by Dahlia Adler
Mase followed me. Mase is at Radleigh because of me. He may not have known Andi was my roommate, but he knew I’d be around and he should’ve better prepared—should’ve prepared me.
Fuck that. What he really should’ve done is returned my calls, I think as I nearly mow down the Westfield cover point to nab a pass from Tessa and cut across the fan. My texts. My emails. Anything. I fire on goal with self-righteous heat pulsing through my veins, barely even noticing that I’ve scored until I hear my teammates whoop.
I should be elated, I know, but all I can feel are my muscles twitching to do it again and again.
The next time I get a pass, though, the Westfield cover point is on it, and she stick checks the shit out of me, landing the ball in the grass. I shove her out of the way to scoop it, but another defender gets there first, and in my mad dash to reclaim it I feel my elbow hit bone, and then there’s the whistle.
Shit.
They hit me with a charging foul, which, whatever. Except that by halftime, I’ve got two more, and at least one has drawn blood.
“Johannssen, what’s gotten into you?” Brady demands during a timeout. “You were half an inch from slashing their defensive wing.”
I want to speak up in my defense, but I can’t. Now that we’ve slowed down and my adrenaline is pumping to nowhere, I feel dizzy as hell. “I need water,” I say instead.
“You need to sit out, is what you need,” Coach snaps. “Coville! You’re in for Johannssen.”
“Coach—”
“Not another word, Cait. Go get a drink and sit on the bench.”
I want to, more than anything, but my body won’t cooperate. Instead, I run over to one of the huge garbage cans just in time to puke out my smoothie.
The sounds of spectators’ repulsion carries over and on the breeze, but I don’t give a shit; all I can do is lift my head enough to watch Christina Coville shove in her mouth guard and jog onto the field, her jersey and kilt spotless in contrast to my muddy, grass-stained uniform. Christina almost never sees playing time because I work my ass off to keep it that way, and I know she’s not nearly practiced enough to take us to a win.
The team is gonna eviscerate me for this.
I wipe off my mouth, wishing I wore gloves, and accept the plastic cup of water someone behind me extends under my nose. Rinsing out my mouth feels good, but nothing will make up for the fact that I’m guaranteed benched for the rest of the game.
My dad’s right—thinking we could make it to the championships is a fucking pipe dream. I can’t even hold my shit together after one night of drinks and misery.
I sit my ass on the cold metal bench and watch Christina move a few seconds too slow for almost every pass, every easy retrieval. The Westfield defense blocks and stick checks her with ease, and my feet twitch to get back on the field and show her how a decent question mark dodge should be done.
The glares Tessa and Tish shoot my way every time Christina fucks up do not go over my head.
By the fourth quarter, even Brady’s sick of watching her in my stead. He calls me back in, but not without as long a lecture as he can squeeze in as I go. He’s in luck, because I’m finally hydrated and feeling humbled as shit by the time my cleats hit the field again, and I manage one more goal, bringing me to a hat trick and giving us the game.
Barely.
No one talks to me in the visitors’ locker room—pretty sure the “fuck off” vibe I’m radiating doesn’t help—or on the bus ride home, which I spend pretending to sleep. By the time we get back to the gym, I’m beyond exhausted, and the prospect of lying in bed with my laptop to do my dumb Communications assignment actually sounds welcoming. My stomach is still feeling queasy, even after grabbing a plain bagel at Westfield, and the sight of my suite door is such a relief, I actually manage to forget who’s potentially behind it.
Until I swing it open and find myself looking right at Andi, sitting on the futon with Samara. Even in my totally messed-up state, it’s obvious something’s off. There’s a bag of popcorn between them, and they both look glum as hell, staring at the TV without really watching. All I want to do is slip past them and collapse on my bed, but I’d have to be a huge asshole to ignore the vibe here. “What happened?” I ask, letting my bag slide to the floor and shrugging off my coat.
