Maybe it’s the expectant smile on her face. Maybe it’s Tali’s goofy sunglasses and blue-lipped grin. Or the fact that I feel for poor Benny, who’s double-fisting freezing ice pops waiting for me to make a decision. But I think it’s the way that Tali and Jordan exchange a knowing glance before looking back at me with the same sass, a long untouched heartstring somewhere in my chest twanging for the first time in years.
‘Alright, fine,’ I give in. I extend a hand to Benny, who shoves a pop into it with great relief. ‘I guess it won’t kill me.’
I sit down next to Jordan, and as I cut the wrapper off my high-fructose corn syrup, she, Benny, and Tali turn their juice pops into lipstick.
‘How do we look?’
Jordan waves to the other two, and all three of them turn to me with dramatic pouts of red and blue.
‘Laugh, damn it,’ says Jordan, and that, actually, is what sends me over the edge. It’s a concealed snort at first, and then a full-blown laugh. It doesn’t take long for the four of us to double over, clutching our stomachs, our juice pops dripping into the grass. Jordan, eyes squeezed shut, rests a hand on my shoulder, and I stop just long enough to register it. It’s that same beautifullaugh. She laughs with her whole body, with the kind of emotion that tells you she knows the worth of every drop of happiness.
I don’t know what kills me more. That laugh, or the fact that I can’t afford to fall for it.
Our group eventually breaks up, Benny heading to his car, and me grabbing Tali and a pack of Wet Ones to do juice pop damage control. The lipstick is a little more enduring than I thought it’d be.
Jordan waves goodbye to us from her car and, as I’m situating Tali’s booster seat and sliding the door shut to get into the driver’s seat of the minivan, my phone buzzes with a new text.
Jordan: back of the guesthouse. I have nets. friday 9 pm?
Huh. My brow furrows unconsciously. I think about her casual shake-it-off when she said she’d be okay keeping this thing quiet. I wonder what she’s playing at. Too bad my ass is hooked, and even if I tried to stop myself, I’d still be there.
I tap my way into Genny’s contact profile, shoot her a quick text asking if she can watch Tali Friday night, and reopen the text from Jordan.
Me: Pending sister/babysitter, I’ll be there.
Chapter Thirteen
Lax After Dark
Rod
My head’s in my phone as I take the path to the massive yard around the back of the guest cottage. The three little pulsating dots beside Genny’s photo turn into three words:Tali’s all good.
Then, another message:
Genny: Dear God I hope you finally have fun doing something on your own Rod. You are a grown-up. Do not feel guilty about going on a date.
Me: Who the hell told you it was a date?
Genny: Context. Have fun. GOODNIGHT
All caps are my sister’s trustiest way of ending a chaotic conversation. I take that as a sign to shove my phone in my pocket, hike my lacrosse backpack up on my shoulder, silence my big-mouthed nerves, and look up as I enter Rebecca’s neatly manicured yard.
The floodlights illuminate two nets, as promised, and Jordan, already whipping shots into one of the two. Her silvery stick glitters as she slings a deadly one into the corner, leaving the frame of the net quivering. She lifts her gaze to me with a grin. Her hair, instead of its usual ponytail, is loosely braided down her back, and wisps threaten to stick to her cheeks. ‘You made it.’
‘I did.’ I sling my lax bag off my shoulder and set it down against the back door once I’ve pulled my game stick out from the strap. It’s fairly old, almost as old as Tali, who’s covered the shaft in her prized Peppa Pig stickers. ‘So. You’re a “lacrosse after dark” kind of girl?’
Not like I mind. I’ve seen her practise back in Oklahoma, and she’s a hurricane. She’s the kind of player you watch so you can pick up her techniques and incorporate them into your own game. That’s not even accounting for the part where she’s literally fucking perfect, from the way her bronzed skin glints with the slightest sheen of sweat, to the sculpted muscles of her quads and thighs.
‘Aren’t we all?’
Together, we put our sticks aside and run the basic set of warm-ups we’ve been doing since club. Lunges, hamstring stretch, T-stretch for our chest and shoulders, the works. At the end of it, a teasing smirk races across Jordan’s face as we clamber to our feet. ‘You should know Rebecca’s out in Baltimore for the weekend.’
Oh, I’ll take that. I’ll take just about any slice of time I can get alone with this woman. But then she reaches for her lacrosse stick, which is lying in the grass just a pace away, and says pointedly, ‘I’ve got a challenge for you. Only if you’re okay with it.’
I raise an inquisitive eyebrow. A hint of nerves still tangle about in my chest. The proposition intrigues me, though. Are we going to go shot for shot? Will we play one on one? What’s the catch? ‘Hit me.’
‘We’ll alternate shots on goal from different points.’ She idly twists the stick and works at the gum in her mouth with a smile. ‘You make a shot, I strip. I make a shot, you strip.’
