Chapter One
Walking Cyclone
Jordan
The massive blue truck flies past my Civic with a petulant blowing of his horn that fuels my blazing road rage.
‘Oh, don’t you … don’t you dare,’ I shout to no one, except maybe the Bo-Peep-themed frog on my dashboard. Ice cubes clink in my pink and orange polka-dotted Stanley in the cup-holder as I shoot forward in my tiny car, willing little Madonna, as much as she’s already puttering dangerously, to add just a hint more of speed to this chase. This truck has been weaving into my lane for the last half-hour, and now he has the audacity to cut me off? Absolutely not.
‘Hang on,’ I tell the frog, before slamming the gas and popping out into the right lane, rounding the truck. He flashes me a particularly impolite gesture. I glare straight ahead, and beforehe can fight me on it, yank the steering wheel to retake my spot in the left lane.
Something slams around so loudly in the trunk, I think the car’s losing a tyre. It’s most likely my hot-pink luggage bag, and my prized possessions, my lacrosse sticks. A sea of Spanglish curses tumbles on out. My mom would have my mouth washed out with soap.
It only takes one glance back out of nervousness for me to slam my elbow into the top of my Stanley, and out comes another colourful expletive, coupled with a gush of very spicy-smelling, very cold liquid all over my lap and cup-holders, which I soon realize is my mother-loving iced chai. Everywhere. On my jeans, my boots, the driver’s seat.
‘Holy shit!’ I squeak, my arms held gingerly above the hot (technically cold) mess, my throbbing elbow the least of my concerns, because I’m sitting in an island of chai and ice cubes. My sunglasses askew, I adjust them, still cursing, still glaring at the truck in my rear-view as he rolls his eyes and continues to show me the bird. I’ve already been on edge the entire drive here. A livid tailgater was the last thing I needed to send me into hysterics.
‘Exit, c’mon …’ I mutter as I scout out the signs, hoping there’s a decent gas station nearby so I can mop up this explosion. I check the GPS. The next exit takes me out to Whittaker itself: my destination. This really doesn’t need to be much harder than I’m making it. Jordan, you had one job. Just the one. Technically, two. One, get to Whittaker in a single piece, and two, to work my ass off this summer. I picked up the position on recommendation from the team manager of the Rhode Island Reapers – my manager – and I should probably do my best tokeep all my ducks in a row to prove to her that I’m competent, not to mention worthy of captaincy next year. It’s a great big pony show.
As I squint at the green and white sign coming into my view, the dashboard display lights up with an incoming phone call. Oh, God. With an insistent jab of the ‘Accept’, I manage a ‘What’s up?’
‘You sound out of breath,’ May says, stating the obvious, of course. ‘Are you good?’
‘Perfectly fine.’ I pretend my hands aren’t covered in chai as I manoeuvre the steering with one hand and gingerly fish a plastic water bottle from the cup-holders with the other, unscrewing the cap. ‘I’mlate.’
‘When aren’t you?’ my best friend snorts. ‘Showing up to games in street clothes. Old habits die hard, huh?’
Naturally, she’d know. Not only did May Velasco and I play lacrosse together since grade school, parting ways recently after college, but we were also inseparable in all other aspects: school clubs, showing cattle, rodeo, causing problems for all the adults by hosting kegs on our respective ranches. Unfortunately, one of us grew out of being the walking cyclone constantly creating chaos, and the other one definitely didn’t.
‘Oh, shut up.’ I take a swig of water before shoving the bottle back into the cup-holder and reaching towards the glove box, rooting around blind. No napkins? Seriously? ‘I really am late. I spent forever packing shit in this car, and some idiot has been riding my ass the last thirty minutes, and now there’s chai everywhere.’
‘Well. Miss Thing, it was a, what, two-hour drive,’ May points out unhelpfully. ‘Little early to be falling apart.’
‘I’m aware of that, Einstein.’
‘You can go back to Warwick whenever you want. Oh,’ she pauses, ‘I forgot. You’re the pack rat to end all pack rats.’
I scoff and pull the Civic into the next exit ramp while trying to comb a melting ice cube out of my dark hair. ‘That issomean. I hope you know.’
She’s not wrong. I’m the kind of person who travels with her entire arsenal, or not at all. I pack everything I even remotely think I’ll need (just in case). I think there’s a plug-in panini-maker somewhere in this mess. Plus, hell if I’m returning to Rhode Island and wasting all that gas. As long as I’m in the off-season, I’ll be staying out here, and even if that means panini-maker in tow, I’m not budging once I’m all settled down in Massachusetts.
‘I know. Trust me. And, while I’m here …’ Sheer snark enters May’s voice with her next question. ‘I know damn well why you’re nervous.’
The teasing in my best friend’s tone makes me want to bury my head in my steering wheel so hard that I lean on the horn and scare the poor driver of the sedan in front of me out of their wits.
‘How’s it gonna feel working with Rodney … sorry,Hot RodWilson?’
‘Stop it,’ I chide her. She’s not going to drop the topic, but a girl can hope. I’m fighting about forty different battles as I turn into the parking lot of the dinkiest gas station I’ve ever seen, and the Rod Wilson battle is totally the least of my concerns.
‘You’re driving nervous,’ May pushes. ‘You’re not a nervous driver. You’re that bitch who guns it on the four-wheeler. Admit it.’
‘Admitting nothing.’
‘Admit it!’ she repeats more insistently. I’m usually the one who manages the crash-outs in this friendship. May, for the record, tends to cause them. And I’m about an inch shy of one right now.
‘I’m going to be his co-coach, May,’ I say, even as my fingers twitch on the steering. ‘No crush included.’
‘But,’ May counters, ‘you’ve met him. Doesn’t that make it more real?’
