"You're new, and you still swing with your arm—” Hollis attempts to explain.
"How the hell else am I supposed to swing?" I cut him off and give him an incredulous look before he can finish.
"Polo players who have been doing this for longer than a few weeks"—he flaps his hands toward his torso, reminding me he's the expert in this conversation—"pull the strength from our bodies. Our swing isn't just in our arm?—"
A finger tapping on my shoulder from behind steals his words.
"Is this your car?" a female voice questions, and from the way Hollis is pressing his tongue into his cheek, she must be hot.
"Yes, it is," I say as I turn around, expecting to find one of his admirers. Today was literally my first day in the building, and the only female I spoke to was the lunch lady, but that's not who I find.
Dark-brown eyes stare back at me. Eyes I've memorized during countless summer afternoons. They were kind to me when the world around me sucked. My heart instantly starts hammering against my ribs as recognition sinks in, and I search her expression for any sign she remembers me. She's older now. Her baby cheeks are gone, and she's got this whole sophisticated thing going on. Her hair used to be short, but now it flows down her back. But those eyes... Damn, those eyes are exactly the same.
A slight gap forms between my lips, ready to say her name, because I can't be sure she's real until I do. It's possible I'm just imagining this, like all the other times where I pretend to thank the girl who actually gave a shit about me when I was a mess. The girl who saved my ass when everything was falling apart. My tongue darts out because my mouth is suddenly dry as hell, and she raises a brow, her gaze drifting over the stubble on my jaw that wasn't there all those years ago. Her lips press together before her eyes drop lower, roaming over the exposed skin on my arms, no doubt searching for the bruises that once marred my pale flesh.
The second her eyes find that familiar spot, her lips part, and I stop breathing. I'm terrified I'll somehow screw this up. The air between us feels electric, loaded with all the stuff I never got to say. God, I've thought about this moment so many times, but what about her? Has she thought about me at all?
Her proximity is intoxicating. She smells like warm vanilla, and I can see her pulse beating fast at her throat. For a second, it's like we're the only two people here, and the polo team might as well not exist. I want to touch her face so bad, just to make sure she's real. But before my heart can resume beating at its normal pace enough for me to plot my next move, something shifts in her expression. She recognizes me, alright, but not in a good way. Her jaw clenches, and I can literally see the moment she puts her walls back up.
"Good," she says, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I hope you hate strawberries."
Before I can even process what she said, I'm getting hit with what feels like a frozen bomb. The milkshake slams into my chest, strawberry and vanilla exploding everywhere. The shit is so cold it actually burns, seeping through my polo and hitting my skin like ice water.
"What the actual fuck just happened?" I rasp out, my voice strangled with shock and something dangerously close to betrayal.
The polo team is losing their minds, laughing and cheering like my spectacular downfall is the best thing they've ever seen. But I can't focus on them because I'm watching her walk away, and it's like getting punched in the gut.
She doesn't run. Instead, she simply walks away, but there's something about each step that has me thinking she planned it. The girl who once stuck up for me just became the girl who humiliated me in front of everyone. As I stand here, watching her put space between us, I memorize the absolute dismissal in the sway of her hips. She doesn't look back, not even once, and somehow that hurts worse than the ice cream still sliding down my torso in cold, sticky streams. She's walking away from me again, but this time I don't know why.
"Which one of you pretty boys smells like strawberries?" Coach grumbles as we all huddle around him after practice.
A few of the guys snicker, and I roll my eyes. "That would be me, Coach." I raise my hand.
"He got iced by the ice queen," someone teases in a hushed tone to my right.
"That's enough," Coach says firmly. "I'm not asking to poke fun at your choices, but don't come smelling like a strawberry to practice tomorrow, son." He waves his clipboard in my direction to fan my stench away. "You're making me hungry."
"Won't happen again, Coach." I cross my arms, and Hollis elbows me with a shit-eating smirk. He knows damn well I can't control whether Asha Fairfield chooses to dump another milkshake down my shirt.
"Now, some of you may have already heard the rumors going around school that athletes are being forced to run for student council this year…" Groans amongst the team drown him out before he can continue. He raises a single hand in the air, motioning for us to quiet down. "From the sound of it, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say all that moaning and groaning means we have no volunteers." He takes a second to look around the circle, and when no one speaks up, he says, "I thought so." Then, reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a handful of popsicle sticks. "We do have to nominate someone to run for the seat. Grade level is insignificant. You will be required to run against the incumbent in your year. To make this fair, everyone will draw a stick. Whoever ends up with the short one is our nominee."
There are a few more groans before he starts making his way around the circle, letting everyone draw. I'm not the last to get a stick, Hollis is, but looking at his stick, I already know I'm the unlucky son-of-a-bitch who got the short one.
"Everyone, hold up your stick," Coach says, his eyes quickly falling upon my stick and then announcing, "Hale, you’re the polo team's nomination for student council."
"Coach, I'm new here. Literally no one knows me," I try to argue.
"Everyone's about to know exactly who you are," Brenner, who's one of the seniors on the team, tosses out, though I can't tell if his tone is mocking or friendly banter.
We have our first game this weekend, and I'm starting, and while polo is the equivalent of Friday night football at these hoity-toity prep schools, I can't help but think his offhanded comment has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the stick I'm holding in my hand.
"Look, son." Coach Sullivan shifts to face me, running a callused hand through his gray beard as he squints against the setting sun. "I never said you had to win." His voice carries an authority that can only be earned through decades of coaching blue-blood kids whose trust funds could buy small countries. "But you don't strike me as someone who's comfortable with losing."
His pale-blue eyes lock onto mine, and I see something there—not pity, but recognition. The crow's feet etched deep around his eyes speak to years of reading players, of knowing who has the fire in their belly and who's just playing because it looks good on their boarding school transcript. He's right. Whatever I do, I do it all the way. Half-ass isn't my style. "Alright, that's enough for today." He checks his watch before his eyes sweep over every player. "Same time tomorrow," he says, dismissing the team.
The guys start to walk away, and I bump Hollis. "I thought Brenner liked me."
In all honesty, I don't give a shit who does and doesn't like me. I'm not here to win popularity contests, but it's smart to know your enemies. The team has felt like a brotherhood in many ways, everyone dishing out as much trash talk as they take, and while tonight will be my first night staying on campus in one of the dorms, from what I gather, all the guys hang out off the field too, but I’m not naïve enough to think I don't have to earn my stripes.
