Only when its us, p.16
Only When It's Us, page 16
She scowls. “My door’s open, Sutter, and frankly I can’t afford to have you not take advantage of that if it’s going to compromise your play—”
“It won’t.” I step closer, hands up. It’s a plea, a reassurance. “I promise, I’m fine.”
Rooney’s a few yards off, arms folded across her chest. When we meet eyes, she lifts two fingers, pointing them from her face to mine. I’m watching you.
Yeah, I’ve been avoiding Rooney, because she’s my ride or die, and when shit’s hard she makes me face and feel it, which I just don’t want to. The rest of the team, I like plenty. We have fun, but I’m not close with any of them, not a mile-wide, inch-deep friend. Rooney’s basically my person, and I know when I dump all this stuff on her it’s going to be extensive and ugly.
Coach claps my back, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Come on, then!” Her voice rings in the practice field. “Another half hour of keep-away, then we’re done here. Tomorrow’s the big day. I want everyone well-slept, focused, and energized, got it?”
A resounding chorus of Yes, Coach echoes across the grass. Even though it’s deep into fall, it’s swampy in Florida. Sweat drips down my face, and I’m dying for a cool shower and a long night of sleep.
Another half an hour of tiny spaces jammed with players, forcing my immediate first touch, my constant awareness of the shifting landscape between the ball, my team, and my opponent, as I pass and shoot, then we’re finally done. Drenched in sweat, wiped out, we walk off the field, guzzling Gatorade and stumbling onto the bus that will take us back to the hotel.
I sigh as air-conditioning greets us on the bus. Seated, I press my forehead to the cool window glass and let my eyes slip shut. Rooney drops into the seat next to me. Her gentle nudge draws me back from thoughts of dozing off.
Her hazel eyes are tight with worry as she wraps her arm around my shoulders, then pulls me to her. I don’t say a word, because, with Rooney, I don’t always have to. I just let my mind empty and wander, lulled by the hum of a bus on the highway.
Once we’re back at the hotel, I call Mama. She picks up after the second ring.
“Willa Rose, long time no talk.”
I might have gotten my temper from my grandmother but I got my sass from my mom. “Dang, Mama. Just wanted to check in.”
There’s a wet cough in the background, the rustling of fabric indicating she tried her best to muffle it. “I’m okay, Willa. You need to relax, honey. I’m not going anywhere just yet.”
Just yet. Tears fill my eyes. When I blink, they wet my lashes and spill down my cheeks. “It’s hard playing on the holidays. I just want to be home with you. I want our Chinese takeout and crappy nineties sitcom marathon.”
“I know.” Mama sighs. “But the fact is, life is full of change. You like the idea of doing that, but, Willa, the last few years we did, we were both bored halfway through Clueless and ended up playing Words with Friends, which I won, by the way.”
“The hell you did.”
Mama laughs and it doesn’t end in a horrible cough. It makes me smile.
“Willa, on your first day of preschool, you white-knuckled my shirt and screamed when it was time for me to go, even though countless times before that, I left you with Grandma Rose or with your sitters.”
“I remember,” I whisper.
“At first, I couldn’t figure it out. You were always happy for a new sitter friend to come and play at our house, always glad for Grandma Rose to watch you while I was gone, but this…this was different. Because my leaving meant you had to join that classroom. You had to meet the unfamiliar and try new things. It wasn’t so much me leaving as you going that bothered you. It was what you had to do after goodbye that wigged you out, Willa. It’s always wigged you out. You know what that is?”
I wipe my nose, blinking up at the ceiling. “No.”
“Because then you have face the scary unknown and want something from it. You have to live with arms wide open to new things. You have to risk trying and failing. You have to release the baggage from your past, so you have room to welcome your future.”
Unease bolts through my veins. It makes me shiver. “I already want something from my future, Mama. I want to play professionally and be on the Women’s National Team. I want to win the World Cup and be on the Olympic Team. I want to see the world and learn about it. But…I just don’t want to have to let go of what I know or leave behind anyone that I love.”
