“Taylor’s new to Hundred Oaks, and she’s joining the team. Now we have enough players to have two subs! Isn’t that great news?”
“Yeah, great news,” the girl says, staring at me like I have the plague.
I step forward and hold out my hand. “Taylor Lukens.”
“I know who you are,” she says, ignoring my handshake. “You’re the snobby rich girl who laughed in our faces last year after your team beat us.”
“I was happy we won the game. I wasn’t laughing at you.”
“You may as well have been. The other girls on your team did.”
Uneasiness settles over me when I remember how some of my teammates had laughed at Hundred Oaks after we pummeled them 6–0. But I wasn’t one of them. I was in line to be this year’s captain, so I had to be a role model. I can’t say I wasn’t laughing internally though, and thinking about that makes me feel like a terrible person.
“Are we good enough for you now?” she adds. “Did all your expensive soccer camps not pay off? Someone better take your position on the St. Andrew’s squad? Daddy couldn’t convince them to keep you?”
“Nicole, c’mon. Just drop it,” Coach Walker says, and I’m grateful. It was becoming difficult to hold my tongue. Coach adds, “Let’s get stretched out, okay?”
My new teammates sit down on the grass and begin to stretch whatever way they want. One girl fiddles with a complicated-looking metal knee brace. I feel bad for her—she must have torn her ACL or something. Not only is that painful, you always have to wear a brace while playing after that kind of injury. Another girl does splits, like a gymnast, showing off more than actually stretching. At St. Andrew’s, for the two weeks I was captain, I had my team stand in a big circle and do the same stretches together. It builds cohesiveness and camaraderie. Since I’ve already stretched and each girl is doing her own thing, I decide to use the time to juggle a ball with my feet. It’s a good way to practice control and improve balance.
I begin kicking the ball up over and over again to myself, sometimes using my head and chest to control the ball. I bounce the ball back and forth off my thighs.
“Show-off,” a girl says. It’s not even a mutter; she wanted me to hear it.
I’m tempted to call her a slacker for being late to practice, but I hold my tongue. I’m trying to be the bigger person in this situation.
“All right, let’s scrimmage!” Coach calls, handing out neon-green mesh pinnies to half of us, splitting us into two groups. Nicole ends up on the green team with me. I’m actually kind of excited to see how we play together, given how good she was last year.
“What about drills?” I ask the coach. “Are we doing them after we scrimmage?”
“Nah, we have a game Saturday. We’ll use the time to simulate real game conditions.”
“Drills are important though. Good mechanics will help us in the game.”
“Taylor,” Nicole says. “Listen to Coach. Get your butt on the field. You’re on D.”
“I play forward.”
“I said, you’re on D.”
Okaayyy. I jog out onto the grass and take left back, loving how my cleats sink into the dirt. It’s only been a week since I’ve played, but it feels like a hundred years.
I notice our net is empty. I look to the younger girl playing center defense, who must be a freshman or sophomore. She’s wearing one pink sock and one yellow. Her legs are super skinny; I bet she’s quick on her feet.
“Hey!” I call to her. “Where’s our goalie?”
“We only have one. She’s playing for the other side.”
Great. Our team doesn’t have a backup goalie? What happens if she gets hurt? Given that we only have thirteen girls, we’ll be in a rough spot if anyone is injured.
“What’s your name?” I call out to the girl with the colorful socks.
“Sydney.”
“I’m Taylor.”
“I know.” She gives me a nervous smile.
Coach blows the whistle. The other team kicks off, and I streak forward to engage them. Nicole steals the ball and dribbles straight toward the goal. Their defense chases after her. She darts left, then right, and shoots. The goalie doesn’t stand a chance. The ball sails into the upper right corner of the net.
“Woo!” Nicole yells, then accepts high fives from the other players on our team. I look at the goalie. She slaps the goalpost, looking humiliated. I’ll talk to her after practice, I think, to tell her Nicole is a formidable opponent and any goalie would have an issue defending against her.
