by Dahlia Adler
My gaze flickers over to the hint of a smile playing on his mouth. Smug jerk.
“So, I don’t know you anymore, but you think you know me?”
“I do know you,” he says confidently, slipping a bill across the bar as the bartender brings him his beer. “You don’t change, Cait. You’re at the college you always said you’d go to, playing the same sport you’ve always played, majoring in exactly what you knew you would. No hair dye, no piercings, no tattoos—”
“None that you can see, anyway.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re lying.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I see him give me a quick onceover, even as he huffs out a quick laugh to cover it. “There’s no chance. I know you.”
“You knew me.”
“I know you.” His dark eyes glitter in the flashing lights of the club, and the hint of possession in his voice does some unwelcome things to my insides. “You’d never get a piercing, because you’re afraid it’d get tugged out during a game. If you have a tattoo, it’s of the number twenty-one, which is your number and was also your dad’s when he played basketball in high school and at UVM. But you don’t have a tattoo, because there’s no way you could commit to a body part for it; it takes you forever to make choices about anything that isn't food-related. I know that whatever you’ve got going on with Moss, you hate being here tonight and wish more than anything you were back in your room watching ESPN Classic.”
I don’t answer.
“Am I right?”
“What difference does it make?” Fuck the fact that I didn’t order a second beer; I grab Mase’s and chug it.
“None at all,” he says, amusement playing at his lips as he watches me.
I pull the bottle away and slam it back down in front of him, considerably emptier than when I’d picked it up. “If you say a word about me being unladylike—”
“I have never disliked your being unladylike.” The tone of his voice doesn’t change, but the volume of it lowers, reminding me that tonight is yet another night awash in secrets.
I’m not sure I’m up for any more of those.
But apparently, I have fewer than I thought, because Mase continues without missing a beat.
“I know you’re upset about your father’s wedding, and your friends think it’s about lacrosse, but more than anything it’s that you were his shining star and now someone else is coming in first. And that feels extra shitty because your dad is supposed to be someone you know as well as you know yourself.”
“Yeah, well, a lot of people have been disappointing me in that way lately,” I snap, refusing to let him have this.
“Cait—”
“You’re just…here,” I spit. “You’re here, and you didn’t even give me a heads-up you were coming. You show up in my fucking room and—”
I don’t get to finish my words before he grabs my wrist and pulls me off the chair, toward the exit. My instinct is to childishly pull my arm back, but the fact is I want to have this conversation, and the noisy interior of a club is a stupid place to have it. We go around to the alley, but there are too many people standing there smoking, so we go out front. No one’s around but the bouncer, who’s not really a threat given he’s shorter than I am in my heels and Mase could definitely kick his ass with an arm tied behind his back.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t blow up in front of my girlfriend,” Mase says when we’re settled, keeping his voice low.
“And I’d appreciate some honesty, finally,” I shoot back. “I want to know what you’re doing here. I know you got a concussion, and that sucks, and I’m sorry. But there’s no way they made you quit; you’re clearly still eligible by NCAA guidelines. And even if you weren’t, you didn’t have to transfer.”
“Says you and everyone else. Do you know that a couple of weeks before that concussion, I sprained my knee? It took weeks for me to get cleared after that hit, but the second I was, ‘Mason, stop being such a pussy and get back on the court.’ I knew I wasn’t ready, but I sucked it up, because that’s what a real man does, right? That’s what you do when you’re on a team. And if you’re not completely stable, so you go down hard when some dick fouls you, and you bash your skull—who gives a shit? That’s the game.
“But you know what? That’s fucked up. It is fucked up that everyone who’s supposed to have your back will ignore the possibility of permanent brain damage if it suits them. Fuck that. And it’s not like I was making NBA money; I was making big fat NCAA zero. If I fucked myself up too bad to go pro? That’s all I’d ever make. My mom needs more than zero from me. At least here I get paid, and I don’t have to be around the guys who didn’t have my back when I made my choice.”