Mama coughs again. “You have to. And when the time comes, you will. You’ll pick yourself up and you’ll move on and live that beautiful life.”
We’re talking about it without talking about it. I hate it when we do this. Even though the words aren’t being said, it still feels like knives spearing every gap in my ribs. It feels like my throat is scorched and my heart is dissolving in my chest. A world without my mom isn’t a world I want to be in. I hate when she makes me think about it. I hate what I know she’s about to say to me.
“Promise me, Willa Rose.”
I nod as a tear slips down my cheek. “I promise.”
“You snored again.” Rooney stomps around the hotel room topless. She’s a shameless nudie who would literally walk the world naked if it wouldn’t get her arrested. The woman hates clothes like I hate real talk. It scarred me freshman year, but I’ve since desensitized and learned not to notice.
I yawn, trying to make my eyes focus as I check the time. “And? This is significant how? I always snore.”
“And I forgot my earplugs.”
I frown, both because there’s a message on my phone I didn’t expect and because Rooney under-slept is not what we need at today’s game. As Coach said, she needs us well-rested and ready to go.
“I’m sorry, Roo.”
She waves her hand, unearthing a sports bra from her bag and finally putting me out of my misery. As I said, I’m used to the nudity, but it’s not my favorite pastime, talking to my best friend while her mosquito bite tits accurately indicate exactly how low we turned the air conditioner last night.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll be fine. I just need coffee and I don’t give a fuck what Coach has to say about that.”
“You do you, Roo. I support your caffeination, so long as you adequately hydrate.”
“Thank you.” Rooney drops to the bed, then flops on her back. “God, I’m an asshole friend. Here I am complaining about snoring and needing coffee when you’re the one with actual shit going on in your life. You didn’t invite me to the hospital yesterday and I know that’s because you’re worried it’s your last—”
“You want hotel coffee or should I order Starbucks?” I interrupt.
This is what Rooney’s infamous for. Talking heavy stuff like that’s normal, like hard feelings are felt, not repressed and subsequently managed in periodic outbursts of sobbing profanity, fifteen-mile runs, and whiskey benders.
Rooney sighs. “This hotel crap’s fine, thank you. Willa, talk to me. Get it out.”
I crack open a bottle of water and pour half its contents into the tiny hotel room coffee pot. Next, I place a coffee pod in the little percolator dish and slide it shut. “I just don’t have a good feeling, Roo.” I clear my throat and swallow a lump of emotion. “She’s been low energy. She’s not perking up how she did when she went into remission last time. She’s still sick.”
Rooney sits up, as her eyes meet mine. “What does that mean? What do you do if you keep being sick with cancer?”
“You die.” I wipe my nose. “Generally how it goes.” On a long, steadying sigh, I find that ironclad box in my psyche that I still have the key to, thankfully. I shove my worries about Mama, my anticipatory grief, my anxiety, all of it, into that cold, unreachable place. Slamming the door shut, I twist the key and bury it deep. “Okay, I don’t want to talk about it anymore right now. Today, I will score at least three goals.”
Rooney stands, knowing the drill. “Hell yeah.”
“Today, I will elevate my team’s play and be a leader on the field.”
“That’s right!”
I lock eyes with my reflection. “Today, we win.”
Rooney stands behind me and sets her hands on my shoulders. “You got this. We all do. Unless you don’t move out of my way and let me have my shitty cup of coffee, Granger.”
I give her a look. “Calling me Hermione Granger is not an insult.”
Rooney tugs my hair affectionately. “I know. I wasn’t trying to insult you. I was trying to make you smile.”
Rooney grins as she swipes up her cup of coffee and backs away. “Besides. Making you angry isn’t my job anymore. Someone else stole that real estate.”
A scowl tugs at my mouth. “It’s not like that with us.”
