Текст книги "The End Game"
Автор книги: Kate McCarthy
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“Who the hell is this Madden anyway?” I ask, my voice a shout to be heard over the thunderous crowd. “Some kind of rock star?”
“Close enough!” Leah shouts back. “Brody Madden is a starting wide receiver this season for the Colton Bulls and a top draft prospect. He’s also a six foot three, two hundred and twenty pound football god!”
“Amen!” preaches a female voice behind us.
The chants morph into a bevy of female squeals when the team trots out, right near our seats. Their proximity affords us a good look at their assets. I can’t help but notice how amply they’re displayed in those snug orange and blue football jerseys and tight white football pants.
Leah’s cheeks are flushed with groupie fever and she points. “There! That’s Madden! Number twenty-two!”
I squint for his number. It’s dark out now, but the stadium lights are brighter than daylight. I find him easily. His back is facing us as he jogs out onto the rich green field. Madden is printed in white block letters across the broad width of his shoulders and beneath it his jersey number. My eyes fall lower and my pulse kicks into gear. His backside is round and firm, and his impressive glutes hug his football pants like he was born to wear them.
Brody makes a sudden turn and faces the crowd behind him. His helmet is already on and hides his face, but his intensity is palpable and raises goose bumps across my forearms. He lifts a sinewy arm high, biceps rippling as he acknowledges the crowd. It’s a brief gesture, but they lap it up, roaring their approval while he’s already turning back around, swallowed up with the rest of his team.
They disappear further down the side of the field, becoming harder to see, but cameramen stalk the sidelines, ensuring they capture every moment for ESPN and the enormous jumbotron sitting up high at the far end of the stadium.
Kick-off comes and goes as I try to make sense of the game. There’s enough stopping and starting to give me whiplash, and when they score they call it a touchdown, but after passing the goal line, they don’t actually have to touch the ball down. Halfway through the second quarter, I give up pretending I have a clue and choose to watch Brody Madden instead. Leah’s right. He’s golden. Untouchable. And I know it’s cliché, but it’s guys like this that make the term ‘poetry in motion’ ring true. Trying to follow the play doesn’t seem to matter when you can watch him run down the field with the ball instead, his powerful thighs eating up the yards like he’s flying.
Midway through the third quarter, Hayden’s gone to get more drinks, and I’m slumped low in my seat, trying to stretch out my legs when a shout reverberates across rows and rows of seats.
“Killer!”
The crowd’s settled down from earlier, and they’re all intent on the game, so the sound rings clear across the student section. Dozens of heads turn, looking up in our direction.
“Killer!”
“Oh god,” I moan, spying Jaxon down in the very front row. He’s facing the crowd. One knee rests on his seat and both hands are cupped around his mouth to help direct his shout. He’s looking right at me. When he sees he has my attention, his grin spreads wide, and he waves at me to come down.
Leah’s brows shoot up so fast I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them fly right off her face. “Is he shouting at you?” she asks, her tone incredulous.
“Of course not,” I mumble, holding my giant coke up so I can hide behind it. The drink is empty but it’s still proving useful.
“Jordan! It’s Jax!” he shouts again. I peek around my cup and catch his eyes light up with mischief. “You know, the condom guy!”
This time a lot more than just a dozen heads turn my way. Hayden returns at that opportune moment and lets out a shout of laughter as he snatches the empty cup from my grasp. I protest at losing my cover, but he quickly replaces it with a full one before retaking his seat.
“The condom guy?” Leah hisses, leaning in close, and the tone in her voice says we need to talk, girlfriend. “You know that’s Jax Draper, right?”
My brows pull together as I look down at him, trying to see if there’s anything about the guy that jogs my memory. I get nothing apart from the brief moment where we met in the parking lot. “You say that like I should know who he is.”
Leah’s lips press together, and she shakes her head. I don’t know whether she’s about to burst into laughter or pass out from distress. Either way, uneasiness makes my hands begin to sweat.
“I don’t know if I should tell you now.”
“You can’t do that! Is he Texan mafia? Do Texan’s even have mafia?”
“Jax Draper is Brody Madden’s cousin.”
I shrug and the uneasy feeling disappears. “Okay, so he’s related to football royalty. So what?”
“He’s also Professor Draper’s son!”
“Oh …” I look back down at Jaxon. He’s still facing our way but the guy I recognize as Damien, the driver of the SUV, has his attention while he says something to him. “Shit,” I mumble weakly and lower my head, covering my eyes with my hand.
