Students of the Game

by Sarah Bumpus

  He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks into the wind. “I felt bad about what I said the other day. I just wanted to make sure you’re not mad.

  Looking at him, I realize that despite the familiar black beanie on his head, he’s only wearing a t-shirt. “Aren’t you cold? Look, come inside and we can talk about it. I’m freezing!” I grab his arm and yank him through the door. I offer Bryce some hot cocoa because it would probably be rude not to, and motion for him to take a seat at the bar.

  “So, are you Ok?” Bryce asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. You didn’t have to come here, you know. You could have just called.”

  Bryce scratches his head through the fabric of his beanie, trying to figure out how to take the answer I give him.

  I feel bad for knocking his kind gesture. I quickly try to make right of the situation. “I should be apologizing to you, Bryce. I don’t know how I can help you when I know nothing about football-”

  Bryce interrupts me, “Come to my game this Friday night, then. That would help you.” You’d think he found the cure for cancer, he’s beaming from ear to ear. He continues, “Maybe your mom can go with you to give you a play by play.”

  “Seriously? My mom? Do you really think I’m that lame?” I slide a steaming mug across the bar in his direction.

  “What? No, Joy. That’s not what I meant…I just thought since your mom usually goes to watch Devon, you know, she obviously watches the games…”

  It’s actually quite funny to see him so uncomfortable, fumbling for the words to make up for what he thinks I’ve taken as an insult. I sigh as I hop up onto a stool and put him out of his misery. “Alright, I’ll go. Just don’t expect me to show up with pom-poms…or my mom for that matter.”

  Bryce gives me a full smile, a hint of familiar boyishness coming through. And he doesn’t say it, but I can tell he’s glad I’m going to go.

  As if on cue my mom comes in the back door. She sees us sitting together at the bar with our drinks, and I know she is trying her hardest to hide her astonishment.

  “Hi, Mom. Want some cocoa?” I giggle.

  She looks at me and then at Bryce, who’s attempting to stifle a laugh by holding his mug to his lips. My mom just shakes her head and continues on through the kitchen.

  Lunch time on Wednesday arrives and it’s the first time facing Carver since he came to the Library last weekend. Trying to gather all my butterflies up in a net, I take a breath and run my fingers through my ponytail, then step through the door.

  Carver is sitting in back where we had previously met, bent over his schoolwork. He doesn’t know I’m here yet and I use this opportunity to take him in. As he writes, one side of his hair hangs down, following the angle of his jaw. He’s concentrating too intensely on his work to be bothered with pushing it back. Even though he doesn’t play any sports at North Tide, his fitness is evident by the way the thin material of his shirt clings to his body. He’s tall like Bryce, but much leaner. I wonder if maybe he runs and the thought causes me to look down at my non-existent definition. I secretly hope he’s not looking for a female equivalent. I shake my head, remembering that I have a lot of good things to offer besides an incredibly flat stomach, and march over to him, refusing to be defeated.

  I greet him with confidence and find our conversation to start off pretty formal. After taking a look to see what he’s been working on in math class, I try and concentrate on formulas but they all seem to just jumble together. My confidence slowly deflates, like a scissor snipped helium balloon, and at one point I find myself getting so flustered that I keep making mistakes. Flipping the pencil eraser over for the tenth time, I cause a little accordion-like tear in the loose leaf paper.

  “Shit,” I mumble and try to smooth it out with my fingernail.

  Carver smiles and slowly wraps his hand around mine, pulling the pencil free from my grasp with his other. He keeps his fingers curled around mine and the touch of his hand creates feeling in nerve endings that I didn’t even know existed.

  He stares at me for a moment, then pulls his hand away and retrieves a fresh sheet of paper. “So, why are you tutoring Colton, anyway?”

  Surprised by the sudden mention of his name, and punch back into reality, I find myself telling him the truth. “He got offered an athletic scholarship, but he needs to pass history and stay out of trouble to keep it.”

