by Mariah Dietz
“Hey,” Mom calls, nailing him with a glare.
My attention cuts to Lincoln, who’s watching the film again as the player in question levels another player, leaving him immobile on the field.
“Looks like it’s going to be hunting season for Lincoln,” Caleb says, turning back to his phone.
“He’s fast,” I say. “But he always plants on his right knee. I’d bet a hundred bucks he’s either nursing an injury or they don’t make him practice going left because he’s fast enough to recover nine times out of ten.” I stand up, walking to the TV. “And this guy is his insurance.” I point at the player sprinting down from midfield.
Pax runs his hand over his mouth, leaning his shoulders back against the sofa before looking at Lincoln. “They’re hella fast.”
Lincoln nods, his attention on the TV, all his defenses raised, making him impossible to read. I have no idea if he’s concerned or if he’s masterminding ways to avoid being added to this player’s list of targets.
We continue watching film, Pax filling several sheets with notes until he gets a call that has him standing up. “I’ve got to get this. It’s Candace.”
“How are things going with them?” Mom asks.
Caleb shrugs. Lincoln doesn’t hear the question, his attention on the game we’re watching for a second time.
Mom sighs. “I’m going to order some pizzas.” She sets her stuff down and heads toward the kitchen because my parents might be the only two people in the state who still use a landline.
Lincoln’s attention doesn’t shift from the game, even when food arrives, he’s absent except for thanking Mom and taking several slices.
18
I stare at the red line on my hand, the one separating lucid and sane from the madness I keep edging toward.
“This is amazing,” Greta says, shaking her head as she smiles.
“They’re like local celebrities,” Jordan adds.
It’s true. I called Greta the morning after dissecting Colorado’s tape with Pax, asking her to share that Brighton U’s football team would be at Beach Day, and it was shared over ten thousand times in less than twenty-four hours. We generally struggle to get more than a dozen volunteers, and this morning we have well over three hundred. Four local news stations are here, and two newspapers are interviewing the team and are scheduled to meet with Greta and Hans afterward.
The football team is walking on air, eating up their celebrity status as people ask for autographs and pictures.
“Where are we with hating Lincoln?” Poppy asks, blowing into her cupped hands. “Do we still hate him?”
I take another gulp of my lukewarm coffee. “We probably should. Seems safer.”
“What about Derek? Do we hate him?”
“I’m pretty sure he might hate us. I never replied to his last message.”
“Anyone else we should be avoiding?”
“I don’t know. Anyone on your list?”
“I hate everyone.” Poppy shrugs.
Laughter bubbles out of me, and I’m grateful my best friend was willing to trade shifts so she could be here with me today.
“Uh oh. Warning. Eleven o’clock.”
“Who?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
“Wrong eleven o’clock,” she says.
“What?” I turn to look over my other shoulder.
“That’s three o’clock,” she hisses.
“For who?”
“Me!”
I swing back around in time to see Derek, a smile stretching across his lips. “You’re supposed to say the time based upon the person you’re telling,” he says, winking at Poppy.
I look at her, sharing a silent ‘I told you so.’ Because I have so many times.
“Hi, Derek,” she says.
“Hi, Poppy. Raegan.”
“I’m going to get some trash bags.” Poppy points in the direction of the setup table, though I know full and well she has two bags shoved in her pockets because I handed them to her.
Derek shoves his hands into his pockets, his blond hair shorter. He looks at me, going up on his toes. “How have you been?”
“I haven’t been ignoring you,” I tell him.
His brows pull upward. “No? That’s good to hear because I was a little worried that I might have crossed the line back at that party when I asked if you and Arlo have something.”
“You kind of did, but that’s not it. I just…”
“Bad breakup?”
“Something like that.” It has been, and though it’s only been a one-sided breakup, I’ve learned over the past couple of weeks that recovering from a crush can feel awfully similar to a strained heart.
“But there’s nothing going on between you and Arlo?”
I shake my head. “He’s like a brother to me.”
“Should I heed that as a warning?”
A smile pulls at my lips. “Depends on your intentions.”
“Initially? To convince you I’m different. Then, to make you forget about whatever asshole failed to be good enough.”
My heart accelerates, beating so loud and hard I can hear it in my ears.
“What are you doing next week?”
“Next week?”
He nods, his smile gentle and patient.
“When?”
“Any day. We can go out and talk. Hang out without a party and a million distractions.”
“Monday? We could meet around two?”
“Sure.” He flashes a smile that is equally beautiful and cocky, his attention so intent I find myself forgetting the rest of the beach and the entire purpose of today.
“Did you get roped into coming by Paxton?” Derek asks. “This place is colder than hell. I don’t know if I’m going to be visiting the beach again while living on this side of the country.”
“It’s actually pretty nice today,” I say.
“Nice? You’re not supposed to have to wear your winter coat to the beach. The Atlantic is warm. You wear a bathing suit and swim in the water, lie on the shore and tan. It’s nice. Relaxing.”
“But, you can’t see an orca.”
He laughs. “I’ll take you to the Outer Banks and show you the wild horses and the dolphins.”