Leah jerks in her seat beside me. “Don’t look now,” she says, and of course I spread my fingers and take a peek, “but he’s coming this way.”
There’s no hiding so I drop my hand. Jaxon’s striding up the stadium steps toward us, holding his drink in one hand and using the other to wave at his father as he pushes his way through our row.
“Quick, get up,” he says urgently when he reaches me.
I look up at him, confused. “What?”
“Stand up, Jordan. Quick.”
The people around us are watching so I stand quickly, wondering what on Earth is going on.
“Thanks,” he replies and swoops in, sitting down with a deep, exaggerated sigh.
“Hey! You can’t—” I’m yanked onto his lap before I can finish. My cheeks flush, and I squirm as I try to push up off him. “What are you doing? Let me up!”
“Shush.” His arms slide around me like a steel band, pulling me back against his chest. “You’re causing a scene, and I’m missing the game.”
“Shush?” I twist in his lap to glare at him, pretending not to enjoy the feeling of being held against a male body, even though I secretly do. He’s warm and firm and smells faintly of fresh sweat and deodorant. “Did you just tell me to shush?”
“I did. Wow, Killer. It’s lucky you kick ass on the soccer field because your hearing sucks.” Jaxon turns his grin on my friend but doesn’t let go of me to extend a hand. “Hi,” he says to Leah. “I’m Jaxon.”
“So very nice to meet you,” she replies.
Jaxon then gives Hayden one of those male chin lifts, and Hayden responds in kind, saying, “Come to sit up here with the commoners?”
Jaxon winks at me. “No, just Jordan.”
“And now you can go,” I tell him. Peeling his arms from around my waist, I manage to stand.
“But I like it here.”
“That’s unfortunate.” I risk a glance in Professor Draper’s direction and find both he and Livvy are watching us. “I really can’t be seen with you.”
Jaxon leans back in my seat like he’s not going anywhere and takes a lazy slurp from the straw of his drink. “You can’t?”
“Your dad and I don’t get along,” I explain. “I missed most of his lecture on Thursday, and now I’ve earned a place in his bad book.”
“You didn’t!” Jaxon holds a hand to his mouth, gasping in mock horror. Then he cocks head at me for moment. “Oh hey, yeah. I knew I’d seen you from somewhere before. We’re in the same class. Your face turned such a brilliant shade of red I thought it was going to catch fire.”
“Well, thanks for that. I don’t remember you.”
“Ouch,” he says with a wince, rubbing his chest as if he has indigestion.
Leah and Hayden watch us avidly. Apparently our conversation is a lot more interesting than the football game playing out in front of them. I clear my throat. “Can I have my seat back now?”
Jaxon shrugs and stands up. He leans in close, his chest rubbing lightly against mine and his lips brushing my ear. “Later, Killer,” he says, and I feel him slide something into the pocket of my shorts.
Drawing back, he grins and jogs back down to the front row and his friends. Leah turns to me, a smirk playing on her lips. “Explain everything. Right now.”
Jordan
It’s not until we return to Hayden’s apartment after the game that I check my pocket. Leah and I are seated in the living room along with our soccer captain, Paige, who lives two floors above Hayden in the same building. Paige has silky jet-black hair, which is enviably straight. Cut in a bob, it rests neatly just beneath her jawline. She also has two vodka Red Bulls under her belt and brought the half-full bottle along to our impromptu gathering.
With drinks dispensed and Hayden and his roommate, Becker, safely tucked away in the kitchen putting snacks together, I dig my hand in my pocket and come out with a banana-flavored condom. Wrapped around it is a scrawled note with Jaxon’s number and the comment, If you change your mind about washing your hair, Jax xo
With a speed almost invisible to the naked eye, Leah sets her vodka on the coffee table and snatches both the note and condom from my hand. Handing off the foil packet to Paige¸ she reads the note with a gleam so bright I fear it’ll take out an eye. Leah’s been making noises for weeks about me meeting someone and double-dating with her and Hayden. This note has given her the perfect opportunity to ramp up her efforts.
She looks at me, frustration evident in her eyes. “You told him you were washing your hair?”
“Told who?” Paige asks, stretching her legs out on the coffee table and crossing them at the ankle. She turns the wrapper over in her fingers before bringing it to her nose for a sniff.
Having heard the full story already, Leah can’t contain her grin when she answers. “Jax Draper.” Her voice pitches low when she adds, “He asked her if she wanted to taste his banana.”
Paige’s blue eyes pop wide and her feet fall away from the table when she sits upright with excitement. “He did not!” She faces me where I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite the both of them. “And you told him you were washing your hair?”