  Carver laughs and strokes his chin. “So it’s true, then. I heard the rumors, but wasn’t sure. “Do you actually study? Or does he bore you to death and talk about football the whole time?”

  I shrug. “I don’t even know anything about football. I’ve never been to a game. Bryce somehow talked me into going Friday night,” I admit, then instantly wish I could take it back.

  “Colton’s invited you to the football game.” He says it as a statement, not a question, and looks slightly annoyed.

  I try to come to my own defense. “I don’t know, I guess I thought it would be good for me. Maybe it will be fun…” I let my voice trail off.

  “No, you’re right. I’m sorry, Joy. After our discussion at the coffee shop, I’d be a hypocrite to tell you not to go.” Carver sighs. “It’s just that I hate to picture some jock football player trying to take advantage of you, especially Colton.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry about Bryce. He’s an OK guy.”

  Did I really just say that?

  “Trust me, he can be a dick,” Carver replies. Then in a slightly possessive tone, he adds, “I just need to know that you’ll be alright, that’s all.”

  My stomach dips, riding its own personal roller coaster and I find myself blushing at the sweetness of his comment. “Well, thanks but I’ll be fine,” I say, knowing full well Bryce’s dick-like qualities.

  The bell rings signaling the end of the period. I get up to leave, and Carver says, “You know, I’ve never been to one of North Tide’s football games either.” He has this mischievous look in his eyes that says just maybe…I’ll see you there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Please go to the game with me tonight!” I beg one last time, after failed attempts the past two days.

  “Will you go to the Harvest Dance?” Farah asks on the drive home from school.

  “No way!”

  “Then I’m not going to anything with you, unless you go to the dance with me.”

  “That’s so not fair! Why not go solo? You did last year.”

  “Yeah and got preyed on by every computer geek there! Oh, no offense to your brother,” she adds. “I’m not facing that all alone, again.”

  “Fine, forget it,” I pout, hoping that will get her to change her mind. I’ve been told I have a really cute pout.

  When I drop her off, she blows me a kiss and tells me to have fun. I pout again, this time at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. Apparently it’s lost its charm. OK, so what? I can go to a football game by myself, big deal. Besides if Carver does show up, do I really want Farah there anyway? Probably not.

  About an hour before the game, I’m trying to decide what to wear. I don’t want to make the same outfit mistake as I did that day at the library. I dig out a pair of skinny jeans Farah talked me into buying, that I still haven’t worn. Going through about a dozen shirts that are now in a pile at the bottom of my closet, I finally choose a long sleeved sweater. Rolling my eyes I think, why should it matter? I’ll have a jacket on anyway. I stick with my Chuck Taylors, braid my hair, and apply a touch of eyeliner and mascara. My mom calls us for dinner, and at the last minute I secure Carver’s scarf around my neck as the perfect accessory.

  While we eat, I mention to my mom that I can drive Devon to the game since I’m going there anyway.

  “Back to school on a Friday night, whatever for?” she asks, with her fork stopped in midair.

  “I’m going to the football game.”

  My mom looks surprised and Devon lets out a little yip of excitement. “Really, Joy? You’re gonna come see me march?”

  “Well yeah, but
don’t let it go to your head, it’s not just for you,” I tease. “Bryce talked me into going.”

  “Ooh, looks like someone’s turned into Bryce Colton groupie.”

  I throw a piece of bread at him. “Oh, please, I am so not a groupie. I need learn about football to help him with tutoring.”

  My mom clears her throat. Hearing Bryce’s name is all it takes. “Well, alright then. Maybe I’ll just stay home and enjoy some alone time, read a book or something.”

  I was hoping she’d say that. I really couldn’t see a way around not sitting with her and if Carver did decide to go, it would be just be embarrassing.

  “If you and Bryce want to hang out afterward, just have Dev call me and I’ll pick him

  up,” she adds, because I think she’s realized I’m wearing mascara.

  “Sure mom.”

  Yeah right, mom.

