by Shae Ross
“You go ahead. Ian might come over this afternoon—I’m going to take a shower here so I can steam my pores. Sam said she can drop me on the way home.”
“All right. See you back at the shack.” I stick my head in my locker and pretend I’m looking for something. It’s getting harder and harder to pretend I like Ian. His no-show rate officially surpassed his show rate when he cancelled on her twice this week.
I hear her let out a long breath and I turn, surprised to see her still standing next to me. “What?” I ask, questioning the tense expression on her face.
Her lips twist. “I know I’ve already said this, but I’m sorry I talked you into going to the Rathskeller with me that night. ”
“It’s not your fault, Jace…”
“Every time we’ve gotten in trouble, it’s been because of me…” I start to object but she speaks over me. “That ‘Anything But Clothes’ party we threw at your house to celebrate the start of senior year? My idea, but you’re the one that got busted by your mom. And when we let loose that jar of crickets in the shower last year? My idea. Stealing the Christmas tree from the Sigma Phis? My idea…”
“I could have said no.”
She laughs. “You did say no, and then I talked you into it. That’s what bothers me most.”
“You didn’t talk me into flirting with Chewbacca or drinking or jumping into that bar fight, Jace. That’s on me, and frankly, I like all the trouble we’ve been in together. Without you, SEU would have been nothing more than field time and lecture halls. Having fun and making bad decisions is what you do in college. I should be thanking you.”
She tilts her head and scratches her neck, considering me. “Well, I am pretty awesome when it comes to bad decisions.”
“And fun,” I add. “The fun we’ve had redeems the bad decisions.” With the exception of one, but I don’t say that.
She loops her shower caddy through her arm and grabs a towel. “All right then. In honor of our senior year, I’ll ramp up the ‘bad decision’ generator.” She nods and heads to the showers.
“Play big, Texas,” I call, flipping my locker closed. The door bounces back, obstructed by a gray sports bra that’s jammed in the hinge. I yank the strap free and a stream of travel-size shampoo bottles spill over my feet. Super. I spend the next ten minutes reorganizing the junk then shut the door and head out.
Preston texted earlier to apologize for not being able to make it to our big game tonight—the football team goes into lockdown at seven p.m. the night before any of their games, which means he has to stay at the Lafayette Center campus hotel with the team tonight. I’ll see him tomorrow, though. Jace and Marcus and I are going to his game, then to the party at Carson’s house. I’m walking, tapping out a text, when I slam into a wall.
I gasp and stiffen, pulling back. “Uh, sorry…” I stammer, realizing I’ve hit someone. Three guys are standing in front of me—huge guys, and their expressions look…odd. The hallway’s completely empty, and goose bumps rise over the back of my arms.
“Priscilla?” the unfamiliar voice asks. I think he’s a football player—they all look like football players.
“Yes?” I respond, stepping back. He’s an African American guy. I’m pretty sure he’s the one Jace called “Pony Boy” in the rehab room—I recognize the slicked-back wave of his hair and the cocky, lopsided grin. He’s not much taller than me, but he’s as wide as a barrel with obscenely huge biceps. The other two guys are pale skinned, and the tallest speaks.
“I’m Darren. This is Homer, and this is Tyler,” he says, bringing a slow hand to Pony Boy’s chest and moving him gently out of my face. “We play football, and we heard about the little problem you and Rush got into. The team sent us here to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
I raise a brow. “The team sent you here?” My tone calls them out. Silence answers my suspicion. “So, Preston sent you here?”
“Well, no,” Darren says.
“The coaches?” I ask. Silence. “No, I don’t have a minute.” They’re here to bully me, and there’s nothing I hate more than a bully. I step to Darren’s left, and Tyler crowds in, blocking me. I raise my head, and the wicked, watery look in his dark stare steals my breath, like a hand gripping my neck. His eyes are almost black and his hard stare carries a remorseless kind of anger. Pony Boy has a problem that’s deeper than me.
I swallow, trying to steady my pulse. The last thing I want is to let him know he scares me. “You’re going to need to get out of my way. Now.”