“Newsflash, ladies. It’s not an invitation to go on a date. It’s an invitation to … to …”
“To get acquainted with his banana?” Paige prompts.
I jab a finger at Paige. “Exactly. So get your head out of the clouds, Leah.”
“I don’t know.” Leah sits back on the sofa, pursing her lips. “Jax isn’t the kind of guy that chases girls. He doesn’t need to. They chase him.”
“So?”
“So it looked like he was doing a bit of heavy duty chasing for you.”
I snort. “Rubbish. I barely know the guy.”
“His name is Jaxon Draper. He’s twenty-one, and he’s not only gorgeous, he’s pre-med and smart. He shares an apartment on the floor above Paige with Brody Madden and Damien Reiner, and he’s got a thing for female soccer jocks with blondish-colored hair and blue eyes.”
I snort again, and Paige’s head lolls back against the sofa as she gives a dreamy sigh. “I’d totally taste his banana if he asked me.”
“You’ll get your chance,” I assure her, swirling the last of the vodka and soda in my glass before downing it quickly. “I’m sure he flirts with all the girls like he did with me.”
“Uh huh.” Leah shakes her head. “Not all the girls have your Australian accent. It’s husky and deep and sounds like sex. Guys go mad for that. Isn’t that right, baby?” she yells in the direction of the kitchen.
“It’s how you sound after deep-throating my dick, so yeah, it’s hot,” Hayden yells back.
While I’m flushing deep red from the visual of Hayden naked with an impressive erection, Paige deepens her voice and tries to affect an Australian accent. “How does this sound?”
Leah snorts with laughter. “Try it with a little less Russell Brand and a little more Russell Crowe.”
Paige tries again and whines because she can’t get it right. Meanwhile Leah is rummaging inside my bag that’s set by the foot of the sofa. Plucking out my phone, she glances from the note to the screen and commences tapping. Sensing subterfuge, my pulse kicks up in mild panic. “What are you doing?”
Intent on my phone, she doesn’t look at me. “I’m adding Jaxon’s number into your phone so you don’t lose it.”
“I’m not calling him.”
“Okay,” she says soothingly, and because it’s a tone I recognize well, I know she isn’t going to let this go so easily.
“Baby, catch!” Hayden shouts as he leaves the kitchen and fastballs a packet of Doritos at Leah.
With lightening reflexes, she holds up an arm and catches the bag single-handedly. Hayden swoops in and scoops her up off the sofa with ease, spinning her around with a grin. “That’s my girl.”
Becker dodges the twirling pair as he walks into the living room carrying a tray of carrot and celery sticks, cottage cheese, and water crackers. Hayden might have scoffed when Leah told me he’s a man madly in love, but when you stock up on healthy snacks for your girl when she stays over, it means you’re completely sunk.
Paige slings her arms around Becker’s neck when he leans over to place the tray on the table. “Can I marry you, Becker? You’d make an awesome wife!”
Becker rolls a set of bright green eyes. He plays on the baseball team with Hayden, but he’s not quite as big as his roommate. His body is leaner, and his dark hair short and always styled carefully in a mini Mohawk. Paige rubs her hand over it roughly, mussing it, and he ducks out of her way. “Suck my dick, Paige.”
“Not tonight,” she replies, and amusement lights up her eyes. “I’m washing my hair!”
Leah and Paige both scream with laughter and I flop back on the floor with a loud groan. I fear I’m never going to hear the end of that particular joke.
The following Friday rolls around and despite Leah’s daily insistence, I haven’t called Jaxon. He’s not the kind of guy who sits around pining for a girl to ring him, so I’m sure it’s safe to say I haven’t doomed him to a lifetime of disappointment.
My cleats crunch on the bright green turf as I head for the locker room. It brings with it the fresh scent of grass and dirt, and I relish it because no matter where I am—Austin, Texas or Sydney, Australia—it’s the smell of the field. It’s where I belong and will always be home to me.
Leah catches up to me. I hook an arm around her shoulders and yank her close. The final whistle blew just minutes earlier, and despite the heat and exhaustion oozing from my every pore, it’s nothing on the elation I feel at scoring two of the four goals that left our team undefeated for another week. “Drink’s are on me tonight,” I declare rashly.
Leah shoves me away with an eye roll and a laugh because she knows the impoverished balance of my bank account. “What are you shouting? Shots of water?”
“Har, har,” I retort. “I’m sure we’ve got lemons and mint sitting somewhere in the bottom of the fridge, so I can at least make them classy.”