After we get back into position, the other team kicks off. Nicole immediately steals the ball and scores again. Okay, I can handle her doing that twice, but after she does it a third time, I totally snap.
“C’mon, Nicole!” I shout. “Pass the ball. The rest of us need to practice too.”
Everyone stops.
Nicole storms my way and hovers over me. “What did you say?”
“I said pass the ball.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shocked expression on the girls’ faces. A few are laughing, but most just glare at me. I don’t regret yelling at Nicole, but it’s not the best start with the team.
“Get back on defense,” Nicole barks, then jogs to her position.
I glance over at Coach Walker. He’s shaking his head, looking distressed. When he offered me a spot on the team, I bet he didn’t think I’d be this vocal. But I have a lot riding on this team.
My future…my spirit.
• • •
I run on my own after practice.
Doesn’t Coach Walker understand that if we don’t run at least three to four miles a day, our team won’t have the endurance to last an entire game, much less win one? Today’s practice consisted of a half-hour scrimmage during which Nicole showed off and everyone else chased the ball around like kindergartners. Whenever I rushed for the ball, Nicole went out of her way to boot it out of bounds. Some team player.
After practice, I tried to share a few words with the goalie, Alyson, to encourage her, but she told me to mind my own business.
Hopefully, our game on Saturday will go better.
I run up Spring Hill, down Spring Hill, past the crumbling flour mill that closed ten years ago, around the sheriff’s station, avoid looking at the cemetery because it scares me, and go back out into the country.
Running reminds me of how Ben and I used to jog before dinner sometimes, him training for basketball and me for soccer. We enjoyed being alone together—away from our classmates, who unfairly judged him.
He had a hard time at St. Andrew’s. Beastly Buick aside, my classmates knew my father is wealthy, so they treated me like one of their own. But nearly every day, some asshole would make a crack like, “You’re really into dating down, huh, Lukens? You must like ’em on their knees.”
I speed up. Run faster. Harder. Run, run, run. Forget, forget, forget.
When I reach my driveway, I sprint the quarter mile to my house. I dart up the back porch stairs, then lean over onto my knees, panting hard. Air is all I need, all I want. I feel good, and I grin.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I open the back door, and I’m heading for the stairs to my room when I hear voices in the formal living room. His voice. All the air whooshes back out of my body.
I enter the living room to find Mom talking to Ezra.
He stands when he sees me, ever the gentleman. After a long moment of us staring at each other, Mom breaks the silence. “Taylor, isn’t it nice that Ezra stopped by?”
I swallow hard as I look into his green eyes. He’s changed clothes since I saw him earlier. Instead of jeans and a T-shirt, he’s wearing a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, navy pants, a silver watch, and chestnut-brown leather shoes. Definitely Ralph Lauren and Prada, but I doubt he knows that. His mother always picks
out his clothes. Just like my mother does with Oliver.
He checks me out too. I took off my shin guards and cleats earlier, but I’m still wearing the same tank top and short shorts I wore to practice.
“I remember those socks,” he says, nodding at my smiley faces. “Those are your lucky ones, right?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“He dropped by to see how we’re doing!” Mom says. Seeing Ezra is a treat for her. “I’ll go pour us some iced tea while you two get caught up.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Ezra says.
He watches her leave the living room, then turns back to me with a slow smile. A smile that gets my lady parts all revved up. Stupid lady parts.
I glance down at my white tank top as I take a seat on the couch. Yup, I’m covered in embarrassing sweat stains.
Only once I’m seated does Ezra sit back down. I had forgotten how much I love the dark freckles on his tan nose and cheeks.
He speaks first. “I’ve missed you.”
I lift an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re in Franklin.”
“I was surprised to see you too… I talked with Oliver,” he says softly with a knowing look in his eyes.
“Great, so you heard everything.”
“I’m so sorry, Tee.”
