by Dahlia Adler
Is it my imagination, or do his eyes laser in on me and Vindra?
“This blows,” I mutter as soon as his gaze shifts. “I don’t wanna find a new partner.”
“Me neither. We’re a total dream team.”
I chew on my lip as I glance around the room, trying to figure out a reasonable replacement. Andrew Tucker’s a misogynistic asshole who doesn’t seem to grasp that women can do math too, so he’s out. I can see Melanie Aziz and Justin Lieb have already paired up. Hmm, maybe—
A wadded up piece of paper lands precisely in the middle of my desk, and I smile. Only one person in the class has that perfect a toss. As I unfold it, I already know I’m gonna say yes to Jake Moss, even though I suspect the only reason he and Quentin have gotten this far is because their frat’s rumored to keep old tests on file.
An hour and a half later, class is over, and Jake and I walk out together to plan our first meet-up. “He’s kind of a hardass, isn’t he?”
“No worse than Stein,” I point out, pulling on my gloves. “This is definitely not gonna be an easy A.”
“Shit, I’ll take a not-so-easy B-minus,” Jake says with a laugh. “I just need to keep my ass on the team, and speaking of hardasses, the new assistant coach is…yeah. Makes Arnold and Stein look like chumps. And he’s a student, too, which is extra fucked-up.”
“Yikes. I didn’t realize you guys were getting someone new.” I walk through the door Jake holds open, and immediately wince against the cold. “What happened to Sturmer?”
“Got an offer at FSU over break. Kind of a no-brainer move. Who wants to fuck around with us lame D-IIIs, right?”
I smile wryly and say nothing. Lacrosse obviously isn’t one of the NCAA’s top priority sports, but being the school’s only D-I team does have its perks. Coach Brady’s a hardass too, but he’s one of the best of the best, and unlike my father, he isn’t going anywhere.
“Where’s this guy from?”
“Indiana. He was a rising star there or some shit, but he got a nasty concussion and bailed—on the team, the school…everything.”
My entire body grows cold. There’s only one guy he can possibly be talking about, and it explains a whole lot. A concussion or two is by no means a career-ender, but Mase has been playing ball since he could walk; he’s racked up his fair share. When all the crazy shit started coming out about chronic traumatic encephalopathy in athletes, I made him promise he’d never let that happen to him, but it wasn’t necessary—he was plenty spooked on his own.
I guess that last hit spooked him for good.
Fuck.
“Good thing we have this whole Econ backup plan, just in case,” Jake says with a grin, oblivious to my horror. “I can meet up this weekend, but we’ve got a home game Saturday. You coming?”
I hadn’t planned to, but I haven’t been to a game in a while, and it sounds like fun. I used to love watching Mase play, and not just because his arms look great in a jersey. Not that there’s any reason for me to be thinking about Lawrence Mason; he’s certainly not why I’m interested in going. “Yeah, sure. I can hit that up.”
“And bring your friend Frankie?” he adds, waggling his eyebrows.
“God, you boys are all so predictable.”
“What? She’s hot.”
“She is,” I agree. “I’ll see what I can do. If you make time to study afterward. Deal?”
“Deal.” We exchange numbers, then say goodbye and part ways—him for his frat house, and me for my dorm. It’s only as I near my room that I realize Mase might be in there—that he might always drop by, that it may be impossible to stay out of his way, or keep him out of mine.
I take a sharp turn away from the dorm and head off to Lizzie and Frankie’s place instead, despite the bitter cold.
• • •
No one’s home over there—Frankie’s probably at her art studio and Lizzie’s probably underneath Connor somewhere—so I just wander for a while, trying to clear my head. Instead, all that time alone has the opposite effect, and thoughts of Mase collide with thoughts of my father, who apparently couldn’t wait to reach out, because I have three missed calls from him.
I still can’t bring myself to call him back.