“Sounds delicious, but I’m in need of a real drink,” she grumbles and then grabs my arm. “Speaking of needing a drink, you never mentioned what happened with Professor Hardass the other day?”
I groan and shake my head. I’d caught up with the professor three days ago and the outcome had been so much worse than I’d anticipated.
Rapping smartly on his office door, he invited me inside with what I likened to an evil smile. Positive he could smell fear, I straightened my shoulders and walked in, reminded of the one and only time I’d been in trouble at school. It was back in high school, and I’d caught Alex Thompson leaning over beside his desk in front of me during class, not even pretending he wasn’t peering up my skirt. Anger and shame rose swiftly—my uniform was secondhand and seriously short because I’d outgrown it two years earlier—so I aimed a hard jab at the leg of his chair. My mouth fell open when it collapsed beneath him and skittered sideways. Alex went down hard, his head smacking his desk and bouncing off it. After visiting the school nurse, she diagnosed him with a concussion. The episode cost me a three-day suspension and two weeks of detention.
It’s hardly the same situation, but I felt the same sense of impending anxiety as I stood in front of my professor’s desk.
“Take a seat,” he said, eyes focused on the screen of his laptop.
Resting my armload of books on the edge of his desk, I sank into the seat behind me. “You mentioned an extracurricular task, Professor?”
“I did.” With a furrow in his brow, he tapped a few more strokes on his keyboard and then gave me his full attention. I offered him a strained smile, which he didn’t return. “I have a student who needs a tutor and I want you to do it.”
My insides unclenched with relief. “I’m not a registered tutor, Professor. I can’t—”
Cocking his head, he interrupted me. “Can’t … or won’t?”
I paused and sat back in my seat. Five seconds in and he was going for my jugular? “I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I’m here under an international sports scholarship. Not only do I have soccer commitments and a full course load, I have a GPA to maintain in order to keep my place in this country. Even if I wanted to, I simply don’t have the time to tutor anyone.”
“I figured you’d say something like that.” Professor Draper leaned forward and handed me a sheet of a paper. I took it from him, glancing down at a detailed outline of my weekly timetable. “So I took the liberty of reviewing your schedule, Jordan. As you can see, there are three highlighted sections where I feel you can allow an hour of time toward tutoring.”
How presumptuous! I wanted to scrunch the page into a ball and peg it at his head. Those three blocks of time were mine. My spare time to do laundry, scrub soccer cleats, Skype my brother back home, or just blob on the couch and numb my mind with television. Either way, it didn’t matter what I chose to do with it, just that it was mine. Having no free time at all wasn’t healthy, and surely a well-respected professor of this college would know that.
I looked up, ready to plead for my sanity. “Professor, I—” My eyes welled up. Taking a deep breath, I focused on a point somewhere over his shoulder. “I don’t understand. I’m sorry for missing class. I’m not trying to make excuses, but I’m still learning my way around campus so it wasn’t intentional. Is there something else I can do besides tutoring that won’t take up so much time?” His brows rose slowly, and I realized how my question sounded. “Like photocopying or … or …”
“Miss Elliott. Jordan. Can I call you Jordan?”
No, I wanted to snap in a fit of angered pettiness, but when I met his eyes I saw a faint apology in them. “Yes, of course.”
“Jordan, I’m not asking you to do this because you missed the majority of my lecture. While I didn’t appreciate your untimely interruption, I’m really not that much of an ass.” Professor Draper smiled at me but it was so faint I almost missed it. “I’m asking you this as a personal favor. Students don’t fail my course because I simply don’t let them, and this particular student will fail if I don’t provide some form of additional tutelage outside the classroom.”
I sighed internally. How was I supposed to respond to that? Your student can go suck eggs because I need time to blob on the couch? He continued on with his explanation, delivering a blow that saw my free time scatter to the wind like confetti.
“My student has dyslexia. He’s managed to get this far under his own steam, but his grades have been slipping over the past two years, and as they’re already low to begin with. He has no room for them to drop further.” Professor Draper spread his hands wide, revealing his helplessness with the situation. “I don’t know how else to help him, and I figured you might have some clue.”
I stared at my hands where they rested in my lap. “You’re asking me because you know about my brother?”
“Your student transfer information mentioned your experience with tutoring your dyslexic brother.”