“Ladies and gentleman,” Hans says, addressing the hundreds of volunteers gathered on the shore. He gives a compelling and touching speech about the partners the aquarium works with on a continuous basis and the mission statement we strive for each day. It’s a heartfelt message that I hope will sink in a bit farther than today alone.
Then Greta takes the mic, a wide, prize-winning smile in place. “We want to thank you all for joining us this morning. We know it’s cold, but we promise, once you get moving, you’ll appreciate the breeze. And you volunteering today will help save sea turtles, dolphins, whales, birds, and so many more animals. We want to sincerely thank you for volunteering and want to remind you of the various events we run over the course of the year.
“While I’m up here, I also want to give a special shout out to one of our own. Raegan, where are you?” She lifts a hand like a visor, peering among the crowd.
“Rae Rae!” I hear Arlo yelling, followed closely by Paxton.
Joe is just a couple feet away and spots me, waving an arm in my direction. Greta laughs, her eyes finding me. “Raegan is one of the smartest, most motivated young women I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. If you haven’t met her, be sure to chat with her today. She’s probably the kindest person you’ll ever meet, and though she won’t admit it, she’s rather funny. So, stop by, tell her she kicks ass, and give yourself a pat on the back for saving animals and keeping our water and Earth a little cleaner.”
Applause breaks out, and I’m grateful I can blame the wind for my rose-tinted cheeks.
“You completely let me put my foot in my mouth, didn’t you?” Derek asks, his lips climbing into a grin before he shakes his head. “Let me guess, you love the beach?”
My smile is instant, enjoying the scratch of une
ase I see on his perfect exterior. “It’s my favorite place.”
He nods a couple of times. “Well then, I retract everything I said and plead ignorance because this is where I plan to spend all my time.” He lifts his shoulders with a slight tremor of a shiver. “Once I get a new winter coat for subzero weather, that is.”
My laughter is immediate and genuine, only tapering off when Arlo and Paxton wander over.
“Look at you, all-star,” Pax says, throwing his arm around my shoulders.
“I know. Can you believe all these people came just to see me?” I tease, striking a pose.
Arlo laughs, but it’s censored, his attention split between me and Derek. Pax grins, poking me with an elbow.
“Don’t get such a big head that I have to roll you home,” he warns.
“I don’t know. I might have exceeded that point.”
“Years ago,” he adds, his blue eyes filled with humor. “Listen, I’ve got to catch up with Candace, but find me before you leave, okay?” Pax glances from me to Derek, giving a tight jerk of a nod that I’m fairly certain is an olive branch, albeit, a fragile one.
“Make sure they’re actually picking up garbage,” I say, referring to the team who all seem to be impressing someone at the moment. “The celebrity factor is great, but I still need the beach cleaned.”
“Always the hardass.”
“You know me.”
“Unfortunately.”
I flip him the bird, but my motivation slips as I catch sight of Poppy in the distance, talking to Lincoln. A smile that looks both kind and patient making him more handsome than the broody look I trace each night before going to sleep.
“You ready?” Derek asks, shaking out his garbage bag.
Poppy laughs at something, and Lincoln follows, shifting the gray beanie concealing most of his dark locks. If there was ever a hope for superpowers, I’d wish I could hear their conversation. To know what’s happening. Because, try as I might, my jealousy right now is aimed solely at my best friend.
“Yeah,” I say, turning to face Derek. “Let’s go.”
“So, you’re the youngest of three?” he asks.
We pass several people here to help clean up, going against the wind that pulls at our coats and blows my hair into my face. I pull it into a quick knot so it doesn’t become a massive tangle and nod. “I am. What about you? Do you have siblings?”
“A younger brother.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s a sophomore in high school.”
“Do you guys get along?”
“Not like you and Paxton,” he says. “I mean, we’re cool, but we don’t talk much. He’s trying to do his own thing and hates if we’re compared.”
“That’s normal. My sister’s seven years older than me, and with Pax in the middle, I think it made it easier on us in some ways because people were less inclined to compare us. Especially since his thing was always football.”
“What’s your thing?”
I think of telling Lincoln how I always felt forced into academia, but now I’m not as sure. I don’t feel sure of much anymore. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t really have a thing.”
He chucks a thumb back toward the crowds. “I think you’re lying, because that lady listed off at least four, and though I barely know you, I can tell she’s hardly scratched the surface.” His stare is consuming and demanding that I acknowledge his words. “You have no idea, do you?”
“No idea of what?”
“How amazing you are.”
I chuckle. The response necessary to lighten the mood that he’s made too intense with a few words that construct an entire castle of thoughts and hopes that are both too large and grand. “You worry me.”
“Why? Do I make you nervous?”
Probably. Sometimes. “There’s always purpose behind your words, but I’m not sure I always understand the intention.”
“I’m trying to make that really clear.”
“But are these words this easy to find for everyone you talk to?”
He flashes that cocky grin he’s getting known for as the season progresses. “Are you asking if I’m a flirt?”
“I’m asking if you’re genuine.”
