“I don’t mind.”
I studied Chip.
He wasn’t grinning at me—not really—but there was something going on in his brown eyes. The ghost of a grin, maybe. Or a temporal echo of a grin he hadn’t actually grinned yet.
“Okay,” I said. “Sure. Thanks.”
I adjusted my shin guards and followed Chip out to the field.
“Coach Winfield had us doing wind sprints today,” I said. “If I die during practice, tell my tea I love it.”
“If you die during practice, can I have your locker?”
Chip’s was at the other end of the locker room, with all the football players—one last legacy of his time on the Chapel Hill High School junior varsity football team. At least once a week he complained the smell was getting to him.
“All right, Chargers!” Coach Bentley called as we hit the field. “Give me a couple laps and then circle up at the whistle!”
Chip patted my back and then broke into a jog. I kept pace with him despite the burning in my legs. We passed Jaden, who looked like he was hurting as bad as me. Gabe ran like he always did, sure-footed and swift and tireless, like he hadn’t done an hour of wind sprints after lunch.
Halfway through our fifth lap, Coach blew her whistle twice, and we circled up by one of the goalposts.
The rainy morning had given way to an overcast afternoon, and the cool breeze cut right through my jersey and had me shivering where I stood. We linked hands, and I was grateful to be squeezed between Chip’s and James’s warm bodies.
Coach started us off. “You all won our first game, and I’m proud of you for that. But I’m more proud of all the hard work you’ve put in. Let’s keep it going.”
Jonny Without an H told us all how Jaden had spotted him lunch money; and Gabe told us how Ricky had proofread his assignment in their Creative Writing class.
Next to me, Chip said, “I was in a really bad mood this morning, but I ran into Darius and we biked to school together. It made me feel a lot better. Thanks, Darius.”
He gave my hand a little squeeze.
My ears burned.
I hadn’t done it on purpose.
I didn’t deserve Chip’s praise.
Then it was my turn, so I said, “Chip said he’d help me with Algebra II. I could really use the help. So, thanks, Chip.”
I tried to squeeze his hand back, but since our arms were crossed, I did the wrong one and accidentally squeezed James’s hand instead.
I don’t think he noticed, though, or he just thought I was telling him it was his turn, because he told us how Coach Bentley had taken time to work on his back heel kick with him.
By the time we made it all the way around the circle, my jaw was clenching up from the chill. Thankfully Coach Bentley said, “Count off and let’s go.”
We divided up into Ones and Twos—me and the other Twos wearing bright blue vests to help tell us all apart—and took the field. Christian, our captain and goalie, led us through some warm-up drills until Coach blew her whistle again.
“Okay,” Christian said. “Bring it in.” He was a Black guy, a senior, with light brown skin and the most amazing cheekbones I had ever encountered. He always had a friendly smile, but it was the kind of smile that was more a shield than an invitation.
Not that I blamed him: People always think of Portland as this super liberal place, and it is, but it’s also super white.
As bad as it was being The Once and Future Target, I knew—I knew—that Christian had experienced worse.
Sometimes I wanted to talk to him about it. To let him know I had his back, the way Gabe and Jaden had mine.
But I didn’t know how to say that out loud.
“Gabe likes to play it aggressive,” Christian said, glancing across the field at the Ones. “Let’s be smart. We’ve got the better defenders. Keep it cool and look for your opening.”