Instead, I call Cammie, knowing my sister will be a welcome voice of sanity in this whole shitshow. She picks up after three rings, and skips all possible pleasantries. “If you’re calling to convince me to talk to Dad about this ridiculous wedding—”
“Please, Cam, you’re preaching to the choir. Trust me. I’ve been ignoring him since I spoke to him this morning.”
“Oh. I just assumed…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to. Dad and I have always been a team, bonded by our love of endorphins, competition, and Monday Night Football. Throughout high school, he was my biggest cheerleader on the lacrosse sidelines, and even in college, he’s kept it up as much as he can. Cammie’s passions, on the other hand, include ballet and criminology, neither of which our father has ever been inclined to indulge.
It’s what makes this whole thing feel like that many more daggers in my back.
“Yeah, no. I support Dad, but not about bringing some woman we barely know into the family, and not about moving across the country. Like, does he even give a shit that this means we won’t even know our new sibling?”
There’s silence on the other end, and then, “Our what?”
Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Dad didn’t tell you that part?”
“I didn’t pick up when he called the first time around; he left me a voice mail telling me he’s marrying that woman who can’t cook or communicate with other human beings around a dinner table. Though his language might’ve been a little different than mine. That woman is pregnant?” She laughs, so bitterly it ices my veins even more harshly than the snow I’m trudging in back to my dorm as we talk. “Of fucking course.”
“Yeah, so, a little hard to be on Team Dad right now.”
“Welcome to my life.”
I opt to sidestep that one. “Yeah, well, we’re gonna have to deal with him eventually. Any idea what you’re gonna say?”
“To him? Nothing. Same as I’ve been saying to him for years. There’s no chance in hell I’m standing up at that wedding as if he and I have any kind of relationship.”
I exhale, watching my breath turn to clouds in the cold. The problem is, he and I do have a relationship, which means it’s a whole lot easier for Cammie to avoid this mess than it is for me. I know I can’t avoid him forever, but with classes just starting, Mase showing up out of nowhere, and the new class partnership rules throwing me off my game, I can’t deal with him any more today. “Fair enough,” I say, “but what about the baby? Don’t you care to know our new brother or sister?”
“Well, I haven’t exactly had a whole lot of time to factor that into my thoughts,” she grumbles, “but no, frankly, I don’t really. I already have a sister and brother who share much better DNA with me. I’m set, thanks.”
I don’t really know how to respond to that, so I’m grateful when my dorm finally comes into view…for five seconds, until I remember why I’d been avoiding it in the first place. I tell Cammie I’ll keep her apprised of any new developments, but that I have to go, and then I say a silent prayer that Mase doesn’t wanna see me in my room any more than I wanna see him.
Thankfully, no one’s home but Samara, who’s sitting at the communal table, sipping tea and reading from a paperback. “Hey,” I greet her, tossing off all my outerwear the second I’m inside. The suite, of course, is boiling hot.
“Hey. Still brutally cold out there?”
“Yup.” I pull my sweater over my head, careful not to yank my tank top up with it, and toss it onto the couch. Only when I notice her eyes following the movements do I realize she’s not as used to my messiness as Lizzie and Frankie were, and I quickly gather up all my stuff and put it away as if that were my plan all long. “You have class yet today?”
“Two this
morning,” she drawls, then takes another sip of her tea. “There’s more hot water in the kettle, if you want, and teabags in one of the middle cabinets.”
After all that wandering in the cold, tea does sound pretty good right now. “Great, thank you.” I pour myself a cup and wonder whether I should take it into my room or sit down and get to know Samara. It’s weird, having new people in the suite, but I decide to make an effort and sit down. “So, where’d you transfer from?”
“Clemson.”
“You left the warm south for this?” I raise an eyebrow and take a sip. “Why?”
Her mouth twitches, like she’s trying to decide just how much to say. “I needed a little more space between me and my family. I thought a thousand miles would probably cover it.”
“And has it?”
Now it twitches into a smile. “Still remains to be seen. But so far, so good.”
We drink for another minute in silence, and I realize I like this girl. She’s not loud and brash like Lizzie or Frankie, but she’s clearly got her own edge under that sweet-as-pie drawl. Maybe having new girls in the suite won’t be all that bad.