And it hadn’t been easy. My brother had been difficult to live with, even after he was diagnosed. Nicky went through it all: sullen attitude, low grades, instigating fights, back chatting teachers. What no one ever saw was just how frustrating and debilitating it was for him. He endured bullying at school, coming home with grazed knuckles, black eyes, and regular detention. I was the only one he’d talk to about it. In one of his classes, his teacher would regularly make him read aloud in class, as if it would help him improve. All it did was make the problem worse, and rile my fury at his teacher’s idiocy.
It was no wonder Nicky didn’t give his tutors the time of day. I spent hours researching dyslexia and instead we studied together.
“I still don’t understand why you’re asking me. I’m not in any way professionally qualified to help. Whatever I did for my brother was done through sheer desperation because he wouldn’t accept help from anyone else.”
“That’s the exact same issue I’m having, but I think this student will be able to relate to you. You’re both athletes and study under the same schedule with the same pressure to perform.” Professor Draper sat back in his seat and studied me carefully. “I’m not expecting miracles, Jordan, not this late in the game. I just need someone he can trust to provide him with some study mechanisms that will get him through his final year.”
I raised my brows. “And you think he’s going to trust me?”
“Yes, I do, because you’re going to give him every reason to.”
I am? Well, okay then.
“I’ll do my best,” I promised, and after running through the details of the general tutelage he wanted me to provide, he gave me a sheet of paper with the student’s contact information.
Swiping my armload of books off the desk, I placed the note on top and stood. And because I hadn’t embarrassed myself enough in front of my professor yet, I tripped over the leg of my chair. Unbelievable. I never stumbled. This added stress had turned me inside out.
“Are you okay?” Professor Draper asked, making his way around his desk, his lips pressed together like he was trying not to laugh.
My reply was muffled because I was crouched on the floor, collecting my books along with some of his papers that were knocked to the ground with them.
“I’m totally fine,” I lied, grabbing at folders randomly, rushing to leave before I did something worse, like accidently setting his desk on fire.
With an awkward wave, I turned to leave. He called out my name and I paused in the doorway.
“Please keep this arrangement confidential. My student is extremely high profile and doesn’t want it known he’s receiving external tutelage for a learning disability.”
“But …”
“Coping with dyslexia is hard enough without having it spread across campus, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” I replied, because I got it. I really did. Bullying was shit, and my brother suffered through all of it, but I had no idea how I was supposed to keep it private.
“Good,” my professor said, giving a short nod. “I’ve arranged your first session for Friday, 4:00 p.m. at your apartment. If you wish to arrange a different location moving forward, you can work that out between yourselves.”
I gave him a nod. “Okay.”
“Oh and, Jordan?” he called out again when I tried leaving once more.
I paused, surreptitiously checking my watch. I was going to be late for my next class. Again.
“Good luck.”
The words sounded ominous, like I was actually going to need it. Rushing from his office, I glanced quickly at the page sitting on top of my armload of books. My brows pulled together. Kyle Davis. It wasn’t a name I readily recognized but then I was new and knowledge of the campus social hierarchy hadn’t been high on my priority list.
“Jordan!” Coach Kerr’s shout snaps me from my recollection. She’s standing on the sidelines beside our assistant coach, waving me over.
Leah jostles my shoulder as we pause from our walk toward the locker room. “So what does your professor have you doing?” she prompts. “Photocopying mammoth volumes of tax law?”
I make a face at Leah. “Something like that,” I reply and quickly change the subject, calling out as I start jogging backwards toward our coach. “Hey, you’re still going straight to Hayden’s from here?”
Leah pauses midstride, cocking her head at me as though I have a screw loose. “Well yeah, that hasn’t changed since you asked me five minutes ago.”
I clear my throat. “Right.” I wave her away and she peels off toward the locker room, shaking her head.
“Coach,” I acknowledge when I reach her side. Our coach’s tenure with the Colton Bulls began three years ago and her touch is golden. The team reached two consecutive NCAA tournaments, and I’m hoping for number three this year.
“Jordan. I just wanted to remind you of your appointment with the nutritionist on Monday afternoon.” She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. She’s tugging a sheet of paper from her clipboard which she hands over. “Also, I know we’ve discussed putting you with a sports management firm at the end of the year. I put together a list of names. I want you to take the time to research them carefully. Talk to your team about recommendations.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I scan my eye down the list. I know I’ll eventually need to sign with an agent, but here in the States I’m a fish out of water. I don’t have any insider information on who’s good and who to avoid. Those who’ve talked to me in the past have been quick to advise the best way to get recognition in female sports is to strip down, oil up, and pose for men’s magazines. I’m not sure that’s the way I want to go in order to be recognized.