Rooney snorts a laugh, then takes a tentative sip of her coffee. “Sure, sweetie. Keep telling yourself that.”
My phone lights up again, reminding me of a message I got just a few minutes ago from the person Rooney was alluding to.
Ryder.
Sunshine’s in the Sunshine State. Good luck today, Willa. You’ve got this.
That was his first message, and it was nice. I traipse over to my phone and scowl at the new one. I knew he couldn’t stand to leave it on a friendly note.
First, there’s a screenshot of a Google image. A very unflattering photo of me clotheslining a defender to get around her. My face looks like I’m in the throes of both an epic shit and a foot-cramping orgasm. It is the least flattering photo of me that I’ve ever seen.
Try not to blind too many
people with your radiance
on the field today.
Growling, I unlock my phone and type.
Well good morning to you too, Bigfoot.
Try not to get too many Thanksgiving
tidbits stuck in that dead squirrel
wrapped around your mouth.
You like the beard. Admit it.
I really, really don’t.
It’s distinguished.
It’s disgusting.
I’m hurt.
You’d have to have a heart to hurt, Brawny.
You know Brawny’s not an insult, right?
You’re telling me I’m bearded hotness.
That I look buff AF, about to burst out
of my manly flannel.
I’m going to focus now on annihilating
some women on a soccer field. Then I’m
coming home and shaving that
monstrosity off your face.
Lay a hand to my facial hair, woman,
and I swear you won’t be able to sit
for days.
My eyes widen, my eyebrows shoot up, and I drop my phone. There’s a drumbeat between my legs. My nipples are taut peaks spearing my tank top.
Rooney smirks over her coffee. “Talking to Ryder?”
“Hm?” Finally, I glance her way, folding my arms across my throbbing breasts. “What? No. Yes. I’m fine. I’m going to take a shower.”
She’s still laughing when I step under the icy water.
16
Ryder
Playlist: “A closeness,” Dermot Kennedy
Now I remember why I hate the holidays. Well, at least since my hearing went to hell.
Pure, unadulterated chaos.
To avoid even more suffering for my ears, the hearing aids are out, obviously, but that means that I’m frequently caught off guard by impending bodies and movement. Yesterday wasn’t terrible. The meal was fairly subdued and then we went for a long hike which, though peaceful and restorative to my sanity after all that noise, just made me miss our old home even more.
But today, we’re all in the living room, on the astonishingly large couch that my mother had to custom order from some factory for families that have too many kids. It seats twenty people, easily. Which is good, seeing as all six of my siblings, three of their significant others, my dad’s two brothers, their wives, and their kids are in the living room, gearing up to watch Willa’s game.
I mean, they don’t think of it like that. To them, it’s only UCLA’s women’s team in the quarterfinals. We’re a huge soccer family, and while not everyone here went to UCLA, it’s not hard to get behind the women’s team doing our state proud.
I sit on the end of the sofa closest to the mammoth flat-screen TV mounted over the fireplace, my back pointedly to everyone else. My body language says what my voice doesn’t: don’t talk to me, don’t touch me, let me watch the game.
Ren’s traveling for a series of games—he plays later tonight, actually—but it’s like he knows I just want to be left alone right now, meaning, of course, it’s time for him to bug me.
My phone buzzes with his text. Your lady looks ready to kick ass.
I allow myself the indulgence of a closed-mouth groan. I’ve been doing more of those since I met Willa.
She’s not my lady, I type back.
That’s her, though, isn’t it? The one with the braid? The forward who scores all the goals? Hm. Sort of sounds like me. Impressive forward. Goal-scoring machine. If she’s nothing to you, maybe I should ask her out.
I type back, She’s not nothing to me. She’s MY friend and she’s off-limits.
I can see his damn annoying smirk. He’s lying down, getting massaged and iced and taped before his game, grinning that fucking know-it-all grin. We’re too old to stake claims like that. Date her or she’s fair game.
