Collins the Shots: A College Sports Romance

by McKinley May

  She lays her left arm on the table. I take her wrist, twisting it slightly to reveal her decorated forearm.

  Crawling towards her elbow in coppery-brown ink are the phases of the moon—some of them, at least. Syd must've woken up before her roommate finished the full moon and put the impromptu tat session to a stop.

  The completed images are surprisingly well done, each lunar phase shaded in a realistic manner that I wasn't expecting.

  Before I realize what I'm doing, I reach forward, two fingers gently tracing over the detailed design. Sydney tenses almost immediately, her breath hitching at my touch.

  "I know it's not finished," I mutter as I continue my exploration of the tattoo. "And the girl's a bonafide maniac for inking you up in your sleep, but it's not half-bad."

  Her eyes remain glued to my fingers still brushing over her smooth skin. After a moment or two, she snaps out of it and yanks her arm from my grasp. "Sorry—zoned out for a sec. What did you say?"

  "I said the tat's not so bad. If that's any consolation."

  "I'm glad you think so. I'm 99% sure this is henna a.k.a. I'll be rocking it for the next few weeks." She laughs and holds her forearm to her face, inspecting it further. "One more positive from the situation—I've always thought about getting a tattoo. Now I've got a chance to take one for a test run."

  "If you ever decide to go permanent, you should come to me for advice." I nudge my chin towards my exposed full-sleeve. "Been around the block a time or two when it comes to tats."

  "I can see that." Her intrigued gaze travels the length of my left arm—shoulder to bicep to wrist. Every square inch is covered with intricate ink of varying colors and designs.

  "Painful?" she asks.

  "Nah."

  "Expensive?"

  I shake my head. "I was good buds with the artist who did most of these."

  "Sexy."

  Her last word isn't a question, but a dazed, mumbled observation—one she doesn't realize she's verbalized out loud until I grin and say thanks.

  "Huh?" Her forehead creases and she quickly tries to cover up the confession. "Cool! I meant they're really cool. Will you tell me about them?"

  "Sure," I say with a shrug. "What do you wanna know?"

  For the next hour, we polish off the food and just hang.

  Sydney tells me about her classes and some more about her roommate, Crimson, whom I've officially dubbed the Wicked Witch of Windhaven.

  I give her a detailed breakdown of my tattoos before filling her in on my "mentorship" with Bev.

  The conversation flows easily, never a dull moment or awkward silence between us during the entire sixty minutes of discussion.

  We're both nursing our second cup of coffee when we get onto the subject of soccer.

  "Wait a minute. Let me get this right," I say. "You took a cleat to the thigh that slashed open a gnarly, massive gash and you still finished the game?"

  "Well, yeah." She looks flabbergasted at my question. "It was the state finals! Losing a freaking foot wouldn't have kept me out of that match!"

  She sticks out a long leg, lifting the hem of her shorts to reveal a five-inch scar. "I slapped the world's biggest bandaid on the thing, scored the tie-breaking goal, and got stitched up after the trophy ceremony."

  "Damn." I let out a low whistle as I rub the back of my neck. "Impressive."

  "I'm kind of an aggressive player. And slightly injury-prone. I've got a whole collection of scars from my time on the field," she admits as she twirls her eating utensil between her fingers.

  "I noticed."

  There's a faded mark across her right eyebrow, no doubt from a head-to-head collision. Her chin sports a silvery-white memento from a hard hit to the jaw. And the jagged line on her knee is one any athlete would recognize: a telltale souvenir from ACL surgery.

  "You're a tough chick," I point out with a grin.

  She laughs, shrugging off the compliment. "Pain doesn't register when you're in the zone."

  "You must be pretty good."

  "Decent." Her answer comes with a shy smile that suddenly morphs into a frown. "Although I am struggling with a few aspects of my game."

  I'm about to ask for elaboration when her face lights up.

  "You're a goalkeeper," she says with realization.

  "I am a goalkeeper," I confirm, confusion in my voice. "What about it?"

  "Maybe you could help me out?"

  "With what?"

