I keep picking at the stupid tape. The end doesn’t lift. Colt, for his part, holds out an open palm, expectant gaze meeting mine from beneath long lashes. He brushes a wave of hair back, and the muscles in his forearm do that flex thing that I hate to admit is unfairly attractive. ‘May I?’
His dumb forearm muscles have all my attention. I surrender the pink tape to him, and he unrolls it easily. Nice one, May. I stick my hand out. ‘It’s the wrist.’
Colt makes an affirmative humming sound, and his head dips in concentration, that same piece of hair falling over his forehead as he carefully wraps my joint, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, the pad of his index finger smoothing the end that he tears off, tucking it in neatly. ‘That good?’
Is that good?Isthat good?
‘Sure,’ I say.
May. You diabolical liar.
‘Get out there.’ He pats my hand; a tame little gesture, but I accept it.
Maybe it’s the closeness of the moment we just shared, or maybe it’s the entire front row of bleachers craning their necks to watch us. Or maybe it’s both. Either way, Colt catches on quickly. He leans down and brushes a gentle kiss across my cheek. The tiny wink that follows sends my pulse thudding away so hard I hope he can’t feel it in my fingers. ‘Grab a red card or two, while you’re at it.’
‘Why in the hell do you want my red cards?’ I resist the urge to cross my eyes at him like a little kid.
‘You look awfully pretty when you get pissed. Even prettier when you start to blow your top when the ref goes for the card.’
‘Stop playing.’ I snort, but that word fills a small part of the gap he left in my heart.Pretty. As if on instinct, I give his hand a squeeze. This little ritual – beginning of a ritual? Fake ritual? Whatever it is, it feels so simple. The warmth that spreads across my chest when I think of having someone sitting at the bleachers, a kiss before games, a celebration together after, someone to do your medical tape for you, is unexpected. It creeps up to my face when I realize that the only someone I can picture, at least at the moment, is Colt.
Miss May. The only reason you’re only picturing him is because no one else has ever done that for you.
But doesn’t that mean something? Even if we’re lying to the rest of the world? Does it mean something to us?
I watch Colt’s retreating back, and Jordan seizes the moment to scooch right on up next to me, batting her eyes dramatically. ‘Colt and May, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—’
‘Are you five, Jordan?’ I prod her in the side, rolling my eyes, but she just giggles in response.
‘Fuckin’ rain,’ we hear Lexi grumble a couple benches down as she starts heading onto the field. Great. We can’t have a proper game if Lexi’s upset.
‘See? Bigger fish to fry. Someone needs to turn that girl’s frown upside down so we win this,’ I point out smugly.
‘I mean, she’s justified.’ Jordan tips her head upward, the space between her eyebrows wrinkling with worry. ‘Looks like it’ll come down any moment.’
For a Meteorology major, I tend to lean optimistic with my weather predictions. I’m not exactly looking to go into forecasting;my intended area of specialty is a bit narrower. Unfortunately, the current cloud patterns fall under that umbrella.
‘Great.’ I head for the field, anyway. ‘Twenty bucks says we don’t finish this game out, Jor.’
‘You’re probably gettin’ your money.’
‘I’m almost positive.’
The ref waves a warning hand, insisting we get into our spots despite the clouds overhead, ones I recognize a little too well. It’s not just education that gets you to that point, it’s experience: seeing it all overhead as a child, knowing when it’s time to bring the horses in and start moving down to the cellar. I take classes with students from the city, and they have to start at square one to pick up that kind of intuition. My dad always insists that even if the university tries, they can’t teach it the same way farm kids in the South pick it up. Right now, despite the fact that a ton of them are probably wasted, said farm kids in the crowd are starting to look up, grabbing their stuff, their friends, and their bottles of beer.
I set up for the draw opposite the midfielder from Austin, and she gives the rumbling sky the same uneasy glance that I do as the ref blows her whistle. We get right into it. I win the draw, flinging the ball straight to Maddie.
‘HUSTLE!’ Coach Dillon calls from the sideline. ‘YOU GUYS GOT IT!’
We’re about to have it, with a play from the attack taking us through Austin’s layer of defence, Jordan right at the net with what’s going to be a sure goal …
The sirens start with a slow, eerie wail that increases in pitch as I count one, two, three Mississippi. Jordan drops the ball, and takes one peek at the clouds before she yells, ‘GO!’
No one needs to be told twice. In a town like Prosperity, we know the drill all too well. The stands file out immediately. The warning flashes across the digital scoreboard screens, and the announcer repeats the spiel. ‘Folks, that’s a tornado warning. A tornado’s been spotted a city over, and we advise you all to seek shelter now. Let’s clear the stadium.’
‘MAY!’ Colt’s voice cuts through the chaos. I’m in a sea of players and audience members. I look this way and that, my two braids slapping my cheek, but I can’t find him. My pulse picks up, sweat from my palms slickening my crosse. Shit, shit. People are starting to head through the tunnel on ground level to funnel out and into the stadium basement. Has he already been swept up in there?
‘Colt!’ I shout back. There’s a panic to my voice that I don’t recognize. I’ve experienced so many of these things, but the last one …
