by Lilah Grey
Violet had a “thing” for Dr. Collins, and by “thing” I meant a huge, adorable crush. When Dr. Collins, a visiting professor from London, walked into our Northern Renaissance seminar, it was game over for Violet. She was smitten, to say the least. Her and nearly every other girl in that class. I can still remember the collective gasp, the ensuing whispers, and of course, the moony expression on Violet’s face.
Speaking of Violet’s face, it had turned a shade nearly as bright as her hair at the mention of Dr. Collins. She glared at me for a moment before pulling her head out of my room and shutting the door.
“We’re not going to talk about that!” she yelled from behind the closed door.
I smiled but it soured when I remembered what was hiding underneath the pillow on my lap.
What was I doing? There was nothing Tyler could say or do that would fix what he did. Ever. Yet a part of me held on to a faint glimmer of hope that there was a fix.
I looked at my phone, the irrational part of me tugging at me, begging me to listen to the rest of the message. Fortunately, I received another text.
Chloe: omg. so much happened last night. practice is going to suck.
Crap! Practice. I checked the time; I had less than half an hour before it started, and I wasn’t even dressed. I chucked my phone across the room. A little melodramatic, but it worked. I had no urge to grab it and listen to the voicemail anymore.
A few minutes later I was out the door.
With a couple of Violet’s pancakes…
JAMES
We’re fucked.
The girl’s team and me—if I couldn’t turn this ship around. I refused to be associated with a losing team. Christ, what was wrong with these girls? How this team made it to the tournament last year was beyond me.
Practice had been a complete shit show. Girls walking through drills, tripping over balls and laughing about it, not following any direction whatsoever. I made them run after being fed up with their shit. A third of them had thrown up on the side of the field, even though I hardly ran them hard at all.
I’d seen middle schoolers perform at a higher level. In fact, I’d prefer a team of middle schoolers right now because at least they’d follow directions. Hell, they’d even show up because their parents would force them to. Half the team was missing this morning.
Fuck me. Had all the practices been like this? I guess I hadn’t been paying very close attention, but I could’ve sworn it hadn’t been this bad. That first scrimmage I watched wasn’t the best soccer I’d seen, but it wasn’t as terrible as this. It’s like they’d never seen a soccer ball in their life.
Another girl vomited right beside me. I could smell a sour mixture of alcohol and undigested food.
“Go home,” I said, not even glancing at her. I had no desire to waste time with someone who didn’t respect the game enough to abstain from alcohol the night before practice. No wonder practice had been going so poorly.
“But…” Her voice was hardly above a whisper.
“Come back when you’re ready to play.” I folded my arms and watched the rest of the team sprint.
Rather than saunter off, she ran back on the field. Maybe they had some heart after all.
We ended the practice with three-on-three mini games. There weren’t many games going because much of the team was absent. At least they knew better to show up when they couldn’t perform, but it still rubbed me the wrong way. The season hadn’t even started yet and this many people weren’t taking it seriously. Things were going to change; I was going to make sure of that.
The silver lining in it all was watching Corinne. She was in peak form, running circles around everyone else on the field as though she’d been sped up while the rest of the team moved in slow motion.
It wasn’t surprising. Corinne had heart. Passion. She was the first one on the field and the last to leave, practicing her shot on an empty net over and over again. She reminded me of myself, of the hours I spent alone practicing the same shot over and over again, repeating the same process again the next day.
She had the skill and the work ethic to be great. And now she had a coach who would ensure that she would be great, even with her injury. I could see that it was still affecting her. She had a slight limp only noticeable when she was walking. I’d had the same injury before. It was brutal but manageable with time and a proper training routine.
I just needed to talk to her. A feat that was easier said than done. After that meeting, she wanted nothing to do with me. I didn’t understand why she took what I said so personally. I didn’t trash her as a player. I simply—
Christ, another girl just threw up.
CORINNE
Practice was an embarrassment. People were missing; people were hungover. We shouldn’t have had practice at all with this many people gone. I didn’t dare look at either Coach Kay or James after practice because both of them were furious. And they had every right to be. I left practice without showering or even speaking to anyone else.
Not even Chloe’s news about Rylee and Tyler’s blowout at the party made me feel any better.
Apparently, Rylee had kissed some new recruit on the men’s team, and Tyler found out. Yelling, tears, the works. None of it mattered to me. In fact, it made me feel a little worse knowing that the only reason Tyler attempted to apologize to me was because he and Rylee were on the rocks. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does; Tyler’s an asshole, plain and simple.
Rylee was among the half dozen or so that weren’t here. A part of me was happy that she was in enough pain to not show up to practice, but another part of me was angry. Rylee was a co-captain. She should be setting an example for the rest of the team. I didn’t want the new recruits to think that this was normal for us. Or James, for that matter.
If this practice was any clue to how this season would turn out, then my chances of getting drafted just flatlined.
14
Corinne
“I think he’s trying to kill us,” I whispered to Violet. “That way there won’t be any team left for him to coach.”