  "My accuracy problem!" she exclaims. "Having someone as talented as you tell me what I'm doing wrong...that'd be invaluable."

  I rub my chin in hesitation as she carries on.

  "What do you think? Could you work with me? Just an hour or so a week. I could buy you coffee as payment or something. Sunday mornings, if that works for you?"

  Sunday mornings.

  I've already got my Sunday afternoons taken over indefinitely with the kid...now I'm being asked to give up basically the entire day?

  As cool as Sydney is, and as eager and excited as she looks right now, I'm just not sure I'm willing to do that.

  "I dunno, Baby Blue." I drag a hand through my bedhead and frown. "I've already got one babysitting gig. I don't need anoth—"

  My sentence is interrupted by her fork clattering to the table.

  "Ouch. Babysitting?" Offense is etched across her features at my descriptor of choice. "I know I'm younger than you guys, but dang. That's a little harsh, dontcha think?"

  "Shit, no. I didn't mean it like that." I quickly try to amend my poorly-worded statement. "I just meant I wanna be able to enjoy my last Fall semester, not waste it."

  Okay, fuck.

  That might've been worse.

  "Jeez. I get it. Say no more."

  She abruptly stands, her chair making a harsh sound as it squeaks against the floor, and I follow suit.

  "Sydney, damn. I—"

  "It's fine, Cameron. Just forget I said anything." I'm cut off by her nonchalant dismissal and a flippant wave of her hand. "Thanks for breakfast."

  As she heads for the front door, she stops to offer me one last tidbit of advice. "Next time a simple 'no' would suffice."

  I stand there, foot in mouth as I watch the heavy wooden door shut behind her.

  Real freaking smooth, Cam.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you fuck up a perfectly nice morning.

  7

  "Yo! Announcement!"

  Weston jumps up on a locker room bench and claps his hands together twice. He's got his home jersey draped over his shirtless torso and a blue sweatband barely containing his mussed-up hair. One leg is completely game-ready with a shinguard, sock, and shiny white cleat, while the other leg's totally bare.

  He puts two fingers in his mouth and emits a shrill whistle. Everyone glances his way, chatter dying down as we continue suiting up for our first game of the season. Once he's positive he's got the team's attention, he makes his supposedly important announcement.

  "The new dude that moved into the Treehouse? He's a vampire. Just a friendly heads-up."

  Half the guys start cracking up at the random accusation, me included because it's so fucking ridiculous. The other half roll their eyes at his antics. Liam—leader of the latter group—hops up beside his old roommate with a declaration of his own.

  "Oi! Breaking news! Weston's a goddamn idiot. Just a friendly heads-up."

  Weston shoves him off the bench before they each take a seat next to me.

  "Paine, what the hell is wrong with you? Vampire?" I grin and shake my head as I pull out my goalie gloves. "Please tell me you haven't been binging Twilight again."

  Liam cackles. "Jesus, mate. I thought you were past your Twi-hard phase?"

  "Never," Weston quips as he flips up both middle fingers. "Forever and always on Team Guy-Who-Almost-Hit-Bella-With-His-Car."

  He grabs a water bottle from his locker and squirts a hearty sip into his mouth before frowning at us. "But this new guy is for real weird. I passed out around one last night
and when I woke up at eight, there was a shitload of his stuff in the living room. You two wanna tell me why he moved in in the middle of the damn night?"

  "Plenty of possible reasons," Liam says. "Late flight? Car troubles?"

  "Exactly," I agree. I'm leaning towards Side Rational on this one. "Dude's not a freaking creature of the night—he's a genius. Avoiding hauling boxes and luggage around during the 105-degree daylight hours? That's smart, man. Not suspicious."

  Weston shakes his head. "Fine, whatever. You got me there. But it's not just the sneaking around during the fuckin' witching hours that makes me think he's a bloodsucker. He's pale as shit, with jet black hair and these freaky translucent eyes. The guy's a complete Edward-Cullen-looking motherfucker."

  "You chatted with him?" Liam questions.

  "Nah. He was cooped up in his coffin—sorry, 'room', all morning. Haven't officially met him yet."

