The Game Can’t Love You Back

by Karole Cozzo

  “What?”

  “I don’t usually walk around with so much money,” she says. “But it’s from my check from the shoot. I hadn’t cashed the check because taking a payment for that debacle just felt dirty. I feel guilty spending it, like I’m okay with what they did.”

  I don’t say anything, feeling kind of guilty myself. For jumping to conclusions and being smart with her when she was nice enough to buy me something to eat.

  Then Eve pauses. “I don’t know why the hell I’m talking about this. Should be over it by now.” She rummages around in her tote bag, eventually finding what she’s looking for. “Gum?” she asks.

  I look down at the pouch she’s extending toward me, with the purple letters and familiar slugger on the front. “Are you serious with this? You seriously walk around with a pack of Big League Chew in your purse? Do you have Cracker Jacks and sunflower seeds on hand at all times, too?”

  She grabs the skin on my forearm and twists it.

  “Ow!”

  “They still sell it at the deli near my house. The grape flavor is better than Bubblicious grape. God. Do you feel compelled to give me a hard time about everything?”

  I smile, looking down, still rubbing my sore arm. “I actually kind of enjoy your reaction, when it’s not directed toward me. How you go from zero to sixty in about two seconds flat.”

  She’s biting her cheek, again fighting her smile, and I get the impression she likes this idea, that she considers it a compliment or something.

  “So you want gum or not?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take some gum.”

  Who doesn’t like Big League Chew?

  I stuff a huge wad into my cheek, then grin around it, feeling satisfied. Most of the time, she’s scowling. The smiles are rare; you end up feeling rewarded when you’ve earned one.

  I end up staring at her mouth, the shape of her lips in the darkness, way longer than I should. I raise my eyes to hers, before I get caught staring. And still, I feel like some weird guilt must be written all over my face.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I mumble. I tug the brim of my hat down again, feeling some sort of unease I can’t really figure out. “It’s nothing.”

  * * *

  The bus pulls up right in front of the auditorium to drop us off. Eve and I are quiet as we walk the length of the sidewalk in front of the school, back to the other parking lot, where we both left our cars outside the locker rooms. It’s late, and she doesn’t stifle a loud yawn as we make our way down the path.

  Before she ducks inside the girls’ locker room, she raises one hand wearily, and I do the same. I guess that’s good night, and I walk inside to grab the rest of my stuff. When I step back out into the parking lot a few minutes later, making my way to my Jeep, I feel some strange sense of relief when I see that Eve’s car is still in the parking lot.

  Why? Why are you glad she’s still here? You said good night already.

  I linger at my door, watching as she walks to her car, pushing the annoying question out of my mind, irritated and restless and undecided. Then, after watching her unlock her car, right before she climbs inside, suddenly I’m jogging in her direction, backpack bumping against my back, gym bag jostling against my hip.

  “Hey!” I call to her before she can close the door.

  She pauses, looks around in confusion, then waits beside her car as I come running up.

  I close the distance, coming up to her, taking a step closer than typical parameters for personal space would dictate. I can’t seem to help it, that extra step.

  Eve ends up caught between me and the car door, and to be honest, she looks every bit as uncomfortable as the time I turned on her in the parking lot, when I blew up at her. So I talk quickly, because I’d kind of like to erase that memory.

  “I didn’t say thank you,” I blurt out.

  “What?

  “For dinner … the pretzel … whatever.”

  She stares at me a minute, then shrugs. “It was no big deal.”

  “Well, I was starving, so it kind of was. And I should’ve said thank you at least.” I give her a little smile, wink at her. “Manners. I sometimes have them.”

  Then I extend my hand. If Eve were a guy, I’d shake his hand. A girl? I don’t know, but I do know that Eve doesn’t strike me as particularly huggable.

  She stares down at my hand for a few seconds before reaching forward to join hers with mine. When she does, our eyes meet, and she swallows hard. “You’re welcome,” she says quietly.

  Our hands stay connected as we stand there in silence a few seconds longer.

  Then Eve pulls away. “Well.” She gives me the quickest flash of a smile. “Guess I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Yeah. Catch you then.”

  I turn around and walk toward my car, refusing to look back. It’s only when I’m inside, when I’m sure she can’t see me, that I glance back in her direction, watching as the lights go on, as she drives toward the exit, and eventually out of sight.

  Monday.

  I lean back against my seat, an uncomfortable sensation in my gut rising and creating this weird pressure in my chest.

  Monday … suddenly feels like it’s really far off.

  I close my eyes, fingers closing in a fist around my keys.

  Oh … fuck.

  Chapter 17

  April 12

  Eve

  Yesterday’s win was one for my personal record book. Pat had a lousy start and couldn’t get it together, and by the fourth inning we were down 6–0. It took me half as many innings to get things back on track, and I made sure no additional runs were scored. My team responded to the change in momentum and started hitting, Jamie sent a grand slam over the fence the next inning, and we ended up winning 7–6.

  Definitely one of my best games.

  There was also talk that someone had personally apologized to Coach for the Westdale incident, and that a punishment was being dealt with privately. I guess after running us into the ground, Coach didn’t want to reveal the identity of the person responsible out of concern for what our response might do to team morale. I didn’t love his thinking, but I understood the rationale behind it.