His mom. I knew it. If there’s one woman who can actually affect Mase’s choices, it’s Sharon Mason. She wasn’t a huge fan of mine—once she learned Will would never be bringing home a black girl, the idea of her other son with a white one got even less appealing—but she’s a pretty objectively kickass parent. She raised both boys by herself—first while Mase’s dad was away in the military, and then after he was killed in action. I’m not surprised she factored into his plans.
So that answers one question, but not the one I’ve been dying to ask; the one I know I shouldn’t. Mase is with Andi. The fact that he and I have this history doesn’t matter. But this is the first real, honest conversation we’ve had, and it might be our only one; I can’t miss my chance to ask it. “You said before I’m at the college I always said I would be,” I say quietly. “You remember Radleigh’d been at the top of my list for years. Did you remember that when you picked it to transfer to?”
He doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t move at all. If my eyes didn’t stay trained on his face, I probably would’ve missed his eventual slow nod.
But I don’t miss it. And he knows I don’t.
“What the hell was your plan when you saw me?” I rasp, unexpected tears springing to my eyes. “You come to my school—following your girlfriend, no less—and knowing I’m here, and you were just…what? Never gonna say a word? Hope we’d go the entire time without bumping into each other? A warning might’ve been nice.”
I expect him to fight back, but he doesn’t. “I know.” His voice is low and regretful and actually makes me feel bad for losing my temper. “I know I should’ve told you. But I didn’t want you to think I came for you. I didn’t want you to think you were the reason I came to Radleigh.”
Ouch.
“But…I don’t know that you weren’t.” He’s not meeting my eyes as he says this, and my insides twist and turn unbearably at his words. “I mean, not that you were the reason, obviously, but…when I met Andi at that party and she said she went to Radleigh, something just clicked. I thought about how much we’d talked about your plans for this place, how much happiness I associated with it. I couldn’t not look into it for a new start, ya know? Things were such shit, and I just…I needed that feeling.”
Does Andi give you that feeling? I wonder, but I ask the more appropriate and generic version instead. “And? Are you happy here?”
“I should be. I got the job I was looking for. Andi’s here. I didn’t lose any credit transferring. I’m closer to home than I was in Indiana, which makes my mom happy.”
“But you’re miserable.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks up. “The thing about the stars, about everything that’s bigger than us, is they never fucking change. The Big Dipper looks the same here as it did in Indiana as it did in Stone Creek as it did in Philly.”
“Fools you into thinking everything’s got that staying power,” I say with a grim smile.
“But nothing does.”
“Not nothing.”
“Not for you, maybe.”
“I’m not talking about sports, Mase,” I snap, making his eyes flicker over to me for the first time since he got all confessional. “Friends have staying power, if you let them.”
He inhales sharply, b
ut doesn’t say anything. Then his eyes drift back up to the sky, and so do mine. Staring at the stars was a thing we used to do together all the time, him sharing his wealth of knowledge about constellations and how they got their names, and me listening to the fluid velvet of his voice and thinking how I could listen to it read the phone book. It seemed only natural when those long nights started including kissing, then more. During the day, we didn’t talk about much other than sports, but it wasn’t a secret. Everyone knew we were some sort of two-man team of our own. That we were always in each other’s cheering sections. That you didn’t fuck with one of us unless you were prepared to handle both.
I don’t think either of us realizes our fingers are intertwining until he squeezes my hand in his, an instinctive gesture from the days of old. It’s chilly outside but his skin is warm, a little less rough and callused than it used to be, but familiar nonetheless. For a moment, our gazes picking out the outlines of pictures in the sky, we are fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. We are smelling grass and summer sweetness, not cigarette smoke and fresh tar. We are bigger than us and so nothing changes.
But then the song inside switches and I think about how I want to dance with him and remember that I can’t and why I can’t and we are holding hands and this is not okay and I am not okay and we are not okay. We have changed and everything changes.
