That’s the silly thing about crushes, actually. It’s one thing to recite every Rodney Wilson/New Haven Woodchucks career-best stat from memory. It’s another thing to see him, really see him, back in Oklahoma. May’s boyfriend, Colt, is a big-time professional lacrosse captain for the New Haven Woodchucks, and when he visited home last spring, Rod, his best friend and teammate, came along to drop by a practice.
It’s fun to have a celebrity crush. It makes for great conversation fodder when you’re shooting the shit with your team, or sipping iced tea with your friends. It’s just that meeting him in person was a whole lot different than the golden-haloed, all-American boy in the media. He’s gotten this dumb nickname from the commentators and the media pundits, ‘Mr Charisma’, but he was calmer in person. Quieter. Patient enough to sit through our entire practice, not a peep from him, just watching. Kind enough to help us pick up all the cones after Coach blew the final whistle. That was a year ago, of course, but I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t recall every second of it. And now, forget meeting him. I’ll be interacting with him every damn day. I wish there was an instruction manual for that. ‘He seems sweet, but listen, there will be nothing of that sort.’
‘He’s cute,’ she hums. ‘It’s summer. No pressure, no strings …’
‘And that’s my cue to hang up.’ I put the car in park, turn it off, and clamber out, chai drip-drip-dripping down my arms. The call switches to speaker, from which May yelps a very disconcerted ‘Hey!’
‘Later, ma’am.’ I stab the button to hang up with my only clean thumb, and blow a strand of hair from my face. Stationary, I admire the crime scene in my precious car. Madonna’s interior looks like someone dropped a pipe bomb in a cup of chai. It’s all over the ceiling somehow, and my prized Stanley tumbler lies on the passenger seat, disgraced, in a puddle of caffeine that’s quickly sinking into the black fabric.
‘Oh, Donna.’ I grab one of the towels from the side door and start patting my arms dry. My skin is already getting sticky. I’ll need to head in and properly wash as much as I can. A back-alley semi-shower in a random New England gas station. Just what the doctor ordered.
I nudge my way through the glass door to the little convenience store, and bells jingle overhead, already way more obvious than I’d like this top-ten ‘worst moments’ experience to be. The cashier up front, thankfully, seems uninterested enough that she doesn’t look up when I beeline for the bathroom, a ponytail holder in my mouth, my hands raking my hair into a hasty topknot. I spare a quick glance at my watch. Shit. I’m supposed to meet my new boss in exactly thirty minutes, and I’m trying to peel my chaos-child ass off the ground in a gas station bathroom. Well, it could be worse, actually. It could be Rodney Wilson I’m meeting, rather than my boss.
‘Jordan, what thehell,’ I groan as I crank the faucet up, scrubbing my arms with literal hand soap while I dab chaistains from my jeans and T-shirt. It’ll be a prayer if I have time to get a change of clothes before lunch with Benny. I’m hoping to make a good impression on the head honcho, but it’ll be a little tough to do that if I’m covered in chai.
Once I’ve obtained a state of ‘good enough’, chai stickiness mostly gone from my skin, stains as doused in water as they can get, I paper-towel off my wet hands and charge out the door of the bathroom, barrelling straight towards my car.
‘… meetings all day because of the dumb funding cut. I mean, you get it, with Deacon on the team. We need all the money we can get to keep the programme running.’
Oh, joy. A witness to my hour of struggle. The new voice conversing with the previously disengaged cashier quickens my speed-walk to the main door. I shove through it with extra conviction.
Thefreakin’jingle bells above it make the loudest ruckus possible.
Both voices at the counter stop. The person talking to the cashier peeks around a tower of sparkly pink name keychains emblazoned with a cursiveWhittaker, MA.
Rodney Wilson’s dark eyebrows knit together in recognition, the scar running through the right one creasing. His deep brown eyes widen, and his mouth falls slightly ajar, whether in surprise at the fact that I’m here or my dishevelled appearance, I’m not sure. A strong hand reaches up to scratch his stubbled cheek, hovering at his jaw before falling with a confused, ‘Jordan?’
Yep. My newest co-worker, Rodney Wilson.
American lacrosse legend, and perhaps more importantly, my big fat crush, Rodney Wilson.
Oh, hell. Now I’ve done it.
I could be cordial. Muster a ‘hi’. Instead, my eyes go nine-ball wide, I do a prompt about-face, and I push the glass door open until I’m outside, under bright blue skies and relentless sun.
‘What was that?’ I mutter under my breath as I unlock my car and slap another towel down onto the driver’s seat, so I don’t have to sit on the brand-new lake I’ve formed on the fabric. ‘Whatwasthat?’
Is it possible he doesn’t know I’m working with him? I’d assumed he’d vetted me; he’s been at this summer camp for years, and I’m just coming in, totally green. More likely, it must have been the fact that – even with the chai stains neutralized – there’s water all over the front of me. Not really the best way to lay low.
I crank up the volume on my sledgehammer country playlist and burn rubber on my way out of the parking lot with a groan. There are a lot of problems you can run away from, but my brand-new lacrosse camp co-coach sure as hell isn’t one of them.
Chapter Two
My Whole Life
Rod
The snap of pinewood and a kid’s screech startle me out of my Jordan Gutierrez-Hawkins fever dream.
I fall into line with the bleachers full of other parents soon enough, clapping and cheering for the children lined up in the gymnasium. Tali hustles up next. She’s got her mom’s short legs, and the white karate uniform pants I’ve folded up at the hems for her still brush the tops of her feet. Her light brown hair is up in her customary requested pigtail buns that I’m surprised have still held. She takes the cutest little breath to steady herself. Despite being smaller than most kids her age, Talise Wilson has the kind of personality that takes up major space. She’s obsessed with karate and cowboys, although I’m not completely sure of the connection, if any. Earlier in the evening, she actually judo-threw a kid twice her size to theground. I’m not endorsing violence, but I am pretty proud of my best girl.
‘C’mon, champ!’ I hoot, and a toothy grin makes its way across her face. She raises her tiny fists in fighting stance, lining herself up steady in front of the instructor holding the wooden board.
The instructor shouts a command, and Tali lunges forward with all her might, foot smashing through the board triumphantly with a yelp. The parents whoop. I pump a fist, that warmth, joy filling my chest like it does every time this kid tackles a new challenge with a massive smile to boot. ‘That’s my girl!’
I feel a hand touch my shoulder from behind me. I swivel in my bleacher seat, and find someone’s mom batting her eyelashes at me. ‘Is that your daughter?’
I smile tightly. ‘Sure. Which one’s yours?’