“Is your family close by?” she asks.
Or maybe it will be.
“My dad is.” I tap my fingers against the side of the mug, relishing its warmth, trying not to think about the fact that that won’t be true much longer. “My mom’s in Vermont, sister’s in Massachusetts, and brother’s at school in Ohio. We’re kinda spread out all over the place.”
“Ah, divorce. Is it weird that I’m jealous?”
I’m glad I hadn’t started drinking my tea again, or I probably would’ve spit it out. “Jealous?”
She rolls her eyes. “Let’s just say my parents aren’t the most functional unit.”
“Oh, I feel you there.” I take a sip of the hot liquid. It’s sweet, peach-flavored. “My dad just called me today to tell me that he’s getting married to a woman I’ve met exactly once. Oh, and she’s having their baby. And moving them to San Diego.”
One of her perfectly arched eyebrows rises upward. “Hmm. Okay. You might win.”
As I trace the lacrosse logo on my mug, it occurs to me that Samara’s the first person I’ve told, even before Lizzie or Frankie. That feels really weird, but now that the words are out, I need to talk about them. “I just don’t really know how to deal with it yet. I called my sister, and ended up accidentally being the one to break the news to her about the baby, so that sucked.”
“That sounds like an understatement. And how’d your conversation go with your dad?”
“It didn’t, really. I’ve been ignoring him. He’ll be calling again tonight. I plan on ignoring that call, too.”
She snorts. “Sounds like my kind of strategy.”
“I don’t think I saw your parents here, actually. Did they move you in?”
“Nope. Haven’t really spoken to them since I got here,” she says flatly. “Trust me, it’s for the best.”
I look down sourly into the contents of the mug. “Parents suck sometimes.” All of a sudden, I feel impossibly exhausted from this day. “Thank you for the tea. I think I’m gonna lie down for a little bit before my next class.” I take one more sip, then get up and wash out the mug. Just before I lock myself in my room for the next hour, though, I turn back. “Hey, Samara?”
She glances up from her book. “Yeah?”
“You wanna go to a basketball game with me on Saturday?”
Surprise flashes across her face, but she hides it quickly. “Sure, why not?”
Feeling a little less like a jerk for my not-so-warm welcome last night, I smile. “Great. I think it’s at one, but I’ll double-check and let you know.”
Then I close the door back up so I can get in some solid wallowing time.
“So, are you doing this Jake kid, or what?” Frankie asks as we pick our way through the crowd in the bleachers to find where Samara is saving us seats. We’re ten minutes late because I had to make Frankie change into something that wouldn’t result in frostbite on our way to the gym, and the place is packed. When it’s this brutally cold outside, on-campus events tend to get a whole lot more popular.
“No, I’m not doing Jake—we’re friends, and we’re partnering up for a class presentation.” I crane my neck and finally spot Samara’s thick, honey-colored twist of hair up toward the back corner of the room. “There she is,” I say, nodding in her direction. “Come on.”
But Frankie stops short. “That’s your suitemate? The blonde in the pink sweater?”
“Yeah, why? You know her?”
“Uh, no, but I’d sure as hell like to. How did you not tell me she’s obscenely gorgeous?”
Uh oh. “Frankie,” I say with a sigh. “Come on. I have to live with her. This would be worse than you screwing one of my teammates.”
“But…but…” She gestures at Samara. “Cait. Come on.”
“Keep walking, Bellisario,” I grunt at her. “And don’t even think about it.”
“You suck, Johannssen,” she grunts back, but she does keep walking, and I roll my eyes at the back of her colorfully streaked head. I love that Frankie sees sexual possibility everywhere she goes, but she has a knack for seeing it in some extremely inconvenient places. After she hooked up with not one but two of the lax girls last year, I had to institute some major ground rules. That was not a fun locker room fight.
