by Dahlia Adler
What’s the fucking point?
“Caitlin Johannssen, if you sigh one more time—and then say ‘nothing’ when one of us asks you what’s wrong—I am making you an appointment with Doc Locke,” Lizzie says firmly from the couch, where she’s currently lying in pose beneath me as the Sisera to my Yael, for another of Frankie’s paintings. I’d tried to beg off when Frankie requested my presence, but she promised it’d only be for an hour or two while she sketched, and it’d seemed like a good distraction at the time.
Apparently, it wasn’t good enough.
“Lizzie, you’ve been in therapy for like three seconds,” I remind her. “It’s a little early to be pushing it on me like you’ve been bellowing the gospel for years.”
“I can’t decide if giving your therapist a rhyme-y nickname helps or hurts your evangelism,” Frankie adds around the pencil in her mouth.
“I’m guessing helps with you, hurts with Cait,” says Lizzie.
“Accurate,” Frankie and I say simultaneously.
“Is this still about Tessa?” Lizzie asks. “Or are we past that and onto how you should obviously be telling Mase that you’re still into him?”
I growl at Lizzie, my knuckles tightening around the hammer I’m holding over her head. “For the millionth time, words aren’t enough. I have no right to ask for another shot with him if I can’t prove we have a future without the thing that bound us.”
“Didn’t you say he was a fantastic fuck?” asks Frankie. “Let that be the thing that binds you.”
“Jesus Christ, Frank,” I mutter, though it probably gets lost in Lizzie’s cackling from the couch.
“You guys are ruining the pose!”
“Maybe don’t talk about my sex life, then!”
“Well one of us needs to,” Frankie says. “Now get back into position.”
“Hee hee.”
“Oh, shut up, Lizzie.” I sigh. “It’s complicated, you guys.”
“So uncomplicate it,” Frankie suggests. “Tell him you wanna be fuckbuddies. Then you don’t need to worry about the rest of this shit.”
“I don’t want to be fuckbuddies,” I snap. “I want a relationship. I miss the fuck out of him, and I miss how good he makes me feel, in and out of bed. I was in love with him, and I think I still am. Okay?”
You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Or, more accurately, a pencil drop. “Shit.”
“Caity!” Lizzie flings her arms around me, completely fucking up our pose, but the yelling I’m waiting for from Frankie doesn’t come. Instead, a second pair of arms circles me—us—and squeezes tight. “I didn’t know you were in love.”
“Was,” I clarify. “Now, I don’t know what I am.”
“But you want a real shot to find out,” says Lizzie.
I nod.
They both squeeze me again. “Okay,” says Frankie. “We need a plan.”
“A plan?”
“You said the problem is convincing him that you’re in it for real, right?” I nod again. “So we do that.”
“But—”
“Yes, I have an idea of how.” She holds up a hand. “You’re not gonna like it. I’m telling you that now.”
“Also, you’re probably gonna need to break up with Jake,” Lizzie adds wryly.
Oh, fuck. I’d completely forgotten about that. I’d never even told them that relationship was a farce, but I’m guessing from her apathetic tone they’ve both already figured that out a while ago.
“You knew.”
“I told you, Caity J.,” says Frankie. “My gaydar is stellar.”
I should’ve known. “I’m sorry for lying, but—”
“We get it,” Lizzie assures me. “Forget that. But you do need to tell him the jig is up, or whatever the kids are saying these days.”
“And then what?”
Frankie grins, her dark eyes glittering. “And then you ask him to help.”
• • •
I text Jake to ask him to meet me that night at his favorite diner; if I’m pulling his beard—and his free trip to San Diego—I figure there should at least be a great burger in it for him. My stomach drops when I see him walk through the door with a smile on his face, certain he has no idea what’s coming, but the instant he sits down across from me, he says, “You’re dumping me, aren’t you.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
He laughs. “This is the first time we’ve hung out outside of the library and class in weeks. Either you’re trying to seduce me or you’re trying to dump me, and you more than anyone know that the first one isn’t happening. Though I’d be flattered. Really.”
