could have gotten him a headband.
The silly desire made me want to crawl under a rock. What was different after that night in his apartment? Nothing, really. No amount of interpersonal knowledge should change the fact that David and I were oil and water. And yet, when we found ourselves close enough to feel each other’s warmth, I finally felt that spark, a buzzing on my fingertips that carried the type of voltage that could wipe out a city grid. I wanted to touch him: needed to wipe the blade of grass off his shoulder, readjust the headband so it pushed all his hair back, or trace my thumb across his bottom lip. The feel of him faded a little more from my memory every day, and I was holding on to the replay of our kiss for dear life.
“I wanted to run,” I said, instead of hooking my fingers around his.
“You haven’t run since senior year,” David said.
“I run all the time.”
“Really?”
“Do you have access to an all-seeing eye?” I asked. “Some CCTV cams you log into outside of my apartment building?”
