Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  Barbie clutches my wrist, eyes wide and lined in Eagles purple. “Good. I want a blond.”

  Wonder how good Brady’s footwork would be with Adriana Lima’s body double hustling after him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “How about a star third baseman, can you headhunt one of those?”

  It’s said with a joking lilt, but a sour note halts the chatter, all of us staring, openmouthed, at the speaker: star catcher Christy Morris, who will probably be senior captain this year. Off to the side, leading the capri-tight gang of my former teammates.

  Immediately, Addie appears. “With a mouth like that, you won’t make captain, Morris. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  Christy’s bravado sinks, though her chin stays high. The other softball girls surround her, inspecting the gym floor, not willing to cross Addie.

  “They need to clean the gym. Come on, Eagles,” Coach Stevie shouts from crosscourt, already nearly to the gym doors, shoving a massive sack of volleyballs into the equipment closet. I’m grateful for the save.

  The softball girls run out after her. The volleyball team lingers, the girls saying goodbye to me in pairs and triplets, slapping fives and stealing hugs in a barrage of smiles that warms me back up after that WTF sideswipe from Christy & Co.

  I’m dying to ask Addie if that’s how it’s been all year at school, this stark divide between the softball team and the others. My absence felt by both types in completely different ways.

  But for far too long—maybe since May—it’s been all about me.

  I pull Addie in for a bear hug as soon as the others leave, smooshing our faces together as much as they’ll go with the four inches she has on me. She’s freshly clean and smells 100 percent better than me. “You were amazing, McAndry! Freaking bloodbath.”

  Addie’s laugh is loud and unforgiving, just like her performance. She shrugs. “They don’t call them kills for nothing, O-Rod.”

  We giggle as Nick opens the door into the cooling night. “I wouldn’t piss her off, Nick,” I tell him. “Not if you value your life.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Addie says, beaming at him as we step outside. “Now I just have to teach him how to avoid pissing off my mama.”

  Oh. My. God. I don’t know of a single boy who has made it far enough in Addie’s life to meet Mrs. McAndry. Or Mr. McAndry, too, of course, but Trey McAndry has always deferred to his wife on literally everything. I stare wide-eyed at Nick. “When’s your trial date, Cleary?”

  He just smiles mildly, unafraid. “Saturday. But I’ve got this.”

  Addie plants one on his cheek. “Keep up that confidence, babe.”

  The cute is overwhelming and I know they need to say their goodbyes and it’s probably best if it’s not in front of me. I glide in for another hug.

  “Great game, girl. See ya.”

  I leave them with a wave and step into the dark, the friendliest interaction I’ve had in days fading into the night.

  36

  THE POST-ADDIE SMILE FADES THE SECOND I GET A view of my car.

  Grey’s pushed up against Helena the Honda, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, the cut of his jaw rivaling Captain America’s in the security lighting. How does he always perfectly catch the light? How?

  Behind him, a pickup lingers. It’s either a forty-year-old man or Topps at the wheel, rolling up the driver’s side window, cheeks red enough to give the International Space Station pause.

  Memories of Nick messing with his phone at the match ping around in my brain—a whole conversation happening a foot away, leading to this moment. All around us engines rev and headlights flicker—no one at Windsor Prep is stopping to watch.

  “Liv, I’m sorry.”

  His apology hangs in the almost-autumn air, and with those words I’m back in another parking lot, red-faced and yelling. I’m in Shanks’s office, weathering fatherly advice. I’m back staring at Coach Kitt, Grey’s secret welling inside me as I stuff it back down. Because even though he used me, I can’t deny the flutter in my heart at seeing him standing here, hoping I’ll hear him.

  Grey’s face is clear and honest. I believe him. He is sorry.

  But everything still stings so badly that I want to twist the knob on his own pain and turn it up to eleven, up to where I’ve been at for days. I can feel my vocal cords tightening, tears pushing to the surface. “You lied about Stacey. You lied about what happened to you last summer. Why should I believe you when you say you’re sorry?”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Prove it.” My skin is damp against the night and though it’s still warm, I start to shiver as the first tears fall. Still, I don’t blink. “Before I walked out of that locker room, did you kiss Stacey?”