I let myself go limp in his grip and it jolts him. He looks down at our hands like he’s never seen them before, doesn’t know how they found each other in the night at all. He mutters something that’s either “Shit” or “Sorry” and it doesn’t really matter which so I don’t ask him to repeat himself.
“I think—” I’m about to say that I should go when Frankie’s long, streaked hair whips out the door and she sighs with relief.
“There you guys are! You need to get in here.”
I don’t even look to make sure Mase is following; I rush in after Frankie with my stomach sinking into my toes. There’s a crowd of guys gathered around Jake, and Troy is nowhere to be found.
Mase and I inch closer until I can hear most of what they’re saying. “I’m sure this is fucking hilarious to you, jock boy, but you can take your weak homophobic ass outta here. You wanna see girls fucking each other on the dance floor, go invite a couple of sad attention-seeking straight girls to one of your shitty frat parties.”
One of the guys shoves Jake’s shoulder, but Jake doesn’t move. His jaw is set in stone as he seemingly contemplates his next move.
Before anyone can respond, another of the guys looks up, his eyes widening in fear. I realize he’s spotted Mase. Jake may be built, but so are a lot of the guys here; he doesn’t terrify them.
A six-foot-nine black man? Apparently scares the shit out of everybody.
“Dude, chill,” the third guy in their group mutters at Mase, though he hasn’t said a word.
“Touch my friend again and I don’t think I will chill,” Mase says calmly. “Thanks for the advice, though.”
“What the fuck are all you guys even doing here?” the first guy spits out, though his bravado is wavering a little in Mase’s presence. “Not enough queers to bully in your own clubs? Gotta come here to mess with the fa—”
“Don’t you even fucking think about finishing that sentence.” Mase’s voice is still even but it’s coated in a steel edge. “You don’t put that word in my mouth. You don’t say it in front of my fucking brother. No one’s here to give you shit; everyone just wants to have a good time in peace. Stop running your damn mouth and let my friends be.”
Despite the fact that he hasn’t raised his voice once, the entire club has gone still. No one’s dancing. The music level has lowered. All the fun and festivity seems to have been sucked out of the room.
The guy who shoved Jake juts his chin out like he’s gonna respond, but he’s not fooling anyone. No one in his right mind would go up against the quiet statue of fury that is Mase right now. No one ever has. I’ve seen him like this only a handful of times in my life, but I’ll always remember the first. A couple of baseball players at camp had a little too much of their homemade moonshine and two of them tried getting me under the bleachers. I couldn’t take on both, but one of the few sober guys on the team went to get Mase, and I was freed before he could even swing a punch.
I got to swing the punches instead.
Finally, the guys walk away, and the club resumes its normal activity, but none of us are really in the mood to dance. No one looks more pissed than Andi, though. “Can I talk to you?” I hear her say to him coldly, though she’s obviously trying to keep her voice down. I can’t imagine what she has to be pissed about, but judging by the way Mase sighs and hangs his head, he knows exactly what he’s in for.
“I think we should probably go,” I murmur to Frankie. “Or at least I should. You can stay and have fun or whatever. But I think the ship has sailed on my having a purpose here.”
Frankie nods. “I’ll come with you.”
“Nothing doing with the chick from before?”
“Eh, I’ve seen her here before, and I’ll see her here again.” She glances at where Andi and Mase are quietly arguing in a corner, i.e. exactly where I’m trying not to look. “Let’s get you home.”
I silently bless Frankie for knowing exactly what I need right now, and I take Jake’s hand and bring him outside while we call a cab. He’s visibly shaking, and I hug him until he settles. “Where’s Troy?” I ask quietly.
“Disappeared as soon as that guy got in my face,” he mutters. “Recognized him from somewhere and panicked. Left me alone to deal with that fucker.”
“That fucker” who accused Jake of being there to cause trouble. And because of my stupid idea to bring Mase and Andi, Jake didn’t even feel like he could yell back that he belonged there. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry.”
