The Season of Shay and Dane

by Lucy Lacefield

  . . . My eyes are wet.

  I’ve never known so much exhilaration.

  dane

  My chest is pounding—Trace gave it a good run. My appreciative smile sticks as I wave at the crowd and make my way back up and around the bend of the track.

  Mitch comes over with teammates and rubs my wet head and passes me a cup of water that I sit down on the grass as I bend and rest my palms on my knees, scaling down my breathing.

  I take a drink and pass the cup off, making my way across the track lanes, still to the cheering, to Coach Malloy and Shay.

  Coach Malloy’s satisfied expression as I get nearer makes the good-old emotions rise up—it’s all happened because of him—even this day, for her.

  She looks beautiful.

  I reach my hands over the railing to her, actions coming faster than words. She takes them instinctively and I lean to her, and kiss her on the cheek.

  21

  shay

  The sweetness of his breath whispering past my cheek and ear as his soft, sure lips warmly grace my skin, makes my stomach feel like a thousand dainty butterflies swirled into flight.

  The motion was fast. . . the excitement in the air. I bend my head slightly; the warmth in my cheeks making them change color I’m sure. And with the coach standing here beside me and thousands of people following Dane’s every move. . .

  “Good job Dane! Good job son!” Coach Malloy reaches across the minimal barrier and shakes his hand, patting firmly his same shoulder with the other hand.

  “Thanks coach.” The fixed satisfaction in Dane’s eyes as I quietly look over tells me how much all of this means to him, to his coach. . . to me watching it. And for the first time, I feel myself. . . falling. . . my emotions taking me, guiding me to something I’ve feared for so long. . . Dane turns his gaze to me and sees it; I don’t deny him. I slowly lower my head again.

  “Have fun with that relay!” Coach Malloy offers up in celebration. Dane smiles, looking over at me, taking a step back, turning and walking across to his teammates.

  dane

  I fold my lips in as I make my way back, savoring the sensation that passed through them. My smile forming slowly, subtly, into something more meaningful than the race I just won.

  “Good race, Dane,” a voice comes from behind me. I face around to see Trace.

  “You too, Trace.” I reach out and shake his hand. We’ll be meeting up again in less than an hour for our relay. He put his all into it, but odds are he was Harvard’s one component to defeat us in the relay also, if the day was going to play out that way.

  I make my way to the tunnel opening with a couple of the other guys, to get into the locker room and have a little rest time before preparing for the next heat.

  22

  shay

  Watching Dane and his teammates win the relay against Harvard was almost as exciting for me as him winning his race earlier, and the feeling of euphoria deep within, will linger for days at just the thought of this afternoon.

  As I follow behind Coach Malloy getting through the crowd of people exiting the stadium, I think of what Dane had said on our walk, about living with only his mom and sister, never mentioning his dad, and for a moment I feel overwhelming gratitude for this kind man who has guided him.

  People finally start to thin enough where we can walk alongside each other over to the area leading to the athlete’s entrance, although the loudness doesn’t clear away much for us to really say anything yet. And when it does, I’ll let him be the one to speak first. I’m sure today brings back a lot of memories and emotions, and leaving him to his thoughts for now seems only right.

  In the distance the side door opens and a few athletes begin trailing out, showered and changed into regular clothing, toting duffel bags. We stop before we get too near, not to get in the way of people leaving.

  “Shay, it was sure nice to meet you today.” Coach Malloy extends his hand, laying his other one over the top of mine and lightly patting.

  “I’m so glad to have met you too.” His warm embrace this afternoon and genuine regard for Dane, just reaffirms all of the little tremors of curiosity that have consumed me this week. . . Dane is different, special. . . and somehow. . . he noticed me. . .

  “Are you alright?” The words come into my thoughts securing my focus. “It was a pretty bright sun to sit in all afternoon,” he adds, making sure I’m okay.

  “Yes, yes I’m fine, thank you,” I say, smiling reassuringly. I don’t know if it’s my place or not, I’m almost sure it isn’t, but if feels right and to not say anything, I feel I’ll regret it if I let the moment pass. “Coach Malloy, thank you for being here for Dane today.”

  dane

  The two of them standing there makes me happy—can’t explain it; everything just seems right.

  I swing my bag strap over my shoulder and say a few goodbyes to the runners coming out behind me, and let the door fall closed.

  “Here’s our man of the hour.” Coach reaches up and squeezes the side of my arm. “How are ya feeling?”

  I cast my eyes down smiling. “Good, good.”

  “You looked great out there—keeping on top of things. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks coach.”

  “Next out Princeton then,” he says.

  “Yep. I’ll be ready.” He’s great, best man I’ve ever known—having him meet Shay means something to me. No doubt though, he’s keen to my slight uneasiness right now.

  “Well, I’ll head on back to the hotel. Still up for supper later on?” he asks, hinting if plans have changed since we arranged it.

  “Sure, 8:00?”

  “8:00 it is.” Him and Shay share a couple of parting words and we’re left to ourselves.