Samara glances at Andi, who sighs and digs her hand into the bag for another handful. “Andi, uh…”
“Andi’s boyfriend dumped her,” Andi says robotically, crunching on some kernels. “And so we are watching a chick flick, in time-honored tradition of girlhood, or something. You’re welcome to join.”
It takes a few seconds for everything to click into place.
Mase dumped Andi.
Mase is single.
Andi is my roommate, sitting in front of me with her heart cracked open, and I’m selfishly thinking of the fact that her boyfriend is now available.
Her boyfriend who is no longer interested in me, and even if he were, is now off limits anyway.
Or are the rules different if I had him first? It feels like they should be. I mean, technically, Andi dated her roommate’s ex first…
Yeah, that’s the same.
“Cait?”
I snap out of my selfish trance at the sound of Samara calling my name. “Sorry. I mean, I’m sorry about Ma—Law, Andi.” God. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” She still hasn’t made eye contact, and my stomach clenches as I wonder if I have anything to do with this. Which doesn’t make any sense—nothing happened last night but a whole lot of fighting and a hand squeeze—but I still feel steeped in guilt. I’m dying to ask what happened, but it’s so, so not my place, and anyway, I’m not really sure I want to know.
I wonder if Mase is feeling as calm as she sounds. I know I didn’t, when he stopped returning my calls. But I tried to. And I sounded every bit as convincing as Andi does right now. But underneath it lay a world of hurt, and I can’t help wondering if the same is true for her. No matter who her ex-boyfriend is, she’s still my roommate, and she’s probably in pain right now; I have to be a decent human being. “You guys seemed to be having a good time last night,” I venture. They did, at least until that fight went down. “Are you sure it’s nothing you can’t fix?”
She laughs, and there’s the audible pain I was waiting for. “We did, didn’t we?” she says flatly.
“Then go after him,” I argue, which is stupid for about eight billion reasons. But I feel so guilty, and trying to fix things between them is all I can do to even begin to alleviate it. “Why would you give up so easily?”
Andi’s cheeks redden and Samara sucks in a sharp breath, and I know I’ve totally gone too far here. Andi’s not Lizzie; just because she’s my roommate doesn’t mean I’m entitled to share my every thought on her relationships. But for some reason, I can’t apologize like I know I should. I can’t take it back. I need to know what happened, and why she’s letting him go without a fight.
If I could take back giving up as easily as I had, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
“There are things about Lawrence you don’t know,” she says coldly, and all I can think is, Try me. Fucking try me. “Just because you’re an athlete and he used to be one—”
“He’s still an athlete,” I snap, not caring how far I’m pushing, how many miles I’m overstepping.
“Cait,” Samara says firmly, adopting the same warning tone I’ve used on Lizzie and Frankie a billion times. Because I am usually that girl, not this one. I don’t fight battles that aren’t mine and I don’t demand information that isn’t my business. I don’t act like I have a right to know the inner workings of people who are basically strangers.
Who the fuck am I right now?
“I’m sorry, Andi,” I mumble, feeling beyond shitty right now. “Bad day.” I can’t look either of them in the eye, so I don’t; I just shuffle past them into my room and close the door behind me.
What the hell, Mase? I hop up on my bed and check my phone—nothing—the
n grab my laptop from where I keep it on my nightstand. I have a bunch of the usual emails—lax stuff, notes from professors and TAs, a couple of forwards from Matty, wedding crap from my dad and Abigail—but nothing from Mase. Nothing from Jake, either; I haven’t heard a thing from him since last night.
Fuck, I have to get out of this room.
It’s Saturday night, which means some frat somewhere on campus is definitely having a party; I just have to find out which one. I pull up Twitter on my phone and it takes two seconds to find the answer.
Unfortunately, the answer is the Sig Psi house.
Sig Psi isn’t exactly on my list of favorites since Lizzie tangled with their president (both literally and figuratively), but tonight, I need a distraction more than I need to take a stand against a bunch of guys for being assholes. Unfortunately, there’s no dragging Lizzie into that place, and Frankie’s a little too much of a reminder of last night’s partying right now. I take a deep breath and text a few of the lax girls instead.