The busboy comes over then and fills our water glasses, saving me from the necessity of an awkward response. “Do you hate me?” I ask once the busboy is gone.
“How could I hate you for wanting to live your life? Honestly, this has gone on longer than I even hoped, especially considering I thought Mason was gonna chop off my nuts when your name started coming up in the locker room.”
I snort, trying to squash any warmth I feel at Mase’s jealousy. “So, I’ve been locker room talk, huh?”
“Sorry, babe—goes with the territory of being a jock’s girl.” He rolls his eyes and takes a sip of water. “For what it’s worth, the entire team is impressed that you give stellar head.”
“My life’s ambition achieved two whole months before my twentieth birthday.” I pick up the menu and pretend to study it for about ten seconds before the question bursts out of me. “So, Mase didn’t like it, huh?”
Jake throws back his head and laughs. “He’s what this is about, isn’t he?”
I narrow my eyes. “You answer, then I’ll answer.”
“Well, since you’ve asked so nicely, no, he did not like it. I believe his exact words were ‘Moss, shut your fool mouth before I shut it for you.’ Charmer you’ve got there.”
I don’t have him, my brain automatically corrects. Yet.
“The dude really is a raging hardass, and I mean that in more ways than one. What is it about him, anyway?”
“He’s sweeter than you think, when he wants to be.” The waiter comes and we place our orders—cheeseburger and fries for Jake, turkey sandwich for me. “You’ve seen him at the community center, with those kids—when he’s fun and kind and makes you wanna be around him all the time? The guy I used to know was like that all the time. And he was a great listener, and he…I don’t know. He always made me feel good about myself, you know? Guys like that are in short supply. And I think he’s still in there somewhere; it’s just been a while since he’s had someone bring it out.”
I expect Jake to laugh, to tell me I’m being naïve, but he just smiles softly and starts shredding the paper napkin in his hands. “I believe that. He seemed cool, that night at the club. And I like him on Sundays at the center. I’m sure the rest of the team would be happy to have him be that guy all the time.” He levels me with a stare. “That is the idea, I assume?”
“God, I hope so,” I mutter.
“Not convinced of your powers of seduction?”
“Well, my last boyfriend turned out to be into dudes, so.”
Jake grins. “His loss.”
“Speaking of.” I cover his hand with mine. “I’m really sorry about Troy. I know I said that already, but…I really am. You deserve a good guy, Jake. Whenever you’re ready.”
His cheeks turn pink, and there is just something too adorable about a hulking basketball player blushing at the idea of an actual romance.
“You know,” I say quickly as I spot our waiter coming back with our food, “if you really wanted, I bet Frankie would be perfectly happy to play your girlfriend for a while. Though, fair warning, she doesn’t really understand the idea of ‘acting.’”
“Nah, I’m good,” he says with a smile. “If you can be brave enough to go for the guy you want, maybe you’ll inspire me to do the same.”
Now I’m the one blushing, but the waiter’s arrived and we both clam up
. I wait until he’s out of earshot before saying, “There’s just one more thing I need to ask you, but it should be a piece of cake. Probably. Maybe.”
“Well, that’s promising.”
I ignore the twinge in my gut. Frankie was right—I do hate her plan—but the more I think about it, the more I think it’s the right one on every level. However, Jake would hate it even more than I do. Thankfully, he doesn’t need details. “I need you to get Mase to my playoff game on Sunday.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? Wait, is it—”
“It’s at home,” I assure him. “Just a matter of getting him to show up in the Radleigh stands. This is not a request to drive him to Maryland or something.”
“Fair enough. Not sure he’ll be up to doing any favors for your ‘ex,’ but I’ll do what I can.”
I grin and nab one of his fries. “That’s all I ask.”
