The Game Can’t Love You Back Read online

  I watch him walk around to his door, climb inside with his shoulders slightly hunched.

  What’s he like? I wonder. That person in the middle?

  Chapter 15

  April 6

  Eve

  Even though it’s pouring on Thursday afternoon when practice starts, forcing us into the gym, spirits are high among my teammates as we gather and await our coaches, who are unusually late. Some people are loudly rehashing yesterday’s victory, talking about our standing within the district. Someone’s turned on the speaker system, Justin Timberlake’s echoing off the walls, and a couple of the guys are executing some pretty ridiculous dance moves in the lower section of the bleachers. I notice a group of seniors from East whispering in a corner, quieter than the rest of the group. I’m sitting on the wood floor next to Scott, stretching my hamstrings.

  I glance over my shoulder, noticing Jamie stretching with a few of his buddies from East. His gaze meets mine, and I quickly bow my head and deepen my stretch. I don’t know if I should smile or what, unsure what “normal” looks like for the two of us now, given the time we spent together in the courtyard and the run-in at Giant.

  Thirty seconds later, I find myself staring at him again. He’s back to being “Ace,” giving Nathan a hard time about something or other, and I can’t seem to make myself stop watching them, trying to figure him out, trying to better understand where Ace ends and Jamie begins.

  It’s annoying.

  I force my attention back to Scott. “Did you catch how yesterday—”

  The double doors to the gym slam shut, making me jump, and the music abruptly cuts off. Coach Karlson, with the rest of the coaching staff on his heels, comes striding into the gym, a stormy look on his face. The guys in the bleachers look like they’re caught in a game of freeze dance, and Coach looks at them, then pointedly stares at the gym floor. “Stop goofing around and sit your asses down.”

  Coach’s voice is full of barely suppressed anger, and my heart starts pounding at once, nervous system on immediate edge. The instantaneous change in mood is obvious to everyone in the room, and in seconds the gym becomes pin-drop quiet, Coach’s footsteps echoing in the silence as he stalks across the floor and positions himself in front of us. I scoot a bit closer to Scott.

  What the hell’s going on?

  Yesterday was a key victory for our positioning within the district, and we all know of Coach’s friendly rivalry with our opponents’ head coach, that we’d earned him points by getting the W yesterday. I have no idea what happened between yesterday and now to bring about such evident fury.

  Coach stands in front of us, his assistants behind him, forming a triangle, staring wordlessly. He stays like that a long time, too long, looking each of us in the eye, one at a time. Even with no idea what he’s searching for, I suddenly find myself racking my brain, trying to recall any misstep or error I might have committed that he is aware of and I am not. When he trains his penetrating glare on me, my face heats and I start sweating, even if I know I did nothing wrong.

  When he’s finally done with the silent interrogation, he speaks. “I’m not disappointed. I’m furious.” He lets this single statement sink in for a few more torturous moments before continuing. “You’ve embarrassed yourselves, your team, and me personally, and that’s not something I take lightly.”

  Scott turns his head, ever so slightly, and meets my eye, his expression confused and concerned. So it’s not just me; he has no idea what’s going on, either.

  Coach reaches back and snaps at Coach Parsons, who hands him an iPad. He holds it up before us, and I have to lean forward and squint to figure out what exactly he’s showing us. My heart sinks when I recognize the huge ram statue outside Westdale High School, the site of yesterday’s victory. Its snout is covered in lipstick, it’s dressed in a bra and panties, and two unfurled condoms encase its curly horns.

  “I don’t tolerate sore losers,” Coach says, his voice hard, “but sore winners I absolutely despise.”

  Nathan, brave idiot that he is, calls out without bothering to raise his hand. “Coach, why do you think it was us?”

  “Don’t waste my time with asinine questions, Furman,” Coach retorts. He swipes at the screen, producing a second image, this time from a security camera. The screen is dark and the image is blurry, but I can still make out the figure in a Pirates Windbreaker adorning the statue.

  Shit.

  “Now, you may feel fortunate that the camera wasn’t close enough to provide us with a face or the name on that Windbreaker, but that puts whoever did this in a very unfortunate scenario, as it turns out. Because now you can go ahead and admit your stupidity in front of your entire team.”

  I look around. All my teammates are doing the same. No one looks ready to speak up, and no one is hanging his head in shame.

