by S. J. West
Mom humphed, which warned me she was about to switch to Mother Bear mode. “I don’t care how he chooses captains. You’ve earned it. I’ll call him and—” There was a cracking sound in the background.
“What was that?”
“Jared dropped a mirror.” There was mumbling in the background, then silence.
“Mom?”
More mumbled words reached me before, “I’m here. About the coach—”
“Don’t call him. I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure?” She sounded frazzled.
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll try to be home early. Six-ish.”
That meant seven or eight. My parents owned Mirage, a framing and mirror store on Main Street. With Dad gone, Mom was pulling double duty and often stayed behind to clean up and get the shop ready for the next business day. I rarely saw her anymore.
I texted Coach Fletcher, in case I didn’t make it on time, then slipped behind the wheel. The tire pressure should hold. Please, let it hold.
I backed out of the driveway and reached out to shift gears when my new neighbor left his garage, pushing a Harley. Shirtless. I swallowed, drooled. His shoulders were broad and well-defined. His stomach ripped.
He glanced my way, and I quickly averted my eyes and stepped on the gas pedal. My car shot backwards instead of forward and slammed into something, jerking me forward. Panicking, I hit the brakes and looked behind me.
“Oh, crap.” Of all the mailboxes on our cul-de-sac, I just had to hit the Petersons’.
Cursing, I shifted gears, moved forward until I got off the curb, switched off the engine, and jumped out of the car. Everyone had their mailboxes imbedded in concrete, but not the Petersons. They had to go overboard and use a fancy, custom-made miniature version of their house. Now the post leaned sideways like the Tower of Pisa, with red paint from my car all over the white pole. Their mailbox was totaled, the mail scattered on the ground.
Someone called out something, but I was busy imagining Mr. Peterson’s reaction when he saw his mailbox. He was a big conspiracy theorist. The government and people were always out to get him. He’d believe I deliberately knocked down his stupid mailbox.
“That looks bad,” Blue Eyes said from behind me, startling me.
“You think?”
He chuckled. “From that snarky comment, you must be okay.”
“Peachy.”
I picked up the mail. He moved closer as he helped, bringing with him a masculine scent hard to describe. It bugged the crap out of me that I liked it. Worse, the heat from his body seemed to leap through the air and wrap around me in ways I couldn’t describe.
My mouth went dry. The instinct to put space between us came from nowhere, but I ignored it. Only cowards ran when faced with something they didn’t understand, and my parents didn’t raise one. Still, a delicious shiver shot up my spine, and a weird feeling settled in my stomach.
I waited until I was in control of my emotions before turning to face him. I tried not to stare at his masculine arms and chest. I really did, but all that tanned skin was so inviting and begging to be ogled. I’d seen countless shirtless guys before. Half the swim team spent time in tight shorts that left very little to the imagination, but their bodies were nothing like his. He must be seriously into working out. No one could be this ripped without hitting the gym daily.
“My face is up here, Freckles.”
My eyes flew to his, and heat flooded my cheeks. I rushed into speech to cover my embarrassment. “I, uh, I was just leaving to go to swim practice and… and...”
“I distracted you. Sorry about that.”
He didn’t sound sorry. “You didn’t.”
He cocked his eyebrows. “Didn’t what?”
“Distract me,” I snapped and snatched the mail in his hands. “Thanks. I was checking my text messages when I should have been paying attention to where I was going,” I fibbed.
Amusement flared in his eye, his expression saying he recognized my explanation for what it was: a lie. He had incredibly long lashes and beautiful eyes. Sapphire came to mind but…
Grinding my teeth at my weird behavior, I started toward the driver’s seat, going for that space between us before I did something stupid like reach out and touch him or continue gazing into his eyes like a lovesick dimwit.
“Aren’t you going to tell them you hit their mailbox? I mean, it’s against the law to flee a crime scene and all that.”
I glared at him. “I will talk to them when they come home from work. For now, I plan on leaving them a note. Not that it’s any of your business.” I searched inside the glove compartment for a notepad or anything to write on, but found nothing.
“I could explain to them what happened if you’d like,” he offered in a gentle voice. “You know, share the responsibility. After all, I did distract you.”
Seriously, how could someone so beautiful and tempting be so arrogant and annoying? I counted from ten to one then said slowly, “I don’t need your help.”
“Actually, you do.”
“No, I don’t.” I marched to my house, conscious of Blue Eyes watching me. Sure enough, when I looked back, just before I entered the house, his eyes were locked on me, an amused smile on his lips. What was he so happy about? And why couldn’t he just go away?
I pulled a piece of ruled paper from my folder and scribbled an apology with unsteady hands, then went to Dad’s home office for a large manila envelope. Times like this, I missed him more. My eyes welled.
I blinked hard and put everything from the Petersons’ mailbox into the large envelope before taping my note on the outside. I’d have to figure out how to pay for a new mailbox. Mom didn’t like me working at the shop ever since I broke a few mirrors last summer, and jobs were hard to come by because of the bad economy. Something would come to me once I was calmer. Right now, I just wanted to get my butt to the pool and lose myself swimming.
I paused to calm myself before leaving the house.
Blue Eyes was studying the damaged mailbox like an insurance adjuster. Why couldn’t he go bother someone else? Or at least put on a shirt?
“Excuse me.” I skirted around him and propped the manila envelope against the crooked pole.