Come game day, my worries over whether or not Mase will actually be in the stands take a backseat to my heart pounding and palms sweating over whether I can actually pull this off at all. Seeing the rest of the team pumped and ready to kick some ass gives me a billion butterflies in my stomach, and Tessa’s awkward attempts to sound captain-ly when she’s been more of a quiet, background force all season make my heart ache in my chest.
What will it do to them—to her—if I go through with this?
Nothing, the little devil on my shoulder tells me. This isn’t Tessa’s life the way it is yours, remember? She made damn sure to tell you that.
I set my jaw, snap my goggles on around my ponytail, and line up on the field.
We form as if we’re a solid unit, as if nothing’s changed. It probably hasn’t, for anyone else. I run out at the call of my name and number, waving my crosse in the air under the canopy created by everyone else’s. I accept the applause and stand quietly with my hand over my heart during the national anthem, searching the stands until I see a little group of guys, a head taller than everyone around them. Jake is in the middle, and on his right, his expression unreadable from this distance, is Mase.
I tear my eyes away from him, look around at my team as I get into position at the draw, and think, I am about to screw you all.
Nobody gives a shit what good I do here. Not Brady, who gave the captainship to someone else. Not the actual captain. Not anyone in my family. How much easier would it be with my dad if there were no championships in contention to start with?
And Mase…there’s only one way I know to prove that lacrosse is not my everything, and that’s to give it up, right here, right now, while he watches.
Of course, the ball lands in my crosse almost instantly, fed by Mariana, and I instinctively run, plowing through a line of defense, their uniforms nothing but a yellow blur. They’re so poorly spread out, it’d be the most glaring fuck-up in the world if I didn’t run it down the clear alley they’ve made to the right of the goal and hammer it in.
Goal one, fifteen seconds in.
I pray St. Mary’s will pick it up, fast, because the more they suck, the harder this game’s gonna be to throw. Thankfully, their midfielder pulls it from Mariana on the next draw and runs it down the field, out of my realm. They pass it around the 12-meter for what feels like an hour before Cassie Duvall finally takes a shot to the top right of the goal, which Nora saves easily.
That, finally, kicks St. Mary’s into high gear, and both Duvall and Freya Clayton try riding our defense, to no avail. Nora passes it to Olivia Bonner, who promptly clears it to—of course. Me.
It’s a smooth overhead pass, in perfect position for me to take a quick-stick shot right into the St. Mary’s goal. All I’d have to do is take a single step forward.
There’s a twinge in my stomach as I let it bounce off the top of my crosse onto the grass.
“Oh, shit,” I hear Tessa yell as she runs in to recover it, but the defender on her is built like a fridge. The one on me scoops it up and passes it upfield until it’s back with Duvall. I see Nora make the mistake of leaving the goal circle an instant before she realizes it herself, and bam, we’re tied at 1-1.
And it feels like hell.
“It’s all right,” Tessa assures me, patting me on the back as we get back into position for the draw. “It’s just one play.”
Then Mariana heads into the middle of the circle, her eyes flashing. When she pulls the next draw control, I’m in position for a pass, and I see her notice it for a second before she opts for Tish instead. But Tish barely pulls it in, and she ends up passing right to me. I run it down, keeping my pace slow enough to let the St. Mary’s defense get in my face. Tish manages to make herself available for a pass, but I pretend I don’t see her, and take a wild shot on goal instead. It hits the edge, then gets salvaged by St. Mary’s, who runs it back down and scores on Nora.
I know I made it happen, but my stomach turns at the sound of their cheers anyway.
“Girl, I was open,” says Tish as we retake our positions for the draw. “Why’d you take that shot?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” I mutter, but lying to Tish feels worst of all. Especially when I see her put on her supportive teammate face.
“It’s okay,” she says, even though it isn’t. “Just nerves, probably. But don’t worry. You got this, C.”
Do I? What am I doing right now? Did I really convince myself this game doesn’t matter to them just because they don’t live and breathe this sport like I do?
And is it worth doing this to help get a guy to like me if it makes me not like myself?
