“Uh, yeah, I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t wanna disappoint anyone,” he says.
“Well, you’re here now.” I clap my hand to his shoulder and start to walk back, thinking he’s following, but I don’t hear his footsteps, and he’s exactly where I left him. “You coming?” I ask.
“Actually, I only came to drop this off,” Landon says, holding out the bag. “Will you bring this over?” he asks.
“Yeah…” I step back and take the bag from him. “You sure you don't want to stay, just for a minute… I— I brought a date,” I lie. It’s not a date. Not really. But the way I want it to be is dangerous.
“The mystery girl, that makes the man of stone smile?” Landon inhales, and the lazy smile returns.
“You should come meet her,” I say.
“Next time,” he says quickly. “Say hello to the boys for me.” Before I can convince him to stay, the front door is swinging open, and he’s nothing but a shadow on the pavement.Alright then.
I palm the present and start back to the table, worried that Rhea might be overwhelmed, but by the time I’ve returned, she’s completely taken over my friend group with her conversation. I set her drink down on the table and watch as she giggles with one of the girlfriends over funny names to pick for the scoreboard.
She fits into your life like she’s always been there. Like she was made to fill the bullet holes in the wall you've been using as target practice your whole life with pure, unfiltered sunlight.
“We gave you Killjoy,” she smiles at me.
“What?” I shake my head slightly.
“Killjoy, like your rugby call, I couldn’t think of anything funny,” she says, grabbing her drink. “I hope you know I’m a bowling assassin. It’s actually a shame I have to kick your ass in front of everyone.”
“Alright, Hellcat, put your money where your mouth is.” I shake my head at her and walk past her to the lane.
The ball feels weightless as I send it down the lane and watch it crash into the pins, sending them all flying in a different direction. Rhea’s bottom lip juts out in instant worry, her eyes trained on the back of the lane as her name flashes across the screen. After three turns, it’s pretty clear that she was just talking shit, every ball she throws dies in the gutter, and she’s joking around, asking for assisted lanes.
“Assassin, hey?” I laugh at her as she hugs a large ball in her tattooed arms.
“I’m rusty?” She shrugs, clearly tipsy from the drinks, but her eyes are glassy with enjoyment. “And hungry.” She whines.
I point to the table behind her where two burgers sit, wandering around her as her eyes fall to the bright ring of red inside. Before she starts to eat it without complaint, I lift the lid, slide the tomatoes onto my plate, and swap in my pickles. Just like the girls always do for her.
She watches me carefully, doesn’t say a word, and picks up the burger. Her face contorts, and for a second I think that maybe there’s something wrong, but she finishes chewing and says. “Boone’s are so much better,” she sighs. I nod, and as she sets down the burger with a sad pout, I fill her plate with my French fries and take the burger from hers. “You don’t—”
“After you’ve eaten pasta out of a bag, you’ll eat anything,” Josè says from our left.
“You’ve eaten pasta out of a bag?” Rhea looks like she’s going to be sick as Josè starts to tell her the horror stories of field rations.
The whistle blows, and I lean over on my thighs to catch my breath as halftime starts. “Why the hell are they running so hard?” I huff, taking a water bottle from Margie.
“Whatever they’re doing, it’s working,” Kaia looks up at the scoreboard with a scowl. Her dark braids are fuzzy, and she pops her mouth guard in and out of her mouth as she stares around the field, trying to figure out where we went wrong in the game. Down three tries, it was going to be brutal to claw back in seven minutes.
“Emma’s taking that pocket between you and Margie—you’re handing it to her, and she’s faster than any of us. We have to shut her down,” Cosy says, looking over her shoulder at their star winger. “I’ll handle Ava if she crosses, but Rhea, you need to get your arms around Emma before she hits that stride.”
“Force the breakdown. Sunday and Kaia can do the rest,” I say, our thoughts in unison.
“Good girl.” Cosy slaps my side with her open palm in the huddle as the whistle fires off to start the second half. With a plan in our hands and the silent encouragement from each other, we line up and dig our heels into the turf. I close my eyes and listen to the buzz of the floodlights, and I inhale the sound of the crowd and the smell of the grass.I can do this.
My eyes are still closed when the kick goes up, and they fly open as my feet start to shuffle down the field. Margie is tight to my side, and just like predicted, Emma pockets the ball from her teammate on the right and tries to slip through the pocket. I step into Margie, close the gap, anddrop my shoulder into her. Emma hits the ground hard, the ball popping from her grip and rolling across the ground toward her team, but Sunday is faster.
We stay tangled for a second, but Emma kicks her foot out as she goes to propel forward back into the action, and it grinds across the top of my hand hard enough that I cry out as something cracks.
I ignore the pain lancing up my arm, the skin across my left hand is tattered, and only my thumb curls in when I try to flex, but there’s no time to worry about it. Sunday crosses the line with the ball, and we’re thrown into another play immediately after the kick.
“Reaper,” Cosy’s eyes are on my hand as we file in and get ready, conversations flickering across both teams.
“It’s chill, Bones. Just a scratch,” I snap, still trying to uncurl my fingers to their full extent. A few tears spill from the corners of my eyes as I catch a girl by the waist and walk her back until she crumbles, and the breakdown forces a turnover of the ball. Kaia snags it, shuffling around a few defenders before she’s forced out on the right side, and we have to start all over again. I can feel Cosy watching me like a hawk, but I continue to play, hiding the pain that thrums up through my muscles into the base of my shoulder and neck.Something’s dislocated—grinding on a nerve. Holy shit, it hurts.