  When my Jetta squeals into the parking lot back at school that evening, it’s already getting dark and the lights are on over the field. Friday night home games are somewhat of a novelty this year because it’s the first season the Sea Hounds have been able to host them. I suppose the school has Bryce to thank for that. After they won the Championship last year, a bunch of North Tide’s local businesses donated funds to have them installed. So between the folks here to see the magic of electricity, students hanging out, and the actual fans here to see the game, the stands are quite crowded.

  Devon locates a group of fellow bandsters, (which is easy to do in their gaudy marching coats) and takes off, the gold plume on his shako billowing about as he runs. So, officially on my own, I pick up a soda from the concession stand then climb up the bleachers. I make my way towards the top where there is less of a crowd, populated more with parents than students. Looking down I can see Missy in the front row. She’s leaning over the railing, talking to someone. I strain to see who it is assuming it’s Bryce, but it’s just a couple of cheerleaders who are multi-tasking by stretching out, and gossiping with Missy at the same time. She turns and scans the crowd, as if needing to make sure everyone knows she’s here. I’m paying too much attention to her, and I don’t even notice someone sit down in front of me, until they lean back and say, “Hello, Ms. Anderson. Your mom’s finally turned you into a football fan, huh?”

  “Oh! Mr. Colton!”

  Mr. Colton?

  I’m momentarily stunned that he’s sitting right here in front of me. It’s amazing how much Bryce looks like him. Even with the bulkiness of his pullover you can tell that he’s still in great shape. He has the same thick chestnut hair as Bryce, only slightly speckled with gray, and of course those eyes.

  Trying to be cordial, I say, “Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!”

  To which he optimistically replies, “There’s always a way to beat them, kid, always.”

  OK. Guess that pretty much sums him up. Now I know he must be a huge factor behind Bryce’s success at the game. I think back to that picture I saw of him online in his Pee-Wee uniform, and can only imagine what kind of lecture his dad was giving him then.

  Suddenly the band starts to play and begin to march onto the field for their first routine. I’m grateful for the diversion, so I don’t have to continue a conversation with Mr. Colton, now facing front holding a play card and pencil.

  Tuning out the music, I wonder why my dad was friends with him. What on earth did they even have in common? Then it dawns on me…Competition…Striving to be better than anyone else. My dad sure wasn’t athletic but he was very smart, and he was training me to follow in his footsteps. He wanted me to be the best I could be academically, while for Mr. Colton, it was sports. Now he’s passed this notion down to Bryce. So in a sense, Bryce and I aren’t so different after all.

  This realization makes me angry and I take a sip from my drink to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth. Even after his death, I’ve been trying to live up to my dad’s expectations. I don’t even know how high they would be, because he’s gone. I just keep pushing myself to be better, and even better the next time, until there’s no room for questioning. As smart as I am, I’ve been so stupid. Carver is right. I’ve sheltered myself from all kinds of experiences. I’ve been doing what I thought I should do, to make everyone else happy, everyone but myself. Well, perhaps it’s time to really change things before it’s too late.

  “Wow, you’re really into this game.” Carver laughs, startling me back to reality. I didn’t even notice that the band has finished and both teams are out on the field, or the fact that Caver is standing beside me.

  “You look like you could use company. Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not,” I glance down at Mr. Colton but he’s focused on his play card. Moving my drink, I clear the seat next to me.

  “Nice scarf.” Carver looks me up and down as he sits. I happily decrypt the compliment to include my look as a whole.

  “So what did I miss?” he adds jokingly.

  I laugh. “Honestly, I have no idea!”

  I try to focus my attention towards the field. Our school’s uniform consists of maroon jerseys with gold print. Thankfully someone had enough smarts to opt for black spandex shorts, and not force testosterone fueled teenage boys into gold ones. Our helmets feature a cartoon-like attempt at a menacing looking dog, sporting a pirate hat and eye patch. This of course must be what a real sea hound looks like. I mention this to Carver and he laughs.

  The opposing team is wearing bright yellow jerseys and every time a play occurs I feel like I’m watching ketchup and mustard smoosh together out the side of someone’s hamburger bun. The whistle blows and Bryce who’s wearing the number 19, jogs out onto the field for the Sea Hound’s first possession of the game.