  I tense, expecting him to snag my wrists, to yank me into his body to convince me he didn’t. To try to dominate—he’s a football player after all.

  But what I forget is that he’s also Grey.

  That he’s more akin to the friendly nudges of his shoulder than the sheer ferocity of the sport that made him, the sport that brought us together.

  So instead, despite Topps totally watching from the shadows, despite the past week, despite the glare I’m giving him, he sweeps my face into his hands. Football-rough fingers spill across my cheeks and into my hair, the smooth sides of my ponytail bunching under his touch.

  Gentle, strong, wanting—those hands make me match his gaze. Not because he’s forcing me, but because there’s so much tenderness pulsing through his skin that it is literally stunning.

  He doesn’t break eye contact. “No. I didn’t kiss her.” My heart lurches but I haul it back. That’s not enough, and Grey seems to know it. “She broke up with me so she wouldn’t be tied down in college. I hadn’t even talked to her since that night over the summer. And then she hopped on me before I even saw her coming.”

  I don’t move, my mind caught on that first day at the lunch table, when he echoed what I had said about her.

  I’m fine with giving her the Voldemort treatment.

  Me too.

  “Why was she even here?” I ask.

  “The softball team threw a surprise birthday party for Mom. I knew she’d be here for the weekend, just not that she’d be at our game.”

  Yet another reminder that I’m not part of that group—a club Stacey would always be a part of.

  “These last few days have been hell,” Grey says, eyes heavy with something that looks like remorse. “Not because of the stares in class or the shit at practice. It’s been hell because I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

  I cough out a sad laugh. “You definitely did. You could’ve told me about Stacey that very first day. Even if you didn’t plan on using me as a way to get back at her, even if your motivations really were true, keeping something like that a secret still wasn’t okay.”

  A prickly mix of gratification and shame drops in my stomach as he winces. But then he surprises me—God, I should’ve showered—letting his thumbs graze my temples. If anything, they’re even more gentle. “How could I tell you? How could I introduce myself as this awesome starting quarterback and then tell you about my C team life—dumped, reckless, broken? I was already falling for you before I even got up the courage to talk to you.”

  I raise a brow. “You can tell me now.”

  Grey punches out a breath and gestures to the curb. “Sit down, this might take a while.”

  “I’ve got all night if it’s actually the truth.” But I can’t keep from smiling.

  He sinks to the concrete first, immediately and unsurprisingly manspreading, his bent knees frogging out. I find a square of curb out of their vicinity, extending my legs out front, crossing them tight, even though all they want to do is curve into him, to brush against the soft wash of his jeans, feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric.

  “First things first,” he says. “I dated Stacey because I’d watched enough movies to know that’s just what starting quarterbacks did—they date the h
ead cheerleader. No-brainer. Plus, she was a year older and wanted to go out with me. Who says no to that?” He laughs at himself. “I liked her well enough, but it wasn’t like we had some fantastic love story.”

  The breeze kicks up for a brief second, a few leaves tumbling past.

  “I should’ve told you that first day. If I’d been thinking straight I would’ve seen the big picture, but honestly, I’d never seen you up close before and I was sort of blindsided by your face.” A slow smile creeps across his lips. “Getting socked in both the head and the heart clearly wasn’t helpful for making good decisions.”

  His grin tells me I’m the heart part of the equation, not Stacey dumping him at a party. Stupid butterflies rise from the ashes lining my stomach once again.

  Grey’s fingers graze my elbow, not daring to do much more. They’re as soft as they were on my face, as gentle as the next words are firm. “For the record, I don’t regret recruiting you, even if the whole thing turned out to be a disaster.”

  “A very public disaster.”