Practice had been brutal to say the least. After the horrendous showing a few days ago, both James and Coach Kay were on a warpath. James in particular.
I was a forward, and because of that, I had the unfortunate pleasure of being in his group for part of practice when the team split into position-specific workouts. Coach Kay had her group work through the usual drills you’d expect.
James, on the other hand, had his own vision.
He ran us into the ground, literally. There wasn’t a single person in our group that wasn’t sprawled on the grass after practice. I’m beginning to regret my wish for him to take a more active role in practices now.
I grimaced as I ran my hands lightly across my thighs. Even the slightest amount of pressure sent shockwaves of pain through me. Violet, however, took pleasure in my pain; she strained to contain her laughter as Dr. Collins read the syllabus for our seminar in Art History Methods.
“Not. Funny,” I said, lightly smacking her bare thigh with the back of my hand.
She returned the favor in kind. A light tap, but given my leg’s current condition, it was enough to make me recoil and send me toppling sideways out of my chair.
“Everything okay, Corinne?” Dr. Collins asked as he peered at me over the papers in his hand. Whispers spread throughout the class as my face lit up. Violet gaped at me and then mouthed an apology.
“Yes. Fine,” I muttered as I returned to my seat. I repositioned my pencil and single sheet of paper in front of me as though nothing had happened, as though the entire class wasn’t gawking at me right now.
“Good. Now,” Dr. Collins said, simply, as though students ordinarily collapsed onto the floor during his lectures, “as I was saying, there will be only two grades for this seminar: participation and a fifteen-to-twenty-page research paper. Both of which are weighted equally in your final grade.”
Two grades? My stomach dropped; nervous energy wound i
tself up, tightening in my core as it replaced the embarrassment I felt earlier. There was no room for error. No throwaway assignments to hide behind.
I looked at Violet, but the news didn’t even seem to register. Her fingers toyed absently at a corner of her syllabus as she stared at Dr. Collins. She was entranced, a slight smile forming on her lips.
Dr. Collins let his hands fall and rest at his sides as he leaned against the table at the front of the room. “Now, although there’s no graded homework for the assigned readings,” he began, lowering his chin and peering at us over his glasses, “I urge you to keep up with them, so you will be able to contribute to our discussions. I’m not opposed to adding assignments if it becomes clear that no one is reading. Of course, that would be more work for me, and like you all, I don’t want to do more work than I have to.”
There were a few light chuckles, Violet among them.
He paused for a moment. Tweed and leather and tousled brown hair—not to mention his charm and wit and good looks—I could see his appeal and understand Violet’s obsession. An academic Jude Law. But there wasn’t an edge to him, a roughness. He seemed too put together, too scholarly. Safe.
In other words, perfect for Violet. At least, once she graduated. But there was a part of me that hoped she’d try something impulsive, something to shake things up for once.
Dr. Collins crossed his arms and scanned the room. Violet shifted in her seat, breaking from her trancelike state as she looked at the shredded mess in front of her that was once her syllabus.
“Any questions before we end for the day?” The question hung in the air but was met with silence. “Good. If you do have any questions, feel free to email me. See you all next week, and don’t forget to do the readings.”
Chairs screeched against the floor and random conversations filled the room as everyone began to leave. I sat there for a moment, soaking in the dread of trying to balance school and soccer. Fortunately, Violet didn’t let me wallow for long.
“Wow. This class is going to be so much fun!” she squealed at me, putting the remains of her syllabus into her bag.
“Fun?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Oh, it won’t be that bad.”
“Maybe for you, but this class is going to kill me.”
Violet laughed as I flipped through the syllabus again; there were so many articles and chapters of assigned readings each week with archaic, academic titles that made my head spin. Meaning, Identity, Embodiment: The Uses of Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology in Art History—could I get the English translation, please?
“I’m definitely going to need your help with my paper,” I said with a sigh.
“Of course!” Violet said.
I stood, shouldered my bag, and started for the door but noticed that Violet was still seated; she was staring at Dr. Collins and the girls lined up to talk with him at the podium.
“Vi-ooooh-let” I lilted. “You coming?”
“Actually,” she said in a distracted, distant tone, “I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Collins. You go ahead.”
It was the first day of classes; of course, Violet would’ve already scheduled a meeting. I laughed and was about to leave when Dr. Collins approached.
“Violet,” Dr. Collins said with a smile as he readjusted the strap of his leather satchel on his shoulder. “Are we still on for today?”
“Y-Yes, Dr. Collins.” Violet said meekly, looking up at him for a moment before dropping her gaze to her hands.
“Good.” He turned to me. “Corinne…” He let my name hang, as though reaching for a thought. “I…” He scratched the back of his head and raised his brow. “I think we need to schedule a meeting?” It was less a statement than a question. “I’ve been getting… emails from your mother.” His tone implied that he’d received a multitude, and that he’d like for them to stop.
My face flushed. “I’m so sorry. She can be a little overbearing at times.” More like all the time, but whatever.
“It’s alright,” he said, although it was clear that he was simply being nice. “Send me an email, and we can work out the details.”