  “Oh, there’s Bryce,” I say, a little too enthusiastically then mentally kick myself.

  In his Sea Hounds uniform you can see how well built his body is for this sport. Bryce already looks like he could be playing for a college team. The short cap sleeves of his jersey do nothing to hide the definition in his arms, and the spandex shorts accentuate the muscles of his thighs and tightness of his…I look away as my eyes travel up his body, feeling awkward for even checking him out in the first place.

  At halftime, Devon and the rest of the band line up in formation back on the field. As much as I’d love to gaze at Carver for the entire half, I try to pay attention after (unintentionally) tuning out his first performance. I know he’s going to ask me a million questions about how he did.

  Mr. Colton stands up to stretch his legs. He turns around and I silently pray that he doesn’t want to continue our conversation, but of course it doesn’t work. He clears his throat and addresses me, “So, Joy. Bryce tells me you’re a big help to him with the history tutoring. He talks about you quite a bit. Reminds me of how close you guys were when you were kids.”

  Oh no…Did he really just say that?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The band fights for my attention as I pick up the chorus to ‘Firework’ in the background. Probably because Devon practiced it for hours on end, it’s permanently attached itself to my senses. They flank into position and pause, marching in time while the color guards wave flags over their heads, demanding to be seen. I find myself looking up, almost expecting there to be something above mine. Perhaps a target and Mr. Colton just hit the bull’s eye.

  “Hey, Mr. Colton, do you remember me? I’m Bryce’s old friend.” Carver reaches out and shakes hands with Bryce’s dad.

  “Carver, right? Long time no see. How ya been?”

  “Fine thanks, sir. So…speaking of history, there’s some between Bryce and Joy? He asks and his lips turn up into a thin smile. “He never mentioned that to me.”

  Mr. Colton speaks and his words snap me back to the conversation. “Yeah, they have history alright. They were pretty much inseparable from birth,” he chuckles. “Polly, and my wife used to say they’d get married one day, but I guess Bryce discovered football before he discovered girls.” Looking at me, he adds, “Go
od thing, too. I don’t know how he could have avoided Joy here. She’s grown up to be quite a young lady.”

  Oh god. This is quickly turning into a nightmare. I toy with the idea of grabbing Carver’s arm and just running away, but with my luck I’d face plant into the bleachers. There is a loud applause as the band ends, and the teams get ready to come back out for the second half. Carver looks lost in thought, as he stares out at the field.

  “Tell your mother hello, from Mrs. C. and me.” Mr. Colton says, and now I know where Bryce gets the letter thing from. He nods at Carver, and turns around, focusing his attention back on the play card.

  “I’m leaving,” Carver says flatly, and stands up.

  “What? Why?” I ask stupidly, already knowing the answer.

  He leans down, and whispers, “I didn’t realize there was some kind of personal relationship between you and Colton.” Carver slides his way out of the bleachers and climbs down the center stairs before vanishing on the lawn past the concession stand.

  I sit for a minute, watching the players blur together on the field, before making the decision to go after him. By the time I catch up, he’s reached the parking lot. The darkness of it, full of empty cars, is an eerie contrast to the liveliness and excitement going on just yards away. I yell for Carver to wait.

  He stops and turns around. “What the hell, Joy? I don’t like being played with!”

  “I’m sorry. I feel like I owe you an explanation,” I whisper.

  I don’t know if it’s the little revelation I had at the beginning of the game, or if it’s how much I want Carver to know that there is nothing going on with Bryce, but I feel as if there is a magnetic force field slowly drawing me closer. In the dark shadows of empty cars, I lean up and kiss Carver on the lips. When I start to pull away, he guides me back, his hand under my braid at the base of my skull. Carver draws me in and our kiss is slow and delicate. As his tongue slips into my mouth, I swallow the warmth of his breath in the cool night air and it causes a shiver to course throughout my entire bloodstream. When we finally break away, I look up at him and ask, “How was that for an explanation?”