"I take it Friday," she says with a grimace. "You just took it, right? Give it to me straight—how bad was it really?"
"Some of the O-Chem questions were tricky, but it was alright for the most part. This one girl did run out balling five minutes in, though."
"Oh man." Yasmine winces. "My future."
"You'll be fine," I assure her with a laugh. "I could tell she was gonna crack the second I saw her. You've got this."
"While we're on the topic, I did have a question about a practice problem. And since you've already taken it..." She reaches into her bag, retrieving a massive MCAT Study Guide and dropping it onto the table with a deafening thump. "Maybe you could help me out?"
The moment I see the familiar blue cover, my body automatically recoils in horror.
"Oh my God, get that away from me!" I make an X-shape with my arms in front of the book. "I never want to look at an MCAT problem again in my life, Yas."
And isn't that the damn truth. I've been studying for that stupid test for the past five months.
This winter break, I went into hardcore study mode.
When I wasn’t locked in my room, burying my head in every MCAT study material known to man, I’d take refuge at the local coffee joint where I survived on caffeine and unevenly-reheated pastries from sunrise to sunset.
I finally took the test last week, and I'm hoping and praying my score is high enough that will be the only time I have to take it.
"Come on, girl." Yasmine pouts before a sly look creeps onto her face. "Did you do something different with your make-up today? Your eyes are really popping. So green. New mascara?"
I cross my arms over my chest and grin. "Nice try, but flattery isn't going to work on me."
She doesn't give up. "Your skin's looking so bronzed and glowy. Were you in Cabo over break? You look tan."
"Okay, that's really not gonna work." I give her a pointed look. "I haven't had any sun in months. I was locked in a cave studying, remember?!"
"Oh, that's right. Dang." She groans before folding her hands together in a begging motion. Plan #2 to persuade me has begun. "Please, Lexie. You're good at this crap. Standardized tests are my weakness. Just one problem. Please."
When she starts to get down on her knees in the middle of the freakin' restaurant, I relent.
"Fine, fine. I'll help you. Only because you're such a good study buddy." I polish off the last bite of my food and wipe my hands together. I nudge my head towards the giant workbook and shoot her a stern look. "One question."
One question turns into two, then three, and then we pretty much go over an entire practice section for the next hour and a half.
Yas orders us sopapillas and extra dulce de leche dipping sauce as compensation, and I happily take the offer.
At 3:45, I head out after telling her to text me with any questions. Despite what I said earlier, of course I'm going to help her if she really needs it.
What kind of crappy friend would I be if I didn't?
Now if she starts asking for my assistance with her new knife juggling pastime, I'm out. No amount of delicious Mexican food bribery will change my mind on that one.
I push open the door, relieved to discover it's warmed up significantly since this morning. The sun finally decided to make an appearance and a cool breeze gently blows the hair from my face. I breathe deeply, basking in the perfect weather as I make my way back to campus.
Unfortunately, my happy mood is short-lived. I'm crossing the street when I pass a boy wearing a black T-shirt, the words Windhaven's Men Soccer etched across the chest. Weston's pompous smirk immediately pops into my mind.
I managed to push this morning's encounter from my thoughts for most of the day, but now I can feel myself getting riled up all over again.
How the heck am I supposed to make it through an entire semester with a partner who doesn't know how to turn on a microscope?!
I pull out my phone, realizing I never got the chance to tell Rayne the bad news. She'll be the perfect person to bitch about the situation with.
Me: SOS R!!!! You will NEVER believe who my freaking lab partner —
I'm halfway through the text when another message pops up.
Unknown: Alexandra Sofia De Luca-Montgomery
Unknown: Holy shit, Barbie. That's a mouthful.
Speak of the damn devil.
My head rolls back dramatically as I emit an irritated groan into the sky. After a few funny looks and a couple Are-you-okay?'s from concerned bystanders, I straighten back up and add his name to my contact list.
Before I can type out a snarky response, another duo of texts fills my screen.
Weston: Why do you have so many fucking names? You royalty or something?
Weston: Should I be addressing you as Your Majesty? Bowing down at your feet?
When you say the whole name altogether, I'll admit it does give off some fancy-schmancy Italian princess vibes. Sofia is my grandmother's name and De Luca is my mom's maiden name which she kept, but that's seriously none of his business.
Also, who the hell has the authority to give out my entire name like that anyway? That should be buried down in the school system somewhere. Deep down.
Me: Wtf?
Me: How did you even get that information?
Weston: Don't worry about it, Alexandra.
Me: Omg!
Me: I go by Lexie. Just Lexie.
Weston: Probably should've just told me that this morning then, huh?
Touché, asshole.
I don't bother answering him as I walk into the Architecture building.
The moment I'm inside, I take a long inhale, the musty smell that could only belong to the oldest structure on campus as potent as ever. Most students hate it, but I find it oddly comforting.
I step into the classroom and wave at Miss Harris, the young professor who teaches a handful of design courses. Her desk is littered with colorful swatches of fabric and home decor magazines.
An involuntary smile appears on my face at the sight.
Yasmine was wrong.