  Most importantly, Coach seemed like himself again—pleasant and calm—and last night the team got an e-mail from him, with the brief message that in lieu of practicing Wednesday, we’d be participating in a team-building activity off campus.

  My phone rang as I was reading the e-mail. It was Scott. “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  “Guess you’re calling me about this e-mail?”

  “Yeah. Got any guesses?”

  “Nah, still processing,” I told him. “Trying to decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

  “Considering his last ‘team-building’ exercise made me puke,” Scott answered, “I’m not overly optimistic.”

  “Well, it can’t possibly be as torturous as that, whatever it is,” I told him.

  We discussed the cryptic e-mail for a few more minutes before hanging up.

  Guess I could ask Jamie.

  The thought popped into my head and was instantly unwelcome there. I dropped my phone onto my desk like a hot potato, balling my hands into fists, like I’d found myself doing all weekend.

  You are not actually going to ask Jamie. There is no reason why Jamie popped into your head as someone to ask.

  I turned off my light and crawled beneath my covers, pulling them up over my head for good measure.

  * * *

  I meet up with the team outside the locker rooms at three o’clock, as the e-mail directed. From a distance, I assess Jamie. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt and a pair of black Pirate-issue sweats, and looking around, I notice a couple of the other guys are dressed in head-to-toe black also.

  What is going on? All that black isn’t really reassuring.

  The coaches appear a minute later, and Coach Karlson claps his hands together, grinning. “Welcome to our annual team-buildin
g exercise,” he greets us. “I wanted to wait a while until you all got comfortable with each other, but … I think we’re getting there.” Then he stands, silent, letting the anticipation build.

  We look from Pirate to Pirate, trying to figure it out, waiting to see if anyone is going to chime in, but no one does. Until Brendan finally calls out, impatient, “Come on. Where are we going this year, Coach?”

  Coach is quiet one more minute. Then, “RUSH laser tag arena.”

  A few guys throw their hands in the air, and even more break out in hoots and hollers. I stand there, feeding on the excitement, feeling it in my stomach, a slow grin spreading across my face. I’ve had some epic laser tag battles with my brothers, and I’m not at all worried about heading into the arena.

  “What are we playing for?” Jake asks.

  Coach puts both hands up before him. “Just bragging rights, got it? Nothing that constitutes harassing the losing team.”

  His response is greeted with loud booing, but he just waves it off. “I’m teaming you up a little differently this year.” He extends his left arm. “Catchers and infielders, over here.” He points with his right hand. “Pitchers and outfielders, over here.”

  Scott grins at me before jogging off to join his team. “Watch your back, baby.”

  We regroup ourselves, the catcher-infielder team boarding the bus first, the rest of us lingering behind. I turn around and realize Jamie’s now standing right behind me, and when my heart starts pounding, I fold my arms across my chest, like I’m trying to keep it in check or something.

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I nod in the direction of his clothing. “Pretty coincidental you and your buddies showed up in all black today. What kind of unfair advantage do the captains get anyway?”

  “Heard a rumor this might have something to do with laser tag,” he answers. “Those black lights pick up on any white you’ve got on.” Jamie takes one step closer, leaning toward me. “Don’t know what you’re complaining about. I’m on your team. You won’t be complaining when I save you with my skills.”

  My head falls back on my neck and I groan. “Save me, my ass. If I were you, I’d watch out for friendly fire.”

  “That would be just like you.”

  And just like that we’re sparring again. But he’s grinning, and I’m grinning, and shit, we’re grinning together. I clench my fists again, nails digging into my palms, trying to get all the smiling under control.

  * * *

  Once we get to RUSH, it feels like forever before we’re actually allowed inside the arena. First we’re ushered into the vesting room, where my team is suited with green vests and Scott’s team given orange vests. We’re equipped with our holsters and guns.

  The coordinators make a big deal out of leading us into the briefing room, their faces stern, ominous music pumping through the speakers, smoke coming out of the vents when the doors open. It’s all an illusion, but now that we’re armed and huddled together with our teams, it’s transformative, my nervous system instantly on high alert, anxious sweat making a trail down my spine.

  They’re all business as they review the rules for inside the arena, where our main goal will be to find and deactivate the sensors at the other team’s base camp while suffering the least number of hits to the sensors on our shoulders, chests, and foreheads. They remind us how long our weapons will be deactivated after getting hit, how many shots we can fire before needing to return to our home base for recharging purposes.

  We’re given a few minutes to confer with our teams, and my fellow pitchers and outfielders hurriedly divvy up roles—who will be responsible for defending our base camp, who will be responsible for destroying theirs.

  “We need more people going for their base,” Jamie says, pointing to the scoring system hanging on the wall atop the airbrushed murals of a cityscape. “We get more points for hitting targets than we lose for getting hit ourselves.”

  I adjust my gun in its holster. It’s an offensive strategy rather than defensive. I’m good with that. There’s no sense in playing if you’re just going to hide out in the back of the arena, which I have no intention of doing.