“Okay.”
He turned back to Violet and smiled. “I’ll be in my office, Violet.”
Violet mumbled a response and Dr. Collins left. I looked at Violet; she was clearly lost in her thoughts, staring at the space Dr. Collins had just left. She finally looked up at me and promptly blushed when she saw the huge grin on my face. “Oh, shut up.”
“What?” I laughed. “I didn’t say anything.”
She glared at me.
“Oh, come on Violet. I think it’s adorable that you have a crush on your professor.”
“Don’t make me…” Violet warned, eyeing my legs.
“Alright!” I flinched as she reached for me.
She groaned as she stood up and marched past me towards the door.
For as long as I had known her, she never showed an interest in anyone; she was content with spending her nights and weekends with books and papers. I was happy that Violet had a crush on someone, even it was her professor.
I watched Violet as she walked down the hall toward Dr. Collins office. She looked back at me, and I gave her the thumbs up. She shook her head and disappeared into his office. I checked my phone and found a text from Chloe.
Chloe: Coach Kay posted the starting roster for the WVU game… I’m on it!
Corinne: Of course you are! Was there any doubt?
Chloe: Not really :)
Corinne: Did you check for my name?
There was a long break before she responded. My body vibrated with nervous energy and self-doubt as I waited. Finally, she responded.
Chloe: Of course. Right forward.
Corinne: Who’s the striker?
Chloe: Rylee.
We both vied for the spot last year, alternating until the end of the season when Coach Kay put me there officially. Rylee was capable striker; she’s a technically-sound, talented player, but that only got you so far.
Showing up late to practice or not at all—she’s missed more practices this year than I’ve missed in my entire career. And the season hadn’t started yet. I was surprised Coach Kay hadn’t taken that into account.
Corinne: Seriously?
Chloe: I know. I don’t get it either.
Chloe: You’ll get that striker spot back in no time. Just hang in there
Corinne: Yeah, I know. Thanks
Just hang in there.
I’ve always disliked that phrase. I’m not going to bide my time, waiting for Rylee to mess up, so I can swoop in and reclaim my spot. I’m going to continue to fight and practice hard until Coach Kay can’t ignore that I’m the better choice.
15
James
My eyes burned from staring at the same spot on the ceiling for hours. Or minutes. Either seemed just as likely at this point. Light from street lamps streamed into my bedroom, covering everything in a muted yellow light.
Curtains would been nice. Long, blackout curtains…
Add that to the long list of things I’d forgotten to buy for my newly rented apartment.
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve had an interior decorator come in, buy all the furniture and necessities for the apartment, and then have it arranged well before I arrived.
Everything in its place.
These, however, were anything but normal circumstances, and I was slowly coming closer to accepting them. Renting this apartment was the first step; I couldn’t very well commute from New York everyday, at least not without ripping my hair out in frustration.
This was my new reality.
I rolled over on my side, pulling the covers over my head to block out the harsh light, but the thin white sheet did nothing. I briefly considered taping trash bags to the windows, but remembered I had neither tape nor trash bags.
But I knew it wasn’t the light that was causing my restless nights these past few weeks because I could hardly sleep back at my place in New
York. As soon as the lights went out, my mind went into overdrive, preventing me from catching more than a few minutes of sleep.
I groaned, trying to find a comfortable position, but eventually, I gave up.
Selfish. Arrogant. Irresponsible.
Jack’s words had been swirling through my head for the past few days. I hadn’t exactly been the most reliable player; I get that. But what happened off the field never had an effect on the field. Never. I always performed.
I thought I’d be out of this situation in under a week, but it had dragged on uncomfortably with no end in sight. Pete wasn’t any help. The fuck was the point in having an agent if he couldn’t come through when you actually needed him?
Maybe it’s for the best. Coaching hadn’t been that bad so long as the team followed directions and showed up to play. The last few weeks, after that complete shit show, went pretty well.
If this was what Harvey wanted, so be it. I wasn’t going to be there to pull him out of the inevitable mess he’d find himself in once the Stars got blown-out game after game. Fans would call for his head; investors would call for his head; sponsorships would be on the line; money would be on the line, and it wouldn’t be long before he started to grovel for my return.
The slight pleasure I felt thinking about Harvey on his knees, begging me, was short-lived as my thoughts inevitably drifted to Corinne. I hadn’t been able to keep her out of my mind since I saw her during that first scrimmage.
When I found out she was on the team, I thought there might be a chance for us to reconnect. That quickly disintegrated into ash when I fucked up during that player meeting. Since then, she’s been disinterested in conversations longer than a few seconds. At first I wrote it off as her just being overly sensitive. But the more I thought about, the more I began to remember things. Things about my past and about Corinne.
The Blazers were her favorite team, and by favorite team I meant her singular obsession outside of playing soccer. She used to have posters of the team hanging up in her room. Alicia Becker. Lacey Gomez. Samantha Meadows. Some of the top talent at the time. She idolized them and tried to emulate them on the field, picking up their habits and movements.