“We just want you to realize the position your putting him in,” Darren says, as Tyler and I continue the stand off. “He’s too proud to tell you himself, but if you out him, things are gonna get ugly.”
If I out him? Is he serious?
“He could be out of the bowl game, and it could hurt his draft chances. You gotta withdraw your appeal.”
That “bad shit” that Preston talked about is right here in front of me. I can smell it.
“Are you threatening me?” I ask Darren.
He shakes his head, about to deny it, but Tyler moves fast, gripping my elbow.
“Told you she wouldn’t listen,” he says, pulling me sideways.
“Hey!” I draw my elbow back, but they crowd behind me, hustling me into a small classroom. My heart leaps into the back of my throat. This is not good. I move to the other side of the room, sliding behind a six-foot conference table.
“Your boy’s not as squeaky clean as you think,” Tyler sneers.
“Calm down,” Darren spreads his fingers and pushes them downward.
“Calm down, nothin’. We’re about to hit the Big Ten, then a bowl game. If shit starts to come out, it’ll fuck us up. Not just this season, next season, too. This bitch is going to cancel that appeal hearing.”
I’m watching them as they argue, scrambling to think of a way out. My fingers fumble with my cell phone—I’m hoping to hit one of the saved numbers, or my last call, anything—and a thought occurs to me. My thumb moves across the screen; I’m feeling for the indent. I’ve got to keep them talking while I’m trying to pull up the app I want.
“Why are you confronting me about this?” My thumb lands and presses. I glance down, looking for the Periscope icon, and tap the teardrop. “Why aren’t you talking to Preston?”
“You’ve got your legs wrapped so tight around his ass, he ain’t gonna listen,” Tyler barks, taking a step left, angling around the table. I move in the opposite direction, but the other two are there. I start to search the room and spy a fire alarm. Tyler follows my gaze, and he flinches.
“Hey!” he yells. “Don’t let her touch that fire alarm. That’s how she brought the cops down on the bar!” Homer moves in front of it—now both ends of the table are blocked.
“Hi, everyone,” I say, flipping my phone up and positioning Tyler’s pissed off face in the rectangle. “I’m here with Tyler and his friends.” I pan the room. “These guys play football with South Eastern State. Wave to the four—nope, a few more just joined us—eight people watching you on Periscope. I know you wouldn’t want them to see you do anything that could get you in trouble.” I walk fast with the camera pinned on Darren. “These guys just dragged me into this room—they thought they had something to talk to me about. Now that I have witnesses, I’ll ask them once more to get the hell out of my way.” Homer steps aside, trying to avoid the camera, but I stalk him.
“We were just talking,” Darren says, as I’m backing out of the room. Once I’m in the hallway, I run, feeling the pounding of my heartbeat with every hard step. I fly down the stairs, missing the last one and stumbling out the door.
Jace and five of my teammates are twenty feet ahead, walking to the parking lot. They turn and gape at my frantic appearance.
“What’s wrong?” she yells. I’m pressing my hand to my mouth, trying to catch my breath. I hand her my phone and tap the replay. Her lids slit with anger as she and my teammates watch. “Those fuckers,” she bites out.
; “Did this just happen?” Sam asks, turning to the building. The door opens and the “fuckers” step out.
“That answers that question,” Syd mutters.
They stop ten paces in front of us as my teammates line up beside me. Jace marches to the trio, and I shout, trying to stop her, but it’s too late. The thing about goalkeepers is—hmmm, how do I put this nicely—they’re slightly off. When I started playing soccer as a little girl, I remember our coach unexpectedly throwing the ball at each of us—the girl who didn’t flinch got the goalkeeper jersey. That’s the qualification. Keepers have no flinch reflex.
She jabs a finger at Tyler’s nose and sneers. “You threaten my friend again and I will cut your balls off and serve them to my lizard.”
“You better get that finger out of my face,” Tyler growls, bearing down on her.
“You are a second away from getting your ass whipped, Pony Boy.”
“By who?” he smirks. “All I see are a bunch of white girls with an attitude.”
Kia drops her sports bag and pinches her caramel colored skin. “Does this look white to you?”