If they’re mad at me for losing my shit at the game earlier, it doesn’t show. I’m in!! Latisha texts, and Tessa and Nora are quick to follow. Meet in Shamblin lobby @ 9? Nora asks.
Shamblin’s the jock dorm all three of them live in. Yup, I write back, already glancing toward my closet, trying to figure out what to wear. But I already know I’m gonna have to ask Frankie for advice; no one can put together an instafuck outfit like my former suitemate.
One way or another, I’m going to clear my head tonight—of Mase, of Andi, of Jake—and when I wake up tomorrow, I’m going to be a new person.
Cait 2.0, here I come.
I’m two minutes early to meet the other girls in the Shamblin lobby, and they’re already there. Not surprising—punctuality has been drilled into us by Brady and every other coach any of us has ever had in our illustrious lacrosse careers. Nora looks as sporty as she always does—her only alternative to the uniform is a plaid shirt and jeans, not that the rabid fangirl contingent who shows up to ogle her at every single one of our games seems to mind—but Latisha, Tessa, and I have all let down our hair (metaphorically, at least, considering Tish’s pixie cut doesn’t have far to go) and donned far more obvious fuck-me outfits.
“Looking good, ladies,” Nora says with a whistle.
“Do I pass the ‘would Nora fuck me’ test?” I ask, spinning in a slow circle.
“If it weren’t a Code Pink violation, definitely,” she says, running a hand over the shaved side of her head.
Code Pink Violation: no intrateam banging. Learned the hard way at the 2011 finals, it is our single most important rule.
“Excellent. Let’s go.”
Talk shifts to this morning’s game as we walk, and though the girls give me a little shit for it, everyone seems generally cool. We’ve got a game on Wednesday night, and we all know we’re only as good as our next one. “Planning to be sober for it?” Tessa asks me as we hit the front lawn of the house, which is dotted with students talking, laughing, and making out.
“Scout’s honor,” I reply. “Those were my last drinks of the week. Brady will string me up, otherwise.” We walk up to the front porch and buy our cups—white soda cups for me and Latisha, who never drinks, and red beer cups for Tessa and Nora. “I’m impressed he hasn’t killed me already.”
“Oh, please, you had a couple of nasty fouls,” says Latisha, rubbing on some lip gloss before we enter the house. “You know Coach secretly loves watching you ride the shit out of the defense, and anyway, you’re still his golden child.”
There’s a hint of bitterness in her voice, and I can’t blame her. Last semester she was suspended for two games after failing a class, which only happened because she was trying to juggle a part-time job along with everything else. But my GPA is solid and my stats are among the best an attacker’s had on the team in the last five years; my spot’s not going down without a serious fight.
My chance at captainship is another story, but I’m not thinking about that tonight.
Inside the house, we quickly spot a couple of the lacrosse guys and head on over to talk to them. Tessa lets one get her a drink while Nora quickly gets swept up by one of her aforementioned fangirls, and Latisha and I laugh as we watch her try to extricate herself.
“Sporty Spice!” I look up to see Doug Leach heading my way, and I smile and accept a kiss on the cheek hello. Doug’s one of the only guys I actually like in this house; he’s one of Frankie’s most frequent casual hookups, and a decent guy besides. “Haven’t seen you here in a while. Are you, uh, with anyone?”
Okay, the poor guy might be a little more than casually into Frankie.
“Here with my lax girls tonight,” I say apologetically. “I think you know Tessa; this is Latisha. Tish, Doug.”
“A lot of sporty girls here tonight, then,” he says with a smile that barely covers up his disappointment at Frankie’s absence. No matter how often she tells him she has no interest in confining herself to a single person, he never stops hoping. It kind of sucks. “Anyone who’d like to dance?”
Latisha glances at me and I shrug and tell her to go ahead; I’m obviously not gonna be hooking up with Doug tonight, and I want some time to nurse a Diet Coke and scout out the room. Andrew, one of the guys’ midfielders and the guy who’d gone to get Tessa’s drink, has returned, and I let the two of them flirt while I look around the crowd.