  Then the thirty-second countdown timer starts flashing red above our heads, a robotic voice saying the numbers aloud. We all fall silent as the room goes almost black, my eyes finding Jamie’s—wide and almost silvery in the darkness—as we wait. Adrenaline courses through my body, amping up my heart rate before the doors even open.

  “Three … two … one…”

  The doors open with such force they practically ricochet, and I launch myself forward, intent on distancing myself from the group as quickly as possible. In my peripheral vision, I assess the multilevel arena as I run, trying to take note of landmarks, the murals on the walls designed to look like an abandoned city. There are tons of panels with shoot-through spaces, glowing in the black light. I run toward the back right corner, turning only once to shoot when I see someone on the other side of a panel.

  And just like that, I hit the sensor on Scott’s left shoulder, the rest of his sensors going dim when I make contact.

  “Marshall, what the hell?” he cries as I take off.

  When I reach the back of the room, I sprint up the stairs. It’s risky, that kind of exposure, but I’m banking on the fact that everyone is still getting their bearings and I can make it up the tall, narrow set of stairs before they realize where I am. If I can find a good spot upstairs, close enough to our base camp, I’ll have the ultimate vantage point, able to take my opponents out like a sniper would as they approach our territory.

  I select one tall panel nearest the railing, crouching behind it and positioning my weapon within the shoot-through space, and wait, my breath sounding like a freight train in the silence, running in overdrive.

  I close my eyes to get a better sense of what direction the footsteps are coming from in the darkness, and when they’re finally close enough, I aim my gun downward, shooting in a sweeping motion from left to right the way Evan taught me years ago, hitting more sensors than I would if I just aim and fire.

  When one of them realizes where the shots are coming from, he points, calling to some of his teammates who aren’t too far away, whose sensors are still active. “Up there! He’s up there!”

  I grin in the darkness. They have no idea who is shooting at them; there’s not even a thought of taking it easy on me because I’m the only girl in the arena. It’s lights-out, and it’s a level playing field.

  One that I’m currently commanding.

  I duck down, weaving through a few more panels, eventually reaching a point where I need to dash across an open space to get the best cover and viewpoint.

  “He’s on the move!” I hear a voice below me. “Follow the black light. It’s picking up the swoosh on his sneakers!”

  Shit!

  When I hear them making their way up the stairs, I double back, positioning myself to meet them head-on, and when three guys round the corner and come bounding up, I take the whole group out before they even see me up there. They shoot back, making contact with a sensor on my shoulder and one on my knee, but I refuse to drop back, knowing if I hold my ground and keep shooting, I’ll do more damage than is being inflicted on me. I’m right, and eventually they’re forced to head back to base to recharge.

  The upper tier is quiet again. In fact, all noise is moving away from my end of the arena, back toward the entrance point, so I drop to the ground and crawl across the open floor, back toward the action, waiting for my weapon to reactivate. I glance around before standing up, making sure it’s all clear, then jump to my feet and brush myself off.

  An arm shoots out from behind a panel, grabs me, and pulls me behind it. Before my scream can even leave my mouth, a hand is covering it. At first all I can make out in the darkness is a matching green vest. Then, looking up, an all-too-familiar pair of icy blue eyes.

  I start to push him off, but he shakes his head at me, covering his mouth with one finger. He waits for me to calm dow
n, then grabs my arm, pulling me close enough to whisper in my ear.

  “They’re only leaving one person to guard their base,” he tells me, sending shivers down my spine. “The rest of them are splitting up to both stairwells. They’re amassing the whole team to take out the sniper.”

  I nod, swallowing hard as I try to catch my breath, and then it escapes me all over again as Jamie pulls me close a second time, shifting his head to whisper in my other ear. “Should’ve known it was you.” I can hear him grinning. “They actually think you’re hiding out somewhere.”

  As if.

  “We need to get down to their base when they come up,” he says. “But they’re charging both directions, so we have to be careful.”

  I look left and right. “The far stairwell,” I whisper. “They have to be almost recharged by now. We can’t get to the other one in time.”

  Jamie positions his body, ready to move, along the edge of the panel. “Watch my back,” he instructs me.

  He sprints to the nearest panel, hiding behind it, checking around him, and then gesturing with his weapon that it’s clear for me to go.

  We make our way across the floor like that, covering for each other, hiding behind panels until it’s safe to move again. He grabs me by the waist when I’m about to step out one time when he hears noise from below, pulling me back behind a panel that’s tucked in a particularly dark corner, our heavy breathing echoing in the space as we wait to move again. His body is only inches from mine, something I’m acutely aware of, the heat radiating from it as I squeeze in behind him, the tension in his muscles as he holds his gun at the ready.

  We stare at each other in the darkness, waiting, exhaling in rhythm, the noise sounding loud in the silence. Maybe it’s the eye contact we can’t seem to break, how our mouths are only inches apart, or the way my heart is thumping anew, but for whatever reason, in the middle of a war scene, I’m imagining what would happen if he took one step closer.

  The idea makes my stomach drop to my feet, and I jerk back and away from him, clenching my eyes shut to shake the image.

  “I don’t know where their base is,” I whisper quickly.