  “That’s my fault. I should’ve let you go after the game. I just—I couldn’t let you walk away. Not like that.” His eyes reset and he sighs. “And it wasn’t because I was worried you’d rat me out for the concussion. I was worried I’d lose you.” His knee bops mine. “I wouldn’t trade the time I’ve had with you for anything, even if I wish it had turned out differently.” A long finger circles slowly in the air. “Which brings me back around to the beginning.” Half smile, no wink. “I’m sorry. I miss you. I made a mistake, a huge one.”

  His sweet face—as open as I’ve ever seen it—looms inches from mine. Close enough to kiss. But my vision is clouded by yet another replay of my fist connecting with Stacey’s nose, my knuckles bruising with her cartilage.

  I know all about mistakes.

  We’re quiet for a second, the clock approaching ten on a school night. I tap my watch. “Curfew’s earlier on weeknights.”

  Weight lifted, a shade of the boy I met on the track that day comes clear, and his shoulder nudges mine. Briefly—we touch and then we don’t. His next sentence is the same one he said when he appeared, but now there’s so much more to it, the layers peeled back. Both our hearts exposed.

  We’re not back together but we’re definitely in this together.

  “Liv, I’m sorry.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself away from him, away from his body heat that calls to me, away from how easy it would be to curl into his chest in the shadows. I stand and pull out my keys.

  “I know.”

  37

  THE NEXT DAY, GREY AND I ORBIT EACH OTHER A LITTLE closer than we have in the past few days but still barely exchange a word. Which is fine. I’m not ready for more. Not yet. So when the end of Wednesday practice rolls around, I light out of the locker room as fast as possible yet again, this time with the immediate goal of proving my brother wrong.

  Because I am finally going to make the entirety of a Northland varsity soccer game.

  Even better: The soccer game is at home, just steps from the locker room. I manage to get there before it starts, but the soccer field is already freaking packed, the Northland orange outnumbering the South County yellow two to one. Bodies spill over into the grass on either side of both sets of bleachers, and it seems to take days for my eyes to finally settle on two pairs of waving arms. Danielle and Mom, holding spots three rows up.

  I climb up to them, left knee protesting—the dull ache there as persistent as the one in my chest every time my mind skips to Grey. But when I reach them, all thoughts of Grey and my knee are driven from my mind.

  Mom reaches over Danielle and squeezes my hand, her blue eyes on fire, chemo-downy hair haloing her cheekbones. “We think Ryan’s going to start!”

  At her thunder-whisper, Danielle rolls her eyes and stabs at a program I didn’t see when I came in the gate. “Mom, Ry’s already listed as a starter. It’s not like the coach is going to change his mind.”

  “He might!” she clucks, and whacks Danielle on the thigh. “Don’t ruin my moment.”

  Danielle smirks, shoots to her feet, cups her hands around her mouth, and aims at Ryan’s back. “Hey, number eight! Lookin’ good, STARTER!”

  Ryan turns—as does half his team—and toasts us with blue Gatorade as Mom yanks Danielle butt-first back onto the bleachers. “You would have killed me if I did that to either one of you.”

  “She has a point, Dani.” One of my favorite things about my family is that they aren’t completely embarrassing spectators.

  “Eh, he’s the baby. He likes the attention.”

  “He would also tackle you for calling him a baby,” I point out.

  “Birth order, not a slight.” Danielle waves me off and Mom chuckles, leaning back in her seat to avoid the impending cross fire.

  “Says our older sister.”

  “With age comes its privileges.”

  “Like wrinkles?” Yeah, I do this all the time. I’m a total jerk.

  “My skin is still flawless thanks to the fabulous genes of Ellen Rodinsky,” Danielle says, rubbing Mom’s shoulder. “And the fact that I’m only twenty-five.”

  The speakers crackle and we’re asked to stand for the national anthem. The recording is mechanical and familiar, the pep band off doing something more important.

  As the final strains of the song die out, the starters get to their feet, Ryan among them.

  They don’t announce the players. They don’t say his name or number. But he’s there, nervous legs bouncing in midfield as they line up for the draw, orange streaks chalked through his hair.