“I can fix this before they come home,” he said.
I eyed him suspiciously. “Really? How?”
A weird expression crossed his face, but his eyes were watchful as though he couldn’t wait to see my reaction. “Magic.”
“Magic?” My hands fisted. I was in trouble, and he was messing around. “You know what? Stay away from me, Blue Eyes. Don’t talk to me or even acknowledge we know each other when our paths cross again. ”
“Blue Eyes?” he asked, eyebrows cocked.
“That’s me playing nice.”
He laughed. “Look, Freckles—”
“Don’t call me that.” I hated that nickname. It was a reminder of the hated spots on the bridge of my nose and the teasing I’d endured in elementary school. I slid behind the wheel, started the car, and took off. I was careful not to drive too fast even though I wanted to floor the gas pedal.
I could see Blue Eyes watching me as he grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, until I left our cul-de-sac and turned right. My day had just gone down the toilet.
***
I was twenty minutes late for practice and still pissed off at myself for overreacting to my nosey new neighbor. So he had a hot body and an attitude? Big whoop. He was the least of my problems. I had my family to worry about, my position as co-captain to defend, and a guy I was crazy about to convince I’d make a great girlfriend.
“Did you fix your flat?” Coach Fletcher asked when I walked to the pool deck.
“I’ll take it to DC Tires after practice.” I slid in the pool and joined the thirty members of the Gold Team. Silver and Bronze swam at five.
We had eight lanes, but two were reserved for club members, which meant we shared lanes, taking turns pushing off the wall a
nd looping each other. I didn’t see Eirik. He rarely skipped practice, so that was weird.
Following Coach Fletcher’s instructions, I finished my freestyle warm up laps while the others worked on their backstroke. I attacked the water like it was my enemy, although I wasn’t sure who I was ticked off at, me or my new neighbor. When I started studying the male swimmers and comparing their bodies to Blue Eyes, I knew I was definitely my own enemy.
“Since all of you swim for the Trojans, don’t forget we have Ultimate Frisbee tomorrow afternoon at Longmont Park. We’ll meet in the north field at four o’clock,” Coach Fletcher said at the end of practice. “I sent your parents e-mails last week, so no excuses. This is supposed to be for the team, but we’ll meet some of the new swimmers and discuss a few things. Tryouts start on the seventeenth, which is sooner than we usually start. Why, you may ask?” He grinned and paused for effect. “We’ll be hosting Jesuit High and Lake Oswego on the twenty-ninth at Walkersville’s swimming pool.”
Everyone started talking at once. Others high-fived each other. The two schools produced the best swimmers every year and often won at state championships. We’d never hosted them before.
“In the meantime,” Coach Fletcher continued, “I’ll need volunteers to work with some of the new swimmers. Any takers?”
No one raised a hand. Coach Fletcher crossed his beefy arms and studied us with piercing black eyes. He was a short, stubby man with a receding hairline, who preferred to shave all of his hair, but took extreme care with his beard and moustache. “Come on, guys. I need volunteers.”
I looked around and saw Eel’s hand shoot up. ‘Eel’ was Jessica Davenport, our senior co-captain and our swim team bad girl. Sighing, I raised mine. A few more shot up.
“Good. You’ll each work with a student the last thirty minutes of practice every day. If they need extra coaching and you want more time, let me know and I’ll okay the use of the pool after hours.”
“I have pep band practice every other Friday and won’t make it to practice,” I reminded Coach Fletcher after everyone left.
“We’ll have someone sub for you. Where’s Cora?”
“She wasn’t feeling well when I saw her after school,” I fibbed. Coach Fletcher’s expression said he didn’t believe me. I wasn’t surprised. I sucked at lying.
“Tell her to text me.”
“Sure. Did Eirik text you?”
“Yes. He explained his situation.”
I frowned. “His situation?”
Coach ignored my question and looked at his watch. “If you plan to take your car to the shop, you’d better get going.”
It was six fifteen, and DC Tires closed at seven. I didn’t bother to shower, just changed and raced to my car. The air pressure held up again, thank goodness. At the shop, while they fixed the leak, I checked my text messages and responded to Cora’s, which were funny. The game was close and could go either way, but she sounded like we’d already won. Cora had a way with words.
There were no texts or missed calls from Eirik, which was beginning to worry me. He never missed practice, and he usually answered my messages and calls. Did his absence have anything to do with the ‘situation’ Coach Fletcher had mentioned?
It was seven when I left the shop for home. I looked at my rearview mirror, convinced I’d heard the sound of a motorcycle start, but there were only cars behind me.
I entered my cul-de-sac, and the first thing I noticed was the Petersons’ mailbox. The wooden post no longer leaned sideways, and the tiny house looked normal as though I hadn’t hit it. Weird.
As soon as I parked, I hurried to the mailbox and studied it. There were no dents. No new nails hammered in. Nothing out of place. I touched the surface to see if it had been repainted. It was dry as the day Mr. Peterson had unveiled it. I pushed at it to see if it would lean sideways, but the vertical pole anchoring it to the ground was firm.
Where had my new neighbor found a replacement? The Petersons bragged about ordering the miniature mailbox house from some fancy homeowner’s website, so there was no way Blue Eyes had bought it locally. Had he used magic? Yeah. Right. There was no such thing as magic.
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