  I jut up a brow. "Then how do you know what he looks like?"

  "Accidentally went through a box of his shit." A devilish smirk lifts one side of his mouth. "What else do you wanna know about him? That thing was filled with memories and mementos and tons of juicy crap like that. I've got the 4-1-1."

  "Fucking snoop," Liam scoffs.

  "What?" Weston raises his hands in innocence. "The box was open and in my damn living room. I'd argue that's fair game."

  "And I'd argue that's a bloody crime. Like going through someone's mail."

  Weston laughs off the notion. "Chill, Wright. You wanna know some shit or not?"

  Curiosity gets the best of Liam as he shrugs and pretends to zip his lips shut.

  I start the interrogation. "Give us the basics. What's his name?"

  "Zion Pierce."

  "How old is he? And where's he from?"

  "His high school diploma was in there. Said he graduated a little over a year ago, so I'm guessing he's a sophomore. And he's from Cali. Definitely not a surfer bro, though."

  "So what's the deal with his soccer background?" I grab my cleats and start untying the laces. "He good?"

  "Uh, yeah." Weston grunts. "Dude's good, alright. He's been playing at fucking Stanford. Gotta be talented and have a brain to get in there."

  "Great news for us, then, isn't it?" Liam comments before glancing around the buzzing locker room. "But where the hell is he?"

  "I asked Coach Jones what the deal with this guy was Thursday during weight room," Weston reveals, referencing our hard-ass strength and conditioning coach. "He said Zion won't be seeing the field until he's got some practice under his belt."

  "Makes sense," I say.

  Weston looks around before lowering his voice. "Something's weird about him...something's just off. I can't put my finger on it, but in that box there was all this shit about—"

  Before he can finish his sentence, Diego hurls a roll of athletic tape at his face. Just before the item smacks his cheek, Weston lifts a hand and casually catches it.

  "Could you three stop gossiping like a buncha old ladies? It feels like I'm out to lunch with my abuela and her blabber-mouth friends." Diego relaxes onto the bench and shoots a stern glance our way. He's such a fucking buffoon majority of the time, but he gets damn serious whenever it's game day. "Focus, amigos. We need this W."

  Weston tosses the tape back to Diego with a carefree chuckle. "Dude, no sweat. It's Northview State. We could win this shit blindfolded."

  Truer words have never been spoken.

  We score five goals in the first half alone. For the final forty-five minutes, Coach rests most of the starters, giving the benchwarmers and underclassmen a chance to shine. I watch our guys play a game of lopsided keep-away, punching in a few more goals to really seal the deal. It's such a dominant performance by us, I've only touched the ball once during the entire match.

  Playing for Windhaven makes my job pretty damn boring sometimes.

  Luckily, I've got a mental list of ways to entertain myself when the ball hasn't crossed the fifty in God knows how long. All goalies have one of these lists, from YMCA adolescents to elite players around the globe.

  Any keeper who tells you otherwise is a damn liar.

  My favorite how much longer is this monotonous game activity?

  Scoping out the stands for hot chicks.

  I'm a red-blooded, 21-year-old dude—the fuck did you expect?

  As the final minutes of stoppage time dwindle down, I take a glance at the crowded bleachers. There are a surprising amount of students here for such a predictable game.

  Plenty of gorgeous women to keep me occupied.

  As I'm enjoying the view, my gaze comes to a halt on a trio of familiar faces: the Treehouse Girls.

  Rayne's watching the match intently, ducking her head every so often to jot down notes for a Windhaven Weekly article. Ellie's dolled-up in a white sundress and cowboy boots, her red lipstick visible from all the way across the field. When I see Lexie, I can't help but snicker. She's wearing some ridiculous-as-fuck umbrella golf hat, cheering wildly with Weston's number painted on both cheeks.

  In a freaky moment of ESP, all three feel my stare and turn my way simultaneously. I grin and lift a hand in greeting.

  As each one gives me an enthusiastic wave in response, I notice there's a fourth girl in their group.

  A girl who's definitely not happy to see me.