I'm not pursuing this minor for the application boost, though that will be a good excuse if my parents ever question my course schedule.
And sure, taking an interior design class once a semester gives my right brain a chance to shine while my left brain takes a much-needed rest, but that's also not the reasoning behind it.
I really and truly love this stuff. It interests me, inspires me, and not to toot my own horn or anything, I'm damn good at it.
It's also the only thing keeping me relaxed lately, the only thing that temporarily relieves the lingering cloud of stress that's been bogging me down the last few months.
My phone buzzes again, interrupting my thoughts. I reluctantly glance down.
Weston: Too stubborn to admit your mistake?
Ugh.
Giving him my digits was the mistake.
A colossal one.
Me: You said getting my # was for lab purposes only. Do you have a ? pertaining to the lab?
Weston: Nope.
Me: Then convo is over. Bye.
Me: And don't forget to send me your portion of the lab by 7 p.m. on Sunday
Weston: Will do, Alexandra.
Me: *middle finger emoji*
7
"Liam, if you don't get your fucking feet off my dashboard, I swear to God..."
Vaughn shoots a death glare in Liam's direction before starting the car and pulling onto the street.
"I'm not wearing cleats, mate."
"Don't care. Get them off."
"But I need to stretch my legs. There's not enough room below the dash."
Vaughn presses a button and the passenger window slowly rolls down. "Then stick them out the window."
"So I can break my ankles on a Stop Sign?" Liam shakes his head and wiggles his toes back and forth. "I'm good right here."
"Like hell you are." Vaughn reaches over and shoves Liam's shins downward, the impact causing his feet to slam to the
floor with a loud thump.
"Bollocks." Liam winces as he rubs his legs. "Lay off the money-makers, man. I've got to run on these things."
"Then do what I fucking ask the first time. Shit. I feel like a soccer mom driving carpool," Vaughn mutters. He takes a right onto a deserted road and drums his fingers to the beat of the country song coming from the radio. "Whose turn is it next week?"
"Mine," I say with a yawn. I nod my head towards Cameron who's asleep and snoring on my left. "Then his."
"Well, whenever it's Liam's turn, I call shotgun."
"Why?" Liam frowns. "So you can put your feet all over my dash?"
"Yup." Vaughn grins. "Your pick-up is old as shit, though. I don't know if I can scratch it up anymore than it already is, but I'll give it my best shot."
"Piss off. You're riding in the bed of the truck when I drive."
Vaughn lets out a low chuckle in response and turns up the radio, the music putting an end to the conversation.
I rest my head against the window, watching a blur of trees go by as another yawn escapes me.
It's really freaking early on Friday morning and we're headed to Windhaven's practice fields for an a.m. session. The facility is a good ten mile drive from campus, so Vaughn, Cam, Liam, and I ride together a few times a week to save on gas.
Vaughn's definitely right about our little ride-sharing operation—it does feel like driving a fucking kid's carpool sometimes.
Like when Cameron spilled an entire 32 oz. Gatorade all over my backseat and my car smelled like lemon-lime sports drink for two freaking months.
Or the time Vaughn blew one of my speakers when he plugged in his phone and blasted Baby Shark to wake up the frat guys that live next door.
I'm not exactly innocent in all of this, either.
Sophomore year, Liam pissed me off so I put a huge ass bumper sticker on his truck that read Honk if You're Horny! and dude didn't notice for weeks.
During that time, he developed a case of extreme road rage as every leisurely drive turned into a honking match between him and whatever sexually-deprived person felt like letting him know.
It wasn't until the campus police issued him a warning for "disturbing the peace" and insisted the sticker be removed that he even realized it was there.
He wouldn't let me hitch a ride for a month after that one.
Good times in the Treehouse Carpool.
Ten minutes and a whole lotta blurry trees later, we pull into the parking lot. The field lights are glowing orange, the sun still a good half-hour from rising. I rub my temples as Vaughn cuts the engine.
I didn't even stay out that late last night, but I'm tired as shit. It takes a while to get back into the swing of things after sleeping-in all break, and I'm obviously not the only one struggling to adjust. I have to sock Cam six damn times before he finally wakes the hell up and exits the car.
I grab my soccer bag and water bottle from the trunk, the exhaustion morphing into excitement as I jog towards the field.
This is our first time out on the grass since the semester started, and I'm fucking ready for it. The past three mornings have been strictly weight-room, and last night's practice consisted of watching film and going over our off-season schedule—you know, the boring logistics shit.
I hop the chain-link fence and toss my stuff by the metal bench. I've just finished tying up my cleats when I hear someone say my name.
"Heads up, Paine."
Diego digs a ball out of the black bag he's carrying and drop-kicks it to me. I control the pass and begin to dribble, the scent of fresh-cut grass filling my nostrils as I work the shiny white soccer ball between my cleats.
"Cross it!" Parker calls out to me from across the field, arms waving sporadically in the air.
I give the ball a slight nudge forward before nailing it in his direction. It soars through the dark sky in a picture-perfect arc. Just before it hits the ground, he one-touches it into the net.
Damn.
I've missed soccer.