He stops, pivoting so he’s facing me. “No bullshit. I like you. There’s something about you that just makes me feel good. I want to know you. I want to know everything about you. I want to find out if you’re a bed hog and what you like to eat for breakfast. I want to know who your favorite band is and if you sing along in the shower.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” I tell him, hating myself for feeling so broken when these are words I’ve dreamed of hearing since I was six and fell in love with fairytales.
He grins, this time it’s softer, radiating more warmth than force. “I didn’t say it has to happen next week. Consider us a radio station. We start off with a slow tempo, and we keep going, changing the beat, changing the pace.” Caramel eyes scan mine, searching for understanding—hope.
“I sing in the shower and the car,” I tell him, trying my best to convey I’m willing to try.
His smile climbs, staining each of my thoughts.
19
“Where’s the controller?” Gramps asks, interrupting the pre-game as they discuss Brighton, breaking down their year as well as several players, evaluating stats and strengths. They’re focused on Derek right now, discussing how impossibly fast he is.
“Rae,” Gramps says. “You ignoring me?”
“I’m just … listening.”
“Yeah. I’d like to as well,” he says. A throw pillow hits me in the face, falling to the floor. I glance back at him sitting in the easy chair. “I need that pillow, too.” He points at the offending pillow he threw.
“Anything else, your highness?”
“Just your love.” He smiles smugly, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms and ankles.
“You’re ruining your chances of that.” I warn him.
“It’s not my fault. I’m sore from all that walking yesterday. Camilla and I filled two garbage bags. Think of all the turtles we saved.”
His words fade as I turn my attention back to the TV where they’re talking about Derek again, showing a highlight reel from the previous games.
Grandpa clears his throat. It’s a loud and exaggerated sound. I lean forward, grabbing the pillow. “How come you’re watching that pretty boy? You fancy him?” Gramps asks.
I swallow, handing him the pillow. “He’s a friend.”
“I bet Paxton’s not happy with that,” he says, chuckling as he shifts and gets comfortable.
“What doesn’t Paxton like?” Mom asks, coming in from the kitchen with a plate filled with cheese and crackers.
Grandpa nods in the direction of the TV. “Derek Paulson.”
Mom turns her attention to me, her eyes twice their normal size. “Really?”
“We’re friends,” I tell them both.
“That’s what gramps said up until the day before he and Camilla got married.” Mom reminds us.
“We’re not getting married.”
“He’s cute,” Mom says.
“A little arrogant,” Gramps adds.
“Dad, I dare you to find one on the team who isn’t,” she counters.
Gramps laughs again, his deep rumbly laugh that transports me back in time, to memories of sitting with him on that same chair, watching football games and cartoons together.
Dad follows, the crock pot in his hands, the scents of vinegar and brown sugar making my mouth water as he presents the little smokies he makes for each game day. “What are you guys laughing about?” he asks.
“What do you think about Rae dating a football player?” Gramps lifts his eyebrows, his intention to wreak havoc clear.
“I’m not dating a football player.”
“Which one?” Dad asks, looking at Mom.
“Paulson. Derek.”
Dad pulls his chin back. “I didn’t think Pax liked hi
m.”
“Are we done?” I ask, grabbing the remote and turning the TV up so Gramps can hear.
“I thought we were talking about Derek?” Mom asks.
“We weren’t.”
“You guys did look cute yesterday,” Mom tacks on.
Gramps snaps. “That’s right. You guys were together on the beach for a while. But then he was doing those interviews.” He sits back, absent as he tries to recall the specifics. “He liked the lime light.”
Dad looks pale. I think he dreads these conversations more than I do.
“He has a nice smile,” Mom says as they flash a final picture of Derek, moving onto Paxton and his story, showing pictures of my brother when he was young, playing football and film from him high school games. Gramps cheers, Mom claps, and Dad and I sit back, soaking up each words of praise they add to his long resume of accomplishments.
They use Pax’s friendship with Lincoln to segue into Lincoln’s highlights, showing several videos of him weaving down the field, his agility and speed equally impossible. They cut to his injury from last year and more of him working on his recovery, including a short clip from tonight getting his ankles taped and his shoulder stretched by the trainer. His face is stoic—broody. He doesn’t flash smiles at the camera like Derek does, and it only seems to draw the camera crews in, waiting to earn a glimpse when you see joy hit his face and spread to his eyes.
Mom places a hand on her chest. “He’s a special kid.”
Thankfully, the game starts, and with Brighton on offense and Pax on the field, conversation ceases as we focus our attention on the game. My heart hasn’t been beating evenly since I woke up this morning, a nervous energy after thinking entirely too much about this game and the possible outcomes. Pax is caught on camera, his fingers laced through Lincoln’s helmet as he says something to him. I pray it’s a reminder of the steam train that’s going to be headed right for him. Lincoln nods, and then Pax does as well, and the two break apart, lining up.
Play after play. Hit after hit. We’re silent, watching one of the most physical games in the history of Paxton’s career, flinching and gasping each time one of our players is laid out.