  23

  shay

  We begin walking the other direction that will take us to the housing around campus. . . to my house. . . my apartment—the first time I’ve had someone walk me home. . . someone. . . I’ve wanted to walk me home.

  The quietness of being together gets sweetly interrupted. “Did you enjoy the meet?” he asks, shifting his bag from his arm nearer me to the other one and tenderly glancing over my face, even though I don’t turn his way.

  “I did. . . very much. . . you’re amazing,” my voice is more faint, now that we’re alone.

  I want to tell him how happy I am to have been introduced to his coach, someone so important in his life, who was sincerely receptive of me, how when he crossed the finish line, it was a moment of complete joy. . . and when he kissed my cheek, the feelings for him that came up for me. . . the first time I’ve felt this way. . . but, the newness of everything is unfamiliar and has formed a gentle grip inside of me, leaving me uncomfortable, and only glad for the few words I can say, and to be walking beside him.

  “Thank you. . . I’m so glad you came,” his voice is kind and sure. The way a gentle man’s voice would sound in a distant dream, and each time he speaks, a blanket of safety envelopes me.

  “I’m glad too.”

  The backs of our fingertips delicately graze the others. . . searching. . . waiting. . . slowly, smoothly entwining.

  dane

  I look up the street to the direction we’re walking in to her house, a few blocks away she said, and think of how I should say goodbye. The softness and warmth of her fingers encased in mine, pads in my heart. I slowly stroke the back of her small hand with my thumb as the feel of her cheek flashes past my lips in memory. I want to kiss her gently and long. Have her feel secure in my arms. Allow me. . .

  . . . I can’t. Not yet.

  There’s such a caution about her. . . and I honor that. I’ll have to have a clear sign; something that doesn’t make me question the invitation. I’ll wait, as long as it takes.

  . . . And for that, I want her even more.

  “Shay,” I begin, “would you want to see me tomorrow? Maybe go to the natural history museum on campus for a while?” My words feel like they’re about to falter; the eagerness to not go t
he rest of the weekend without seeing her again, when we’re about to her house. “Do you like the museum? Or we could go somewhere for lunch.’

  “I do. . . like the museum,” she answers, looking up at me for a moment, our strides slowing. I can tell there’s something more. “I told Jenny. . . my friend, that I’d help her tomorrow. . . at the biology building. Would you want to. . . meet . . . maybe in the afternoon, after lunch. . . maybe at the biology building?” We’re standing in front of her house now, stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, not yet letting go of hands, and the sweetness coming from her overwhelms me.

  “Sure, at the biology building. Would two o’clock be alright?”

  “Yes, two o’clock.” Her fingers slowly fall away from mine.

  I slide my hand into my pocket, almost forgetting the small, folded piece of paper with my phone number on it. “This is for you, if you should ever need anything.” I lay it in the palm of her hand.

  24

  shay

  I look again at the numbers before guiding it down inside the lined pocket of my satchel and zipping it closed; it’s only possession.

  Today was perfect.

  Dane was perfect.

  I lay back on my daybed, gazing out of the window, looking at the last strong, golden setting rays casting glistening brightness through the leaves on the giant tree, and begin to daydream. . . about a man close to me. . . Dane close to me. And I let the thoughts come freely, incandescently, as my eyes fall shut.

  dane

  “Who was the tight-chick I saw you walking with?” Vince slams the door to the apartment, alone this time.

  My back’s to him and I decide to blow him off as I move things around on the shelves inside the refrigerator.

  “You’ve been holding out! —What a dog! You’re gettin’ a little! Good ol’ Dane—pillar of decency! I knew it!”

  I turn around with a container of leftover spaghetti, snapping off the lid. “Shut up, Vince.”

  “Hey, man—you don’t need to be so sensitive—we all have needs.”

  He doesn’t get it. I’m so fucking done with him. “Get out of my way,” I gesture as I try to get around where he’s planted himself between the table and refrigerator, blocking the path.

  Some form of a grunt escapes his narcissistic lips as I brush past, walking into my room and kicking the door closed with the back of my foot.

  Sure, I have needs—shit! But I don’t need some jerk-off who treats girls like they’re disposable, banging it into my head nearly every goddamned day. What’s he going to get out of it? —Forget that. These girls get passed around like they’re cafeteria trays—willingly—and he’s just waiting for new material.

  I drop the container of spaghetti onto my nightstand, swiping up the remote control and lying down.

  The more I think about it, the more pissed off I’m getting.

  I scan through about ten channels and toss the remote back where it was.

  Why do I let him get me worked up?

  I rub my hands through my hair, tucking them behind my head on the pillow. Does she think about things though, intimacy, being touched, if even just kissed? The scent of her when I leaned in today, feeling the moistness of her skin, subdued all of the excitement around me. All I could think about the rest of the meet was moving my hand along the nape of her neck, pulling her waist to me and tasting her lips.

  Shit.

  I don’t want to be like him—things mean something to me. She means something to me.

  I realize what’s happening; I’m falling for her. And in the nearly three years I’ve been here and all of the temptations I’ve been dealt, none of them ever got me this, wanting.