“Maybe you should hook up with Jake,” I suggest, sweeping a hand toward the court. “Hell, hook up with as many of the basketball guys as you want. Just not—”
I lose the ability to form words when I see Mase standing on the sidelines. Seeing him on the court triggers something so familiar in me that a smile creeps onto my lips, but at the same time, the fact that he’s wearing a suit and not a jersey twists my heart.
“Is that your roommate’s boyfriend?” Frankie asks, following my eye line. “I mean, uhh…”
I elbow her in the arm. “Yes, it is. Now shut up.” I shuffle over to Samara with Frankie in tow. “Samara, this is Frankie. Frankie, Samara.”
Frankie’s eyes light up as she enthusiastically reaches out a hand to grip Samara’s, and I resist the urge to mutter, “Down, girl.”
“So you’re my replacement,” says Frankie. “How are you finding the bed?”
Good Lord. I leave Frankie to her flirting and focus my concentration back on Mase. It’s so strange to see him just standing there, tugging his sleeves and pacing the sidelines. Of course, I imagine he must feel the same way.
The whistle blows, and the players gather back toward the bench. I see Mase wave Jake over, and what looks to be some light correction of his shooting stance. Lordy, this is weird, and probably not gonna help with Jake thinking he’s a pain in the ass. But if that were me—if I’d lost the ability to play, and all I could do was watch other people do a subpar job at something I know I could crush…
“You okay?” Samara asks. “You look a little…sick.”
“I’m good,” I lie, feeling my heart ache as I watch Mase talk to different players in turn. This is why he’s here. This is what he’s doing. This is all he can do, now, forever. The idea of Mase not being able to play ball anymore is impossible to comprehend. And if it’s that hard for me, who hasn’t seen him play in years, I can only imagine how he’s been processing it. “Just trying to catch up on what I’ve missed.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she says with a grin. “I know absolutely nothing about basketball. It’s just nice to get out of the dorm. I’m not used to the crazy cold. I feel like I’ve been hiding indoors every spare moment possible.”
“Where are you from?” Frankie asks.
“A small town near Charleston, South Carolina. Not that it’s exactly beach weather down there right now, but it’s a whole lot warmer than this.”
Next to me, I can feel Frankie melting, though whether it’s from the accent or from picturing Samara lying on the sand in a bikini, I’m not sure. “That sounds gorgeous,” Frankie says dreamily.
“Wouldn’t mind pretending I’m there right now, frolicking in the waves in a teeny tiny bathing suit.”
Subtlety: not Frankie’s strong suit.
“You do make it sound a whole lot better than I remember it,” Samara drawls, and both girls laugh.
Good Lord—it’s mutual. This is so gonna be trouble.
Still, Frankie’s one of my best friends, and by extension, I’m required to be her wingman whenever possible. “Frankie’s a very talented artist,” I confide to Samara. “Painting gorgeous pictures is kind of her specialty.”
“Is that so?” Samara sounds suitably impressed.
“It is. I don’t know a thing about art, but I know she’s damn good at it.”
Frankie blushes, which makes me smile. Girl is never lacking for confidence, but she always, always blushes if you compliment her on the art front. Never mind that she’s absurdly talented and has been told she has an extremely promising future by every teacher she’s ever had. “I dabble,” she mumbles.
I roll my eyes. “She does way more than dabble. You should totally check out her art sometime. They have a few pieces up in the Art Department.”
Frankie pinches me through my jeans. “Okay, fangirl, you’ve earned your twenty bucks. Quit it.”
Samara laughs. “She’s certainly a compelling agent. I’ll have to come check it out sometime.”
The whistle blows again, diverting my attention back to the court while the two of them continue flirting over my lap. Jake plays point, but right now my eyes are on Darrell Watkins, the center. Center was Mase’s position—one I know he had to fight to keep at Indiana, since being just shy of 6’10” put him on the shorter side. I wonder if watching Darrell pains him, if he’s overly critical of the height of his dribble, the way he moves just a half-step too slow. I know when I’m on the sidelines watching my second-string, Christina Coville, I can’t stop myself from mentally correcting every step she takes.