  Sydney's hands remain planted in her lap as she levels me with a blank stare—one that lets me know she's still pissed about our last interaction. When I raise my brows, attempting to coax some sort of acknowledgment outta her, she immediately turns away.

  Guess I deserve that.

  I'm still feeling like a dumbass for the shit I said yesterday morning.

  Equating helping her out to babysitting a child?

  Yeah...that was a dick move.

  That's why the moment the whistle signals the end of the game, I grab my bag from the bench and head her direction to try and apologize.

  Hopefully she won't storm off this time.

  I spot her walking onto the field with Rayne and make a beeline their way. I've taken no more than ten steps when I feel a sharp tug on my shirt, a familiar sound grating on my eardrums a beat later.

  "Cameron! Cam-ah-ron!" the voice whines. "Where the hell are you going?!"

  I turn around and shake off the possessive grip on my jersey.

  Ignoring the question, I offer a casual "What's up, Jules?"

  The golden-haired beauty scowls—a twisted expression I've seen on this girl's face one too many times.

  She's always upset over something or other.

  Fucking Julie.

  There's only one word to describe our history over the past three years.

  Complicated.

  No, she's not a crazy ex-girlfriend.

  Not a current significant other, either.

  And we're no longer friends with benefits—not after I shut that shit down a few months ago.

  Everyone's got a bad habit or two, right? Something that deep down they know isn't good for them, but the comfort and familiarity the behavior incites always keeps them going back for more?

  For a while, that's what Julie was to me.

  A vice.

  Didn't start out that way, though.

  We met at a party freshman year. She was a sweet and shy co-ed; I was a cool and confident athlete. With the instantaneous attraction between us, we hit it off right away.

  Long story short, we started hooking up. No strings attached, no spoken commitment...just two college kids enjoying one another's late-night company.

  This easy-going arrangement continued for a year without issue, but then things changed.

  At the beginning of sophomore year, Julie joined the Goal Girls: a group of female fans dedicated to cheering on the men's soccer team.

  The organization is split into two very different types of women.

  On one hand, you've got the die-hard fanatics. The chicks who love soccer with a burning passion. The ones who paint their faces for MLS matc
hes and rent out sports bars at odd hours to watch European leagues live.

  These girls? They're cool.

  And then you've got the groupies. The chicks who couldn't differentiate between Mbappé and Messi if their lives depended on it. The ones who are far more concerned with their gameday attire and snagging a future professional athlete than being a Windhaven Warriors supporter.

  These girls? They're cleat-chasers.

  Needless to say, Julie joined forces with the latter.

  Hell, she became the fucking head honcho of that group.

  The down-to-earth girl transformed into a materialistic bitch overnight. Everyone noticed her new obsession with looks and status and money.

  Well...everyone except me.

  My friends tried to warn me about it, but I just brushed them off. I remained blissfully ignorant of the personality change for way too fucking long.

  Dealing with the constant arguments, her piss-poor attitude, the desperate nagging for a "boyfriend + girlfriend" label neither of us had ever wanted...

  It got old.

  Why the fuck did I put up with it for two years?

  Maybe because of the steady routine we'd had going for so long. Maybe because she was there and filling some subconscious void.

  Or maybe because I'm young and stupid and let my dick do the thinking more often than not.

  Probably that last one, honestly.

  But this past summer was when I finally decided to put a stop to the bullshit.

  I cut off all physical contact, gave her a firm "nothing is ever gonna happen between us so give it up", and told her we could be friends and that's all.

  To say she was pissed off would be an understatement. Crocodile tears and melodramatic voicemails were sent my way for weeks on end. Once I told her the 'just friends' offer was gonna be thrown out the window if she didn't quit, she wised up and stopped with the manipulative tactics.

  She hasn't brought up the topic since that conversation.

  Dunno how long she'll keep it up, though.

  "Hello?! Where are you running off to?" Julie snaps her fingers repeatedly, the annoying motion bringing me back to the present.

  "Relax, Julie." I cup a hand over her fingers to stop the obnoxious sound before frowning at her nosy question. "And it's not really any of your damn business, but I'm going to talk to Rayne and Sydney."