I bite a hangnail dangling from my thumb. The pain distracts me from my thumping heart. Ezra has gotten cuter and cuter over the years. Now, I’d call him handsome. And buff. His tan forearms are corded with muscles. He’s a man.
“How do you like Hundred Oaks?” he asks.
“The soccer team isn’t that good,” I say, knowing he’ll understand, since he was the St. Andrew’s goalie for four years.
“Are you okay?” he asks with genuine concern.
I give him a curt nod.
“Do you want to talk?”
No thanks, I don’t care to gut myself. It took forever to get over Ezra. Only when I met Ben did I think there might be more than one guy for me, and look how that turned out.
I internally repeat my mantra. No. More. Boys.
I decide to go on the offensive. “I texted Oliver this morning. He didn’t know you’re here.”
“He knows now.”
“Why are you here?”
He turns to stare out the window into our garden. The sun is beginning to set. “Would you want to go out tomorrow night?”
He’s asking me to do something on a Friday night? Everybody knows that’s date night. Is he asking me on a date? “To do what?”
“To talk. Maybe over dinner?”
I don’t even bother asking if he means as friends or more. It doesn’t matter. I will not put myself in a situation where a guy could hurt me again.
I stand up from the couch. “I’m sorry, Ez. I can’t.”
He hops to his feet in gentleman mode. “No dinner. Got it.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe I could get us into the Cumberland Science Museum after closing? We’d have the whole place to ourselves.”
My eyes go wide. Of course he’d have a connection. I bet his family knows the curator or something.
He’s good. Real good. He knows exactly how to entice me. Museums. Set me loose in one, and I could stay for weeks, reading all the little placards describing each exhibit. When Mom finally convinced Dad to visit Europe, I went to the National Gallery in Vienna. I couldn’t stop staring at the Venus of Willendorf, a tiny statue of a voluptuous woman carved twenty-five thousand years ago, in a time when no one was voluptuous, when humans were cold and hungry. I wanted to know more about who carved that woman. I loved thinking about how much the world had changed since then. My parents finally had to drag me away before we missed our train to Prague. Museums are my Kryptonite.
Still, I say “no thanks” to Ezra’s invite.
“If you’re grounded, I could talk to your mom—”
“No, now’s just not a good time. I need to take a shower, so I’ll see you around, okay?”
The confusion in his eyes is strong and clear. I’m hurting him. But I’m saving myself.
It was two years ago. I was stepping into chemistry class when he took my hand.
“Tease,” he said in a playful voice. “Your parents sent me an invitation to your cotillion.”
“Yeah?” I said softly. I knew my parents would invite him to my sixteenth birthday party because he’s my brother’s best friend. On top of that, the Carmichaels have more money than God and have always supported Dad’s politics.
Ezra tugged on a strand of my hair. “You’ll save your first dance for me, right?”
I swallowed hard. The weekend before, Ezra and I had been watching a movie with my brother and his girlfriend in the common room of Harvey House, his dorm. I’d been lounging on the floor in front of the couch where Ezra was sitting. He kept tapping my shoulder, and when I’d turn around to see what he wanted, he pretended he hadn’t touched me.
When my brother left to go make out with his girlfriend, Ezra patted the couch next to him and smiled. With a deep breath, I crawled up to sit beside him, close enough that our thighs touched. At seventeen, Ezra was two years older than me, and he played goalie for the soccer team. He’d had a slew of girlfriends, all of whom were sweet to me, but I had to hate them on principle because I was in love with him. His experience with girls intimidated me. My sister told me he’d lost it when he was fifteen, with a girl on a mission trip to Panama. I prayed it wasn’t true, even though it likely was.
It was a nice surprise to hang out that night. According to Oliver, Ezra generally spent Saturdays running poker games in Harvey House, gambling with other boys for real money. Instead, he was sitting on the couch with me. I shivered with excitement. He’d finally stopped looking at me as his best friend’s annoying little sister. I knew this because when I wore my first real string bikini that past summer, he checked out my boobs.