Minka’s ponytail whips the edge of her shoulders as she shakes her head. She’s from Columbia, and she’s usually the calm, quiet one, but not right now. “I guarantee you, I’m blacker than anyone you’ll ever see at your family reunion,” she spits out.
“And I sure as hell am not a white girl—I’m from Texas,” Jace says, bobbing her chin. She actually is a white girl, but she’s convinced that being from the Lone Star State is an ethnic distinction. I’ve seen her write in a special “Texan” box, just under Hispanic, Asian, and African American on forms.
“Wall!” He blinks at the force of Jace’s shout inches from his face. It’s the call we use to line up shoulder-to-shoulder and block penalty shots. My teammates come together, and we all step forward. Holy shit.
Thankfully, Darren shoves Tyler away from Jace. “We’re going, we’re going,” he grumbles. Sydney steps forward and tilts her head. “Walk around,” she says, snapping her fingers and pointing sideways
“Unbelievable,” Sam says, shaking her head and staring at their backs.
We disband and head to our cars, and I take Jace up on her offer to drive my Jetta, flopping in the passenger seat. I let out the breath I’ve been holding since Tyler shoved me in that room, and lean an elbow on the window. His angry voice spins in my head as if it’s on repeat. Your boy’s not as clean as you think. What the hell is that supposed to mean? What is it that Preston isn’t telling me, and how did I get caught up in this mess? A month ago I was cruising into the final games of my senior year—ready to bring to the field everything I’ve worked to master these last four years. A slow tear rolls down my cheek. I close my eyes and sniff.
“Are you crying?” Jace shrieks, reaching over and pinching my arm. “Stop crying!”
“Ouch!” I say, smacking her hand. “Stop that!”
“We’re bitches. We don’t cry,” she says.
I swipe the tear away with my fingertips. “Those guys told me my appeal threatens the whole football team—not just Preston.”
“That’s a lot of shit to the bull, and even if it’s not, too bad for them,” she snaps.
“I don’t think it is. If Preston testifies for me, not only will he be facing his own hearing, whoever covered up his arrest is in trouble, and there’s something else going on that no one seems to want to tell me. I’m worried he’s in trouble.” She thinks about my words, and I release another hard breath. “Maybe I should just tell him to forget it.”
“What?” Outrage fills her face. “Hell to the N-O! You are not going to sacrifice everything you’ve worked for these last four years.”
“But it’s just me, and he has this huge career ahead of him, and the team—”
“If the football team gets hurt, it’s because of something they did. And it’s not ‘just’ you,” she says, pointing a finger toward me. “You represent every female athlete that’s ever sweated her ass off for the glory of playing on a college field. Despite the fact that we’re the last ones to get upgraded equipment, we get the worst field time, and they try to kick us out of our own damn training room, we are just as important. This is what we’ve fought for since we were little girls. Think about it, Sil. You and I are as tough as it gets. If we don’t fight back when the pressure’s on, who will? It’s our house, too, Goddamn it! Our house, too.”
A chill snakes down my spine. She’s right. If we want to be just as important, we have to believe that we are—no matter who’s standing in front of us making threats. I turn and stare at her. She’s the shortest goalie in our conference, and I guarantee you she’s the only one who sets her hair in hot rollers before a game. So how did a five foot five, big-haired strawberry-blonde who speaks with a Texas twang and carries a lizard in her purse learn to be so damn tough? The image of her confronting Tyler makes me want to laugh and shudder at the same time.
“When you confront people like that, do you ever worry about getting your ass kicked?”
She shrugs. “With this mouth, it wouldn’t be the first time. Getting my ass kicked would have been just another day in junior high had it not been for my brothers—even with Sweeney and Tucker, it still happened. My brothers had my back because they love me.” She lets out a long sigh. “The same reason I have yours.”
I turn and watch her peer over the dashboard. “Did you just say something nice to me? God, what is wrong with us?”
“Yes, I just said something nice to you. Now stop crying, bitch. It makes me crazy.”
“All right, all right,” I say, sniffing. “I love you, too, bitch.”