“I can help you narrow down your choices, Jordan, but you’ll need one by the end of your senior year. Seattle Reign is looking for someone young and fresh. Someone like you.”
I look up at my coach, seeing her excitement and sincerity. Seattle Reign is the best team in the National Women’s Soccer League. It would make my entire career.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she says. “You’re a huge addition to our squad. We were lucky to get you. Eyes have been on you ever since you made your professional debut at seventeen. Australia’s W-League Young Player of the Year, and runner-up to Riley for Australian Female Football Player of the Year. You’d be in the NWSL right now if you weren’t so adamant about finishing college.”
Wrapping up the conversation, I jog back to the locker room, my grin wide. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I can hear water dripping from the showers and birds chirping from the trees that surround the back of the building, but inside is eerily deserted.
“Hello?” I call out.
Seconds later I hear shouts and squeals from behind me, and suddenly I’m doused in dark brown sludge. It pours down over my head like lava—sticky, warm, and oozing.
“Oh my god!” I shriek, making the mistake of opening my mouth. It dribbles inside and I start choking and spluttering, tasting chocolate syrup.
Gasps of laughter ring out. I wipe the goo from my eyes, flicking the excess off onto the floor. Paige stands in front of me and my teammates surround me, some of them holding the offending buckets. “Welcome to the Colton Bulls, Jordan!” she says with a perky grin I want to slap from her face.
I spit a brown glob on the floor and glare at her balefully. “Am I being hazed?”
“Yep,” I hear Leah choke out between laughs from somewhere on my left. Another bucket comes at me, shooting a white cloud of shredded coconut over my head. It settles over the sauce and sticks everywhere. “And what better way to make you feel at home then by turning you into a human lamington,” she adds, referring to the Australian dessert of cake, covered in chocolate sauce and coconut.
Glancing down, I see my soccer uniform is completely doused. The syrup has oozed over my shorts, down my legs, over and inside my shin guards, where I can now feel it pooling inside my cleats. In the grand scheme of things, it could’ve been much worse. Hazing can be horrific and all I’ve copped is a covering of chocolate sauce and coconut.
It’s when I’m dragged outside the locker room, flecks of brown coating the ground in my wake, that I realize it’s not over yet. Paige locks the door behind us all and plops the set of keys in her shoulder bag.
“What are you doing?” I cry out, and laughter follows the team as they head toward the parking lot carrying their sports bags.
Both Paige and Leah turn. “We’re all heading out to celebrate our victory. Don’t be too long. If you’re late for the party, there’ll be nothing left for you to drink but warm beer!”
My teammates leave in a group of giggles and sports bags, leaving me gob smacked. Am I supposed to drive home like this? The sauce has mixed in with my sweat, and standing here in the hot afternoon sun, I can feel myself baking like a week-old sundae from McDonalds.
I grab for Leah’s arm and she stutters to a halt, grimacing at the chocolate fingerprints I leave behind on her shirtsleeve. I take some satisfaction from that minor victory. “Leah, my keys are inside my bag which is inside the locker room.”
“No it’s not. Hayden drove your car home. All your stuff’s inside it.” Shrugging off my arm, Leah smirks and begins jogging backwards, out of my reach. “Enjoy your walk home. I hear the insects love this time of day and you smell sweeter than spring right now.”
“What?” I shout because she’s already running, catching up fast to the other girls like the coward she is. “You can’t do this!”
“Too late, Elliott!” she shouts back. “We already did!”
“Just for the record, you all suck!” Holding my arms up high, I flip them the bird with both hands. Leah’s response is to take a photo with her phone. With a final laugh, she disappears with the team, abandoning me to the humiliating fate of walking home in view of the entire Friday afternoon swarm of students.
Trudging my way outside the stadium, I garner laughs and a wide berth, and begin the walk home. It’s not fun, and it’s not pretty. The syrup begins drying on my skin, making me itch and chafe in uncomfortable places. Students yell slurs from their cars as they drive by, and I catch the attention of several bees, causing me to squeal and run while slapping them away. The only positive is that the lengthy walk allows me time to plot Leah’s murder.
I’m up to the part where she’s strapped to a Segway and I’m rolling her off a cliff when I arrive back at the apartment complex. Students stare at me, but I focus on my parked car, pretending indifference as I aim for it purposefully. I walk around the side of it and catch sight of my reflection in my window. I don’t recognize myself. After hearing one student comment that I look like the filling in a shit sandwich, I realize that maybe it was polite on his part because the reality is much worse.