I’m sorry, I think, to both Mase and to my dad, for ever thinking this was something I could pull off, something I’d want to. I want to show them I care, somehow, but this isn’t the right way. I love lacrosse, and if it’s an unhealthy amount, well, that’s just who I am. But it’s who I was when my dad was proud of me and who I was when Mase was with me, and even without them, I don’t want to be anyone else.
I’m sorry to my team, too, but not for much longer; my shitty day ends now.
• • •
We win the game by only a goal, but it’s enough. I was flustered enough to make a few more (genuine) fumbles, but I also had two assists and two goals, one of which was so damn lucky I must’ve actually earned karma points with some higher power. Afterward, I avoid the team, too embarrassed to face them, but Jake finds me before I can disappear for good. “Congrats on the win,” he says, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Now do I get to hear the great mystery behind why I basically got down on my knees begging my student-coach to come?” He nods over at where Mase is talking to Ryan Pfeffer, the only other basketball player present, who comes to almost all our games to watch Jamie.
“I thought I was going to prove something I didn’t,” I grumble. “Just…can we not talk about it?”
“You don’t have to talk about it with me, but you do need to talk about it with him, whatever it is,” he says.
“Did you tell him? About you and me?”
Jake snorts. “He’s known since the night we went to XO, Cait. Did you really think you were fooling him with that plan?”
I smile sheepishly. “I don’t know, I thought it was smart. Why’d you go along with it if you thought it was so obvious?”
“Guess I wanted to go on a date with Troy more than I cared if Mason found out,” he says with a sad shrug. “Solid prioritizing on my front, clearly, since Troy turned out to be such a winner.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Someone will be, Jake. I promise. We’re gonna find him.”
“Yeah, maybe. Someday.” He cocks his head. “You think Law’s little brother’s coming up to visit again anytime soon?”
“Oh, God, Jake—”
“Kidding,” he says with a smile. “But your boy’s heading over here, so I think it’s time I see myself out. I’ve really gotta get packing, anyway. Going home in a couple days.”
“You’re not coming to the victory party tonight?”
“Nah. It’s too weird with everyone thinking we jus
t broke up; it makes all the guys into even bigger pussyhounds than usual, trying to find me a rebound girl or three. Pass.”
“I’m s—”
“Stop apologizing, Cait.” He leans down to peck me on the cheek. “You’re fine. We’re fine. I’ll give you a call tomorrow so I can say goodbye and good luck before I head out.”
I don’t have time to say anything in response before a shadow falls over us. “Hey man,” says Jake, before I can even take in that Mase is standing behind me. “I was just heading out. I’ll see you later.”
Mase grunts a goodbye, just as I turn around. “Hey,” I say meekly. “You came.”
“I was informed my presence was requested, by your ex-boyfriend,” he says, with only a trace of sarcasm to his words.
I choose to sidestep that last bit. “It was, but I was being stupid. I shouldn’t have dragged you out here.”
“Then why did you? Because if you’re trying to prove to me that you’re still a great player, I kind of already knew that.”
“That wasn’t it.”
“Then what was?” he presses.
I take a deep breath, knowing I can tell some stupid lie right now, maybe even drive him away if I really am too scared to pursue getting him back. But I don’t want to lie, and I don’t want to give up again; I’ve spent too long hating myself for how easily I gave up the first time. “I thought I was going to prove it to you—that you matter more than this,” I tell him. “That I don’t need to be an athlete. That I can walk away anytime. But I was wrong. This is it. This is me. I’m sorry I dragged you out here.”
“Wait. You what?” He pulls us even further from the crowd. “You were gonna throw the game? For me?”
“Among other reasons,” I mumble, feeling immeasurably stupid about it now. “I thought I could, but—”
“Cait. Fuck.” He wraps a hand around my wrist. “I never—I would never want that. I love that this is who you are. I love what you can do. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”
The praise and apology suffuse me with warmth, and I don’t know what to say. I retrieve my arm from his grip, nod jerkily, and manage a “thanks” before turning away, cheeks burning with too many emotions to name.