“Cait! Are you here with Moss? I haven’t seen him.”
I whirl around to see Daniel Gutierrez, one of the small forwards on the basketball team. “Hey, Dan,” I say, accepting a peck on the check. “No, Jake’s not here. I—” And then I realize my huge dilemma here—far too many people at this party think I’m Jake Moss’s girlfriend. While I’m sure a whole bunch of them aren’t decent enough to let it stop them from hooking up, I don’t think it’ll further endear Jake to me any if word gets around he’s being cuckolded. Nor do I really need a rep as a cheater.
Dammit.
Alcohol is looking a whole lot more tempting right now, but I refuse to give in. The second I need alcohol to get through the evening, I know I’ve got a problem. I’ve got enough issues, so I just keep nursing my Diet Coke and ruefully think about just finding someone to distract me in other ways instead.
As if the very thought has somehow conjured him up, the door opens and in steps six feet and nine inches of My Issues.
Fuck me.
He’s alone—either Will bailed after the breakup, or he’s off hooking up with the bartender from last night—and I debate going over to just talk to him. It’s not like I don’t know I want to. But before I can even take a step, some guy calls “Law!” and I lose my chance. Not that he’s tough to keep an eye on; now that we’re not surrounded wholly by athletes, he stands out in the crowd that much more—literally head-and-shoulders above most of the other guys. His face is freshly shaven and his white T-shirt might be casual, but I know he knows how good he looks in it. If he’s been crying over the breakup with Andi, not a drop of that shows in his current appearance.
Or maybe he’s here to distract himself just as much as I am.
I don’t know what I hate more—how badly I still want him, or how one-sided that is. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s still something between us, that I factor in to why he broke up with Andi. But if that were true, wouldn’t have told me when he did it? Wouldn’t I have heard from him at all?
“Who is that?” Latisha asks, and I curse myself for not realizing she’d returned from dancing with Doug in time to tear my eyes off of Mase. “Basketball player? Brother looks seven feet tall, at least.”
“Six-nine,” I reply without thinking.
Latisha smirks. “Not that you’re counting.”
I can’t do anything but blush at that. Tish isn’t dumb. Unfortunately.
“I wouldn’t have picked him for your type,” she says.
“Because he’s black?”
“Because you are so white. Like, Pumpkin Spice Latte white.”
She laughs. “So, what’s his deal? Because he’s fine as hell and I’d remember if I’d seen him before.”
What’s his deal? That is an excellent question, Tish. “He’s dating my roommate. Or at least he was until last night.”
“Oh, well, that sounds like a fucking shitstorm. Who wants to be someone’s sloppy seconds, anyway? Come on. Let’s go find some single boys to chill with.”
I let Tish lead me over to where a few guys I vaguely know are talking, but I can’t stop turning her words over in my head. I have no interest in being sloppy seconds, but does that still apply when you came first?
“Johannssen! Heard you lost your shit this morning against Westfield!”
I roll my eyes as Scott Madden approaches, but accept the high-five he doles out. He’s a harmless prick and a decent goalie on the guys’ lax team, and one of the few who doesn’t act like the girls’ team is Less Than just because we’ve got tits and aren’t allowed to body-check the shit out of each other. “I may have lost my shit but at least we won the game.”
“Heard there was a little puking incident too. Classy.”
Okay, rehashing the crappy parts of the last twenty-four hours are not on my distraction agenda. “Fun seeing you, Scott.” I start to walk away, but he dashes in front of me.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m just being a pain in the ass. I promise to stop talking if you dance with me.”
I have no desire to dance, but when I turn to seek out Tish to use as my excuse, I see she’s already in deep flirtation with James Nagawa.
Suddenly, I hate that I’m sober. “How about you stop talking and we get me a drink?” I suggest instead.
“Sure you wanna do that after this morning?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