I come damn close to crushing my phone in my hand, but I settle for pocketing it and ignoring Ren’s needling. Besides Willa, he knows best how to get under my skin.
Willa and her team disperse from their huddle, and I watch her compact body cross the field to the center circle. I can feel her nerves from here, or maybe I just simply remember what it’s like. How your stomach tightens, the faint buzz in your limbs as you shake them out and adrenaline jolts your body to attention. The ringing in your ears, the blinding lights of the stadium.
The whistle blows, and Willa spins, efficiently passing deep to her defender. Then, she takes off down the field and finds her place at the top.
My senses tunnel-focus, as I track Willa throughout the first half. Florida State’s all over her, but that doesn’t mean much to Willa. Even with two people on her, her body finds that sliver of space between four defenders’ feet and threads the needle. Inside touch, scissor step—a trick that as a defender I always tried to anticipate, often apprehended, and other times got beat by. Her Maradona is lightning fast, a quick foot on the ball transferring to the other as she pivots, rolling it with her and taking advantage of her opponent’s momentum.
Willa’s the star, but she brings her teammates into her stratosphere. Their one-touches are flawless, the ball zipping from player to player, long balls sent to space that’s fluidly filled by their offense. They’re good, and Willa’s excellent.
My phone buzzes. Damn, son. Truly, if you don’t go after that, I will.
I pull up my phone’s camera, glare into the screen and flip the middle finger. As soon as I hit send to Ren, a picture comes in from him. He’s cross-eyed with his tongue stuck out.
Ren’s full of shit. He’s not chasing Willa. He can barely ask out a woman he’s super comfortable with, let alone a virtual stranger. Ren’s the king of sticking his foot in his mouth and unrequited love. Which is hilarious, because everywhere he goes, women trip over him. He’s just clueless about what to do. I’d offer to help him with his game, but—point in case—he pisses me off too much for me to be that nice.
You’ve been warned. Claim her, or she’s fair game, he texts. And remember, I am the better-looking one so…
Before I can threaten violence to my brother, a gentle hand on my shoulder startles me and makes me glance up. My eyes drop to Mom’s mouth.
“Is this seat taken?” she asks.
I stare down at the sliver of cushion that my wide-leg stance and broad body have left and try to scooch over. Nodding, I pat the sofa.
Mom smiles at me as she sits and sets a hand on my back. “I miss you, Ryder. You don’t come home like you did last year.”
I swipe open my phone and write, I miss you, too. This semester was unexpectedly busy. I jerk my head toward Aiden, who’s doing some stealth groping of Freya that makes me almost throw up in my mouth. Your favorite son-in-law has made my life hell.
Mom laughs quietly, patting my back once again, then taking my hand in hers. “Is that really everything?”
I glance from the TV to Mom, because I’m trying not to miss a moment of the game, but I also don’t want to be rude to my mother. I shrug and mouth, Yeah.
Mom’s eyes drift toward the TV and watch with me for a minute, before she taps my arm so I’ll read her lips. “She’s very good, that one at the top. Very…feisty.”
Right when I glance back, the camera zooms in, catching Willa battling for possession near the box. Willa jukes, then spins, hopping over a defender. One final touch, before she nails it into the far corner and scores. We all stand up, whistling and clapping.
Willa throws her hands back, chest out, glorying in the moment as her teammates jump her, then quickly disperse, four of them bending over halfway, locking arms, to form a flat surface. Rooney holds a hand over her ear and with the other mimes DJing at a turntable. Willa drops and pulls a few swirls of her hips that immediately tighten things beneath my zipper. Then she kneels, leans on her shoulder and pulls a breakdance move.
Everyone in the living room cracks up except for Mom. Swedes detest hotdogging, any form of arrogance or pride, really. She cocks her head like she’s trying to understand what could possibly motivate a human to behave how Willa is.
“Interesting choice of celebration,” Mom says.