She pulls into the lot in front of our apartment and parks my Jetta, handing me the keys. “Are you going to tell Preston?” she asks, as we’re climbing the stairs.
“Um, hell to the N-O,” I say, using her words. “And you keep your mouth shut, too.” She shoots me a defensive look as we walk in.
“What’s up, ponytails,” Marcus calls. He’s midway through a bowl of cereal and Rasputin is lounging on one of his thighs.
“Do not mess with us,” Jace says. “Priscilla got jumped by three football players after practice.”
“Jace!”
“It’s just Marcus. What? I can’t tell Marcus?” She walks into the kitchen and opens a bag of Fritos as Marcus clicks off the TV and shifts his gaze between us.
“Is she for real? What happened?”
I let out a breath and tell him the story while Jace adds colorful commentary between mouthfuls of corn chips. Marcus rubs a hand slowly over the back of his buzz cut, listening intently. When I get to the part about Tyler shoving me into the room, he flinches.
“Oh, no, no, no…” he says in a serious tone.
“Oh, yes,” Jace responds, moving to the couch to sit next to him. She pats her lap, beckoning to Rasputin, who blinks but doesn’t move from her perch on his long thigh.
Her mouth drops. “Rasputin, come to your mother,” she says in a reprimanding voice.
“She’s comfortable,” Marcus responds, shifting to me. “You all right, Slow?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. My bodyguard scared ’em off.”
He glances skeptically at Jace and catches her bribing Rasputin with a Frito. “Hey, now, what are you doing there?”
“It’s corn,” Jace offers in justification, as Rasputin creeps slowly toward the chip. “And I thought you were going to shave that ’stache after the season opener.”
“I’m going to take a shower and do some studying,” I murmur, heading to my room and leaving them to their argument.
Chapter Eighteen
Preston
My mom and aunt had another incident with my uncle last night. I feel like shit that I wasn’t here but at least I came up with a solution. We’re all moving into one side of the duplex, sealing the interior door and leaving my uncle alone on the other side.
I asked Carson if I could borrow some tools and he volunteered to help. We’v
e been working all day, and even with the quick-dry joint compound, we’re barely going to make it. We have to be at the SEU Lafayette Center by seven, which is in about an hour. As part of our day before a game protocol, we spend the night sequestered in a hotel—it keeps anyone from partying too hard.
“Ready?” I ask Carson.
For added security we’re retrieving a bookcase that’s been sitting in the back of the garage and bolting it to the wall over the sealed door.
“Yup,” he says, bending and lifting. I grip the top shelf, taking the weight as it comes down, and we carry the coffin-like shape toward the house. Birdseed crunches under our feet as we pass the village of birdhouses my mom has hung in our back yard. Carson stops suddenly, jamming the bookcase into my thighs. Our neighbor’s front door just opened, and he’s watching the small shadow of a dark-haired girl. She raises a running shoe to the porch railing, moving into the light and lacing up. I push forward, and Carson pushes back, grinning without looking at me.
“Do you think that’s the niece they were talking about?” he asks, swiveling his head and watching her trot off.
“They said she’d be here for Thanksgiving,” I respond.
“Well, the neighborly thing to do would be to stop over and express how thankful I am that she’s arrived,” he says.
“Thought ‘good girls’ weren’t your thing,” I taunt.
He smiles. “Even good girls have bad days.”
“You might want to take a shower first, Romeo. You’re covered in drywall dust.”
“Good point.” He swabs his mouth over his upper arm and spits chalk.
Thirty minutes later, we’ve secured the bookshelf, and Carson is packing up. He swings his tool belt over his shoulder and loops an extension cord between his hand and elbow. “I’m going to throw these in my trunk and make some room,” he says, heading out the side door.
Minutes pass as I gather the rest of the equipment, clip the cases shut, and swing a box in each hand. My foot hits the uneven pavement just as a blood-curdling scream pierces the night air. My heart pounds in my chest and I pivot. Carson’s towering frame is hunched over at the end of our driveway. He’s holding out a hand, but I can’t see what’s in front of him until he sinks to his knees. What the hell?
