“Old enough,” I cut him off, “to start evaluating my life and figure out what I want. I have the best job, the best friends. Really, everything in my life is perfect. But I still feel myself searching for something. Searching for a missing piece. A piece that Ithinkwas missing well before you even left. I figured why not start by putting myself out there again and seeing if the missing piece was just finding my person. Instead, I’ve gone on about eight horrendous dates. Like, so bad I need Dr. Phil to psychoanalyze some of these dudes. And all I’m left with is this feeling that I might never find what I’m missing.” Eric gapes at me as I suck in a breath, and embarrassment stings my cheeks at the word-vomit I just unleashed. “I don’t know why I told you all of that.”
“That was a lot of info.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable and at a loss for words, which is rare for the chatterbox.
We stand there in silence for a beat as his team runs through their warm-up when the Blue Team starts to file out of the locker room. Daniels and Malcolm walk out together, hunched over a clipboard. Malcolm nods enthusiastically, patting Daniels on the back before jogging after the other players. His pace falters a few steps when he sees me and Eric standing side by side, but he quickly corrects himself and sends a timid wave in our direction.
“I will say this…” Eric puts his helmet on, gripping the mouthguard attached to the face mask. “Malcolm is a good guy who clearly cares about you. And aside from your occasional bouts of verbal diarrhea”—he chuckles at his own joke—“you, Kate Stanley, deserve a good guy.” He gives me a soft and accepting smile before he walks over to his side of the field.
Malcolm makes himself busy with pretend stretches, circling his arms around like Lola does in Jazzercise, waiting until Eric is a good distance away before he trots over to me, a mix of emotions marking his face. He moves his helmet to the top ofhis head, revealing his golden locks plastered to his forehead and red marks on his temples from the pressure of his helmet. He uses his tongue to push his blue mouthguard out of his mouth. Teeth, tongue, lips. He makes a slight smacking noise as he pulls the rest of the piece from his lips, licking the extra moisture away with a slow swipe.
It’s a dangerous sight.
“Are you just stringing ole Sanders along, Stanley?” He gives another wink, and I feel it in my bones.
“Uh, no,” I defend. “He keeps coming up to me!” I press my hand against my chest dramatically.
“Oh yeah?” He reaches back to grab his ankle and stretches his quad. The line of his leg muscle presses against the tight sheen fabric of his pants, threatening to burst free. “Want me to beat him up?” he jokes, stretching the other leg. I gulp audibly at the smoothness of his movements.
“Calm down, Rocky.”
“Kidnapping?”
“Stop it.” I laugh and try to give him a playful shove in the arm, but he catches my wrist and rubs the inside with his thumb.
He lets out a slow breath, staring at my arm and the movement of his thumb. “Look, I want to—”
“Geer, huddle up!” Devon calls out from center field.
“Dang it,” he mutters to himself then asks, “can we talk later?” He slides his mouthguard back into place and walks backward onto the field.
I nod. “After?”
“Yeah, after the next game!” His words and smile are so distorted from his mouthguard that I almost miss the information that was tossed at me.
“Alright—wait, what?” I'm confused. “Nextgame?”
Chapter twenty-five
Malcolm
“First game was cake,dude.”
“Fo sho, the next one will be easy!”
“You never know. They could have a secret weapon. Don't sell them short just yet!”
Charlie, Travis, and Garrett are huddled up, discussing game play and the odds of a double win. I try to focus on them and not the rank, acid locker room smell singeing my nose hairs. It’s almost worse than Bill’s leftovers.
I retape my wrists, ankles, and left knee, stretching and flexing each appendage to test the stability. I can't believe I agreed to do this. These kids are on a different planet than me with their energy, acting like this is their Super Bowl. But I could honestly not care less about the outcome. I rarely ever do. If my team can just not make a fool of themselves or waste my time out there, I’m content. But when Sarah told me Kate brags about my skill on the field, it flipped something inside of me. All of a sudden, I needed to care, and I needed to play.
Field advantage, as Garrett would say.
I'm feeling out of sorts with everything lately, but I need any advantage I can get.
I roll my neck and shoulders, deep aches spreading faster than my sunburn. I stand up and feel the chronic twinge in my back fire, jolting a spark of pain up my spine. I curse under my breath and sit back down.
“You good, Coach?” Garrett asks me from over by the lockers.
“Just old,” I grumble back, rubbing my neck and jaw. Might as well check their stability too.