  I turn over on my side, not even caring to pick up one of the mounting textbooks that lay facing me beside the bed, and think of her, as I wrestle desire to stay calm in me for now.

  25

  shay

  I’m happy with my choice as I look over at it hanging from the back of the chair. It’s a spring day; a sun dress is logical.

  The thought comes to me, unless he asks I won’t mention it, church. Just because it’s a Sunday and I’ll be wearing a dress. . . the association—no. Anyway, my moral compass doesn’t come from a Sunday service, even though my parents would’ve liked it if I would’ve found a nice church to join when I got out here, but they eventually resigned the thought after my persistent recitation of how uninterrupted Saturdays and Sundays were ideal time to have some concentrated studying, and accepted the idea that I’d walk with them to our little church back home when I was there.

  I squeeze the towel wrapped around my hair and check the time. I told Jenny I’d just meet her in her lab around 10:00. I pass by the tall, oval, free-standing mirror beside my dresser and catch my reflection; I look rested, better than rested. There’s color to my skin from being at the stadium yesterday. I look. . . nice. . . maybe kind of glowing. I humor myself a little at the embarrassment I feel from my own thought.

  dane

  1:10. I have time for another slow lap around and a long, steamy shower to settle my energy, and nerves.

  I don’t know much about the exhibits in the museum. Mom and Kate spent a couple of hours in it with me when I first came out here, but I haven’t been inside since, just seemed right to go there today. There’s a lot of space to walk around on three levels, and something else to give focus to when we’re maybe both finding things to say, seemed right for her. And I don’t mind it either.

  It’s a good day for being on the track. The weather’s right, barely any breeze. I decide to take a third lap around.

  It seems hard to believe yesterday these stands were filled with thousands of people cheering me on. I pass by the place where coach and Shay sat, and the surge of happiness from it ripples through me, all over again.

  26

  shay

  “Want to head out and grab some late lunch, maybe Chinese?” Jenny asks with her back to me as she finishes wiping down the lab table. Teaching the undergrads becomes a little consuming with the outside help they sometimes ask for, and it makes our own studying pressured for time. And Jenny needed to get some input today on things, which I was more than glad to do.

  “Chinese sounds great, but I’m just going to grab some crackers from the vending machine.”

  “What? I knew it. You’re going primadonna on me and worried about weight—too many good meals.” Of course she suspects something else.

  “No.” My apprehension to saying anything by now leaves. I didn’t want to divert her thinking, focusing on things this morning, by talking about me. “Dane asked if I’d like to go over to the museum at 2:00. And I said yes.”

  “Cool,” she smiles past me, walking to put away a folder in her drawer.

  “Thanks.’

  “You have 25 minutes. Better go grab those crackers.” She plops down in her seat at the desk and lets out a small moan leaning back. “Christ, those lab chairs kill your back! Who ever thought those stools didn’t need a back—let alone the beating your butt takes on them!”

  I look at her, fussing in her chair, and begin to lightly laugh.

  “Really, you should get your crackers. I could see you standing now looking into the display window of the taxidermic prairie dogs and mountain goats and your stomach being the only sound echoing through the museum.” She makes herself start to laugh.

  “Thanks for watching out for me, to your own amusement,” I teasingly banter. “Want anything from the machine?” I offer, headed to the door.

  “Yes—yes, I do. I want chocolate and caffeine—surprise me.”

  dane

  I’ve worked up a good sweat. I stop half-way ‘round lap three and make my way across the grass to get a shower.

  “Good job out there yesterday, Dane,” one of the football guys calls out walking past me in a group, headed out to toss the ball around.

  “Thanks.” I push open the door to the towel room and grab a couple of towels and a travel size shampoo and soap.


  Thirty minutes before I see her. The urgency in me is calmer, but the sight of her is probably all it will take to rocket up again.

  I undress and turn on the water to start warming it up. As I step back nearer the bench in front of the wall of dressing mirrors, I have to smile somewhat at how much more white my ass cheeks appear to my legs now. You can tell it’s full on spring.

  27

  shay

  I pick up the thin, white sweater that I brought just in case the museum is chilly, and reach inside the small pocket for the key ring with only two keys on it, that I attached this morning, one for home, one for my lab, should I have needed it. And decide to go unlock my door and get the pink fabric pouch out of my desk with a hairbrush and personal things in it, just to go to the restroom and check myself. . . just to be sure. . . just to. . . look. . . fresh.

  As I finish smoothing my hair and put away the toothpaste and toothbrush, I’m aware of the expression looking back at me—naïve and nervous. . . and mostly afraid. . .

  Surely Jen will hang around in her lab for a couple of minutes. . . lingering, until I’m gone with him. . . surely.

  I walk back down the hall to put my bag away, and get my sweater from Jen’s lab.

  Her mouth’s full of a bite of Snickers and her bare feet are up on the middle of her desk. She extends the bitten off candy bar to me, swinging it, urging I take a bite.

  “No thanks,” I smile, her endless jovial mood easing me for the moment. “I have to be going.”