‘This is true.’ He smirks, deep brown eyes filling with amusement. ‘I forgot you haven’t seen what championship day looks like in New England yet.’
The beloved Division I College Lacrosse Championship. Forus W-lax players – women’s lacrosse – the biggest day is the Women’s Championship, of course, and it’s certainly begun to catch up to Men’s in popularity, but owing to society and whatnot, the Men’s Championship is still weighted slightly heavier. Except for an underdog year here and there, the big game is usually played by New England schools in a football stadium that completely fills up with lax devotees. I’ve heard plenty of lore about the people out here gluing themselves to their television sets, desperate not to miss a second of the showdown, in stark opposition to the South, where we’re just beginning to warm up to the sport. This will be my first time witnessing it like this.
‘How could I forget?’ I snag my own duffel bag from the stands, tossing my Birkenstocks in the grass so I can take off my cleats and slip my feet right into the sandals. ‘Is this the lacrosse Super Bowl for y’all?’
‘You’ll see.’ He slings his backpack over his shoulders and turns back to me. ‘What do you like to drink?’
‘Cute.’ I can’t suppress my smile when I stand to face him. ‘Anheuser-Busch Redbridge.’
‘The Redbridge,’ he repeats, the same smile creeping across his face. ‘Alright, unique pick.’
I shrug matter-of-factly. ‘Gluten.’
‘Gotcha.’ We start towards the parking lot side by side and, as we walk past the table and through the gates, I don’t miss the way our paths start to slowly, slowly converge, closing the person’s space we started out keeping between us. The hairs on my arms are practically standing on end, excruciatingly alert to his presence. ‘That’s settled. We’re drinking Redbridges. And for the s’mores. I got you on gluten-free crackers, now that I know.’
‘You genuinely don’t have to. I’ll live without a s’more,’ I point out. It’s one of the things I find myself doing most often with my coeliac disease.I’ll survive without xyz. It can definitely feel like I’m making people bend over backwards to bring a food option I can have, and sometimes theI’ll livebit reassures them, but Rod’s not having it.
He shakes his head. ‘S’mores are fucking amazing. I can’t deny you that.’
‘Duly noted.’ We split off at the centre of the parking lot, and I throw a smile his way behind me. Not a wobbly smile, but definitely a curious one. ‘See you tonight.’
‘See you,’ he echoes with a wave, turning to head for his car.
I find my Civic, unlock the door, throw my duffel and sticks in the back. A couple parking spots away, a door slams where Rod must be getting into his.
I let out a little laugh to myself once I’m in the driver’s seat. My frog glares expectantly back at me from the dashboard. I mean, I’m here for the summer. I asked for a change of pace, asked to find myself outside of Oklahoma, and that’s sure as shooting what I’ve got.
Well, that and my body acting as the compass, except instead of pointing north, the needle keeps finding Rodney Wilson.
Chapter Eight
Lacrosse Super Bowl
Rod
The sounds of crackling fire, the soft lilt of Lord Huron, and the roaring of the National Championship layer over one another to create a unique kind of cacophony in the Wilson backyard.
Living on property with Genny is kind of the best thing to ever happen to Tali and me. Genny’s sitter is our sitter, which means we get a package deal for Genny’s four-year-old twin boys, Tyler and Hunter, and my daughter (never a bad thing) and, better yet, there’s land far as the eye can see. Raw, untouched land, and Genny’s horses. It certainly makes for a memorable natty party venue. Parents buzz about with drinks in hand, cheers going up every so often when the town favourite – and my alma mater – the Mass State Phantoms, get a shot on goal. We’re still 0–0, but Mass is leading in shots, which is a goodindicator. I nurse my amber-tinted bottle of Redbridge sip by sip, exchanging smiles with a couple of parents and making small talk, pretending my eyes aren’t wandering, looking for one particular face.
‘Rod!’ Theo’s dad, Paul, jestingly claps a hand across the shoulder of my barn vest. ‘You look like a bundle of nerves. Mass got you tied up in knots?’
‘Oh. Um …’ I laugh it off casually, taking another swig of beer – surprisingly good, for gluten-free – to wash away my awkwardness. ‘Something like that.’
‘Didn’t know you drank sorghum.’ Clara, Theo’s mom, smiles warmly yet curiously, with a glance at my beer. She would know – Clara and Paul introduced me to some of my favourite IPAs last year, Theo’s first year of camp, seeing as they co-own one of the biggest breweries in the state, just outside of Whittaker. I’m not a gluten-free drinker. Not usually.
I scratch my arm through my grey Henley. ‘Yeah, I, uh, decided to try something new.’
I’ll be lucky if they believe that. Clara just looks entertained by my response, thankfully.
I pick my way through the throngs of parents to the campfire, where plenty of happy s’mores-roasting is in progress. As I head towards a folding table with the platters of graham crackers, marshmallows and chocolate, Jordan’s singsong voice greets me before her broad grin appears to my left. ‘I didn’t know you lived on a ranch.’
She wears a tight tank top rather than her usual loose tee, this one with a faded motorcycle logo, and a pair of jeans with boots, a denim jacket lined in sherpa thrown on as if an afterthought. Her hair is out of its ponytail, so it falls down toher waist in straight sheets of near-black. ‘And a big one, at that,’ she adds.
It takes me way too long to recover from flailing for words. She reaches for a marshmallow, a new set of rings sparkling on her slim fingers under the porch light, these ones gold with inlaid turquoise. ‘I do,’ I say very unhelpfully. ‘My sister’s, actually. We’re just on the property, pay rent and everything. She handles the animals side of it. Mostly equestrian, training and stuff. Technically, out East we call it a horse farm, by the way. I don’t think I’ve heard her call it a ranch, at least.’
‘A horse farm.’ Dimples etch themselves in Jordan’s cheeks as she gestures towards the graham cracker platter inquisitively. ‘Are these …’
‘Yep. Fooled everyone into eating them. No one’s batted an eye.’