During the movie, he threw his arm across the back of the couch, behind my shoulders. I caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, and for a few minutes, he gently played with my hair.
Nothing else happened that night—well, except for people getting eaten by dinosaurs during Jurassic Park—but I could feel the crackle of anticipation between us. I’d saved everything for him. My first kiss, my first hookup, my virginity. I wanted him to have them all.
But on the night of my cotillion, after I’d spent an entire day at the spa prepping for what was going to be the best night of my life, I waited.
I waited and waited for Ezra.
His parents, who had also been invited, came over to wish me a happy birthday. “We sent a car to the school to collect Ezra for the party,” his father grumbled, “but our driver said he wasn’t at the dorm.”
Mrs. Carmichael clutched her husband’s elbow and spoke in a rushed, worried voice. “And he’s not answering his cell.”
“Typical Ezra,” his father said with a grimace, squeezing his champagne glass so hard, I expected it to shatter.
Oliver, who’d come home with me on Friday to help get ready for the party, had no idea where Ezra was either. “I hope nothing’s wrong,” my brother said. He and Ezra were completely loyal to each other, and Oliver couldn’t believe Ezra would purposely miss my birthday.
Guests came to the tent in our backyard, drank champagne, danced under twinkling bright lights, and left.
And he never showed.
Jenna gave me hugs and passed me tissues as I cried.
The next day, I heard from Madison that he had snuck off campus, driven down to Chattanooga with Mindy Roberts, and hooked up with her.
He missed my sixteenth birthday party to fool around with another girl.
Monday in the hall at school, I confronted him. “I got my hopes up…and then you didn’t show. Waiting for you sucked.”
With a red face and watery eyes that wouldn’
t meet mine, he said, “I’m so sorry I missed your party, Tee. Seriously.”
But he gave no excuse.
That wasn’t good enough. I’d been waiting for him, for our moment together, for years. Well, no more. I would like other guys. Better guys. Guys who wanted to kiss me. Guys who didn’t leave me hanging. Guys who didn’t flirt without ever making a move…
I decided to stop crushing on him, but no one else made me shiver with the slightest touch. Made my heart beat frantically just by appearing before me.
Then I met Ben, and I forgot all about how Ezra had let me down. Of course, Ben turned out to be a mistake too. Boys just aren’t worth the letdown.
Here in the present, I tell Ezra that I need to do my homework.
He holds my gaze for a few moments, then pulls his car keys from his pocket. “You have my number if you want to talk.”
He starts toward the foyer right as Mom is returning to the living room with a tray of iced tea. He kisses Mom’s cheek, and before he leaves, he turns to look at me again.
“Who cares if the soccer team sucks? If you want to play, play.”
Then he’s gone.
• • •
I can’t stop thinking of Ben.
After Ezra left, I holed up in my room. The shock I felt earlier this week is slowly starting to wear off, and my emotions are bleeding through. I’m trying not to cry, but it’s hard. How could Ben love me and still do what he did?
He loved me. I felt it every time he squeezed my hand. His hugs were the best, and he lived for kissing me.
“I love your lips,” he’d say when we’d sneak under the staircase for a quick make out session between classes. Sometimes, his hands would inch under my plaid skirt and cup my bottom through my underwear.
Just thinking about it turns me on. Well, that would be a way to pass the time. I hop up to lock my door, lie back down on my bed, and close my eyes. I don’t need guys. I can take care of my needs myself.
But when I slip my hand down into my underwear, I discover that’s not exactly true. What’s the fun in making myself feel good if I don’t have a guy to fantasize about…touching me, smiling at me, groaning at my touch?
The first time Ben and I went to third base, I got scared. I’d never touched a guy there before, and when I saw him naked, I was afraid that when we did have sex, it would hurt. I knew he was a virgin too. What if we did it all wrong and it sucked? From the look on my face, Ben could tell something was up.
Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) Page 4