It's not like I haven't touched a ball since last season. I went to a handful of skills sessions with my old club coach over break and joined a pick-up game or two at a park near my house.
And it's not the physical exertion I've been lacking, either. Three mile runs every afternoon and pumping iron in our home gym every night satisfied the need for exercise plenty.
What I've missed is playing with these guys. My teammates. We haven't played together since the Finals of the College Cup last December. And although I can still visualize the game like it was yesterday, that was over a month ago—a long-ass time in the world of soccer.
There's nothing I want to do more than break into teams and get a scrimmage going with the guys.
Unfortunately, that doesn't appear to be in the cards when Coach blows his whistle and tells us we'll be working on set pieces all morning. He pulls out a duffle bag filled to the brim with thick binders, each one with an identical cover-page reading WARRIOR'S PLAYBOOK.
If you thought designed plays were just for football, think again. Coach Hanson is one of the most technically-minded D1 coaches in the country—the guy is obsessed with set pieces. Corner kicks, free kicks, kick offs...if it has the word "kick" in it, he's got a dozen plays off the top of his head we can run and a dozen more in a notebook somewhere.
The majority of us are accustomed to the infamous playbook, but a few of the early enrollee freshmen look confused as hell. One of them flips through the never-ending pages with bugged out eyes.
"Holy shit. Do we really need to memorize this whole thing?"
A few upperclassmen snicker.
"Wrong move, freshman," Cameron whispers with an amused grin.
Coach pauses, slowly turning to face the outspoken new guy. "No, of course not. I'm handing these out solely for your reading pleasure." Sarcasm drips from every syllable as he shoves the last binder into Liam's arms. "I'm not in the mood for any bullshit this morning, boys. Got it? Let's get to work."
———
It takes about fifteen minutes of practice to realize Coach wasn't fucking around about his piss-poor attitude. His usual on-the-field demeanor isn't exactly sunshine and rainbows, but this foul mood is extreme even for his grumpy ass.
He always expects a lot from us—and so do we—but his expectations for this practice are borderline insanity. He's acting like we've had months to memorize these plays when in actuality we've had ten freaking minutes. With each minor mistake, his face burns a deeper shade of crimson.
A blow-up is on the horizon, and it comes as he's running us through an offensive corner set-up a few minutes later.
"I want Steel on the edge of the box for this one, and Wright will be on—"
The crinkling of foil fills the air, interrupting his speech.
He twists his neck around until he spots the culprit.
"Mendoza. What are you doing?" His voice is eerily calm, his left eye twitching like he's on the verge of losing it.
Diego continues opening the silver packaging and shrugs. "Eating a Pop-tart."
"And you think my practice is an appropriate time to have your breakfast?"
Diego glances around, brow furrowed in confusion.
He's shoveling food in his mouth pretty much 24/7—a quirk that earned him the nickname "Garbage Disposal" from Cameron—and practices are no exception.
Coach never comments on Diego's inability to make it through a training session without a snack, but today is obviously not the day to be pushing his boundaries.
"Uh, yeah?" Diego attempts to remedy the situation, holding out the food in offering. "You want some? It's the best kind. S'mores."
Coach reaches out and smacks the Pop-tart right out of his hand, the pastry crumbling to the ground. "Fifty laps, Mendoza."
Diego's eyes turn to saucers. "Fifty?"
"Did I stutter? Fifty. Laps. Now." He kicks at the wrapper. "And pick this shit up before you start."
After scooping the remnants of his breakfast int
o his hands, Diego runs past and gives me a baffled look.
"What's up his ass today?"
"Beats me." I shrug as he shakes his head and jogs away.
Coach rips his hat off and hurls it onto the dirt.
"Y'all think 'cause you got a National Championship trophy last year we're just gonna go easy-peasy lemon-squeezy in off-season?" He pulls the toothpick he's been chewing on from his mouth, waving it around and pointing it at various guys. "Huh, Wright? Fitz? Is that what you want?"
He turns to Vaughn. "Steel? Thoughts? You think I should call off practice? Maybe we could take a trip to the spa instead? Get our nails painted?"
Yeah, there's no doubt about it.
The man has gone off the deep end.
"No, Sir," Vaughn answers, biting on his lip to keep from laughing at the outburst. Can't blame him when Coach is saying shit like "easy-peasy lemon-squeezy" and threatening us with spa days and fuckin' pedicures.
"That's what I thought." Coach picks his cap up and slaps the dust off. He jerks his head towards the goal. "Now run the goddamn play."
Practice finally comes to an end an hour later. After showering and changing in the locker room, we head towards the parking lot, eager to get the hell out of there.
We pass by the field where Diego's still running laps, a visible layer of sweat coating his skin. He stops jogging, hands on his knees as he calls out to Coach.
"I think that was fifty, Coach!"
"You think? Or you know?"
"I lost count."
"Five more."
Diego rises up, resting his hands on his hips as he continues catching his breath. "But I have class soon."
"Don't pull that shit on me, son." Coach Hanson crosses his arms over his chest. "You think I don't have your schedules? You just added another ten for that. Now shut your mouth and finish up. I'm not gonna sit here and babysit you all morning."
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