The cab pulls up before he can respond, and we don’t speak another word when we get in, or when I rest my head on Frankie’s shoulder and take deep breaths through my nose to stem the feeling of my chest cracking from the inside. The entire ride back to campus is silent, and even bidding each other good night is practically a whisper.
Back in the room, I change into my comfiest pajamas and slip under the covers, sure that all my emotional exhaustion will catch up with me and put me to sleep in no time. Instead, I find myself waiting for the door to open again, for light to shine through the crack as Andi slips in, quiet and considerate as usual.
I fall asleep hours later, still waiting for her return.
I wake up to my alarm at five in the morning with my entire head feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton. My mouth is dry, my skull is throbbing, and I need a drink of water more than I need my next breath.
And then it hits me: I have a game today.
Not only do I have a game, but I have to haul ass to the bus right now; the game is a three-hour ride away.
I am so fucking stupid.
Dragging my ass quietly out of bed, I’m grateful to see when I check my bag Past Me was far more on top of her shit than Present Me and actually packed in advance. I’m about to start tiptoeing around to wash up when I realize I don’t need to be quiet at all.
Andi never came home.
The realization that she stayed at Mase’s—that they probably had sex within hours of him holding my hand outside XO—churns my stomach fiercely. I can’t think about this today. I need to be on top of my game. It isn’t fair to my team not to be, and anyway, I have no right to feel this way—it’s my own fault I let myself sink back into these stupid feelings. I had him once, and I let him go. Maybe it wasn’t my choice, but I didn’t exactly put up a fight.
It was stupid, but it happened. And I need to move the fuck on and kick some ass today, the way a future captain would.
I force my brain on the game during my fifteen-minute warmup, recalling all the mental notes I’ve taken on Westfield’s defensive strategies and their goalie’s glaringly obvious blind spot. During my speedy shower, and pulling on my
uniform afterward, my thoughts are on the plays we ran through this week. And when I dash out the door and to the gym where the bus is picking us up, I’m all about mentally pacing my run time and making sure I hydrate like I completely failed to do last night.
But once I’m seated on the bus with a smoothie in hand, it’s just me and three hours of nothing. Usually I’m grateful for the silence of these early-morning bus rides during which everyone has their rituals, but right now all I want to do is shake Tessa awake or yank Tish’s earbuds out so she can listen to me whine instead of Rihanna.
I’m only on a few hours of sleep myself, so eventually, I join Tessa in passing out with my face against the glass. By the time we arrive at Westfield, I’m a groggy mess with a sweating half-finished smoothie in my hands, meaning I’m also now under-nourished and under-hydrated. Fantastic.
“You all right there, Johannssen?” Coach Brady asks as I practically lurch off the bus. “You in game shape?”
“I’m good, Coach.” I’m not sure whether this is a lie, but there’s no other answer you can give if you expect to play on any given game day; we’ve all learned this quickly enough. I continue to work at my smoothie, keeping my sips as measured as possible so I don’t make myself sick, and ignore the suspicious looks Tessa’s shooting my way.
“You look like shit,” she tells me when she gets close enough to without anyone else hearing.
“I feel like shit.” Sip. Breathe. I’ve been doing this long enough to know exactly what I need in my system before a game, and I’ve still had too little, too late. Silently I curse Mase and Andi and Jake and my dad and every damn person who’s gotten into my head this semester and disrupted the routines I had down to a science. I am so much better than this person I’ve become.
Tessa gives my shoulders a halfhearted squeeze. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t make yourself sick. Come on—let’s go stretch.”
I keep sipping as I let Tessa drag me out, and finally toss the cup as we start our warmups. It feels good to get the kinks out from sitting curled up on the bus for three hours, and once the team is in peppy, shouty mode, it finally pulls me out of my head. By the time I’m fully suited up with goggles on and mouth guard in, I’ve managed to channel most of my frustration and sadness into full-blown rage.