  Number eight, Ryan Rodinsky, varsity starter as a freshman.

  And I’m here to see it.

  For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like a selfish sea monster, clouding the world with her own drama-spiked ink. I feel like a good friend, a good sister.

  I feel like me.

  We have weights and drills on Thursday, and by the end of it, I can’t ignore my knee. The twinge has now revealed itself as an honest-to-God bruise—Windsor Prep purple—the tendons underneath puffy and inflamed.

  It’s nagged me all week, but I’ve managed to push through. I know exactly how to appear fine—the last thing you want is an opponent to know exactly where to take you out. I’m not paranoid, I’m experienced.

  I last limped in a game when I was twelve. An ankle sprain had me stutter-stepping from third to home after Addie smashed a triple, and the next inning some asshole girl hooked her cleat right into my ankle when tagging third. Down I went, more injured than I was before.

  So, yeah, I’m not about to let anyone know how much this hurts.

  But I have to admit, after suffering through Napolitano’s decision to superset front squats with walking lunges, it is literally all I can do not to fess up to the pain. Almost a full week of trying to hide it has only made it worse.

  Still, I finish my weights—in capris, mind you, so that no one can see. I run through routes. I do my laps.

  When I’m done, all I can think of is rest, but I’m not about to go home and sneak an ice pack out of the kitchen.

  Because I know someone will notice, even if I hide down on the basement couch.

  Someone will find me.

  Someone will freak out.

  So, instead, I wait until no one is looking and dump two handfuls of ice from the Gatorade jugs into my helmet and hightail it to the locker room. Yes, I’ve done this before. Softball is a game of many bruises.

  Instead of showering, I swap my swampy clothes for fresh ones and then sit my butt on the locker room bench with wads of ice stuffed inside my gross jersey for a makeshift cold compress.

  It feels so good that I’m almost too distracted to hear the locker room door swing open. Before I can get my stiff ass out of my current position, there’s a swing of red ponytail in my periphery and I know I’m caught.

  Kelly Cleary.

  Shit.

  “This isn’t what it looks
like,” I say, sounding a lot like Grey the night I caught him with Stacey.

  Kelly’s cat eyes skip from my face to my knee and back again.

  I expect a slight little smile from her. Something mean girl that is going to be trouble later. But, instead, all I get is a shrug. “You look like a football player.”

  Fishy. That smells fishy. “I’m totally fine. Just sore,” I say. Which is true. I’ve just been sore for more than a week, and progressively more sore as that week went on. NBD.

  Then, to my utter shock, Kelly sits down on the bench. She’s chewing on her lip, heavily mascaraed eyes downcast and aimed at my iced knee.

  “I’m jealous.”

  I gape at her. Whatever words I expected out of her mouth, those weren’t them.

  She’s picking at her nails, painted in a gel black that’s seen better days. “I’m jealous. Of how you’ve been able to join the team like it’s nothing. How the guys accepted you. How… how Jake is with you.” Her eyes flash up. “And I didn’t know how to deal with it. I thought I had to be mean. And… that was immature.”

  I cannot believe this.

  She stops biting her lip and frowns. “I let Stacey influence my opinion of you, and I should’ve learned from the boys and just made an opinion for myself.”

  Holy shit.

  “I was the one who told Stacey you joined the team, about you and Grey, about everything.”

  Oh.

  Stacey knew I’d meet Grey outside the locker room because Kelly had told her that’s where I’d be. She knew she’d get a reaction out of me that would punish both Grey and myself.

  Kelly lifts her eyes to mine. They really are the clearest of blues, shallow water on a hot day. “She wasn’t my friend. Not really. The second she found out that Jake and I were going to homecoming together, she turned on me. In front of the team—all of our friends. In front of Coach Kitt on her birthday.” She actually looks like she might cry. Kelly squeezes her eyes shut and there is wetness there, lapping at her eyeliner. I reach out and touch her shoulder. She doesn’t move away. “It was something I should’ve seen coming.”