  “Don’t make this difficult, people,” Coach says. “Someone knows something about disgracing my entire team, someone knows something about making me look like a jackass to one of my oldest friends and a respected colleague.”

  Even though he’s trying to keep his voice even, Coach’s face is getting redder and redder, and I see a vein pulsing in his neck.

  “If you think I’m impressed by your loyalty to each other, then you’re sorely mistaken. Your choice.” He releases his clipboard, which slams against the wooden floor with a metallic bang. Then he nods over his shoulder to his staff. “Set up the stations,” he instructs them, voice menacing.

  I’m suddenly picturing medieval torture chambers, and my worry turns to fear.

  “On your feet,” Coach Parson snaps.

  Coach is setting up some cones now. “We’re coming off a win. Today should’ve been an easy practice, maybe even some fun.” He glances back at us with a tight, forced smile. “Now you can look forward to it being anything but.

  “This is your last chance while the other coaches set up the drills,” he tells us. “We’ll be doing interval sprints around the gym, for fifteen minutes, or until someone decides they’re man or woman enough to speak up.”

  My mouth falls open at the word “woman,” even though I’m wise enough to clamp it shut. I can’t help but feel appalled that Coach included it in his rant. Does he really believe it’s possible that a “woman,” the only woman, was responsible?

  But a few seconds later, as I’m lining up in single file with my teammates, I decide I can’t fault him for using the differential terms. Why should he exclude me from his list of potential suspects? What would that be saying? And as embarrassing as it is to feel singled out by his terminology, I have to admit it’s only fair that he acknowledge me as a possible perpetrator.

  He blows his whistle and we all start jogging, the person at the front of the line wisely setting a nice and easy pace, and the last person in line sprints from his spot to the front, setting off a chain reaction, the new caboose starting off on a sprint as soon as the last sprinter’s reached the front. I don’t like the drill, I don’t like the individual attention on me as I take my turns sprinting, but I’m well-conditioned from running back and forth across the gym during basketball season, and I can run.

  Still, it’s not what I’d call fun.

  About ten minutes in, when it’s getting old, when it’s sinking in that we still have what’s likely a grueling workout before us, the captains start calling out. I hear Jamie’s voice among them.

  “Yo, someone man up.”

  “I’m going to kick whoever’s ass is responsible for this.”

  “Somebody put a stop to this shit.”

  But no one speaks up, and Coach blows his whistle when fifteen minutes comes to an end. I fall forward in a mass of limp limbs, feeling a bit light-headed. It’s incredibly humid in the gym, and our water break is so quick it can barely be considered a “break.” My sense of dread grows as Coach describes each station. Bleacher sprints. Mountain climbers and squat jumps. Pull-ups and push-ups. And the Terrible Twenties.

  I sneak a look at the clock. It’s onl
y three forty-five, which means we still have over an hour to go. And I’m scared. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I am. Conditioning-wise, I can hang with most of the guys. But some of these drills call for brute strength, and I’m worried I’m going to embarrass myself. Fall. Collapse. Clearly, Coach has no intention of making things easier for me, and there’s no way I can ask for any type of special treatment.

  Scott, standing next to me, looks scared, too. I try to remind myself I’m probably not alone in that feeling.

  Mentally repeating every mind-over-matter, you-got-this-girl mantra I know, I prepare myself for the rotations, at the same time silently cursing the dumb-ass who got us into this situation. We should be celebrating our victory, not being drilled to the death inside a humid gym.

  And it’s pretty much as awful as I anticipated. People trip and fall on the bleachers. During the Terrible Twenties, Scott has to stop to throw up in a trash can before getting himself back in the game. With this, warning bells start firing in my head, and I can see other people are ready to beg for mercy. Finally, Coach allows a water break and five-minute rest.

  “One last chance for someone to speak up, put an end to this,” he calls to us as we stand there in various stages of collapse.

  When no one does, he blows his whistle and we drag ourselves back into rotation.

  I’m at the pull-up and push-up station with fifteen minutes left in practice. My positioning was purposeful, because I know I’ll struggle here most, and if I’d come here early, the potential mental defeat might have crippled me at the other stations. Coming here last means I’m utterly wiped, but most of my teammates seem to be in the same boat, and this bolsters me somehow. I mean, I’m surviving. I haven’t dropped yet.

  The expectation at the station is that while one individual completes eight pull-ups, the others in the group do push-ups on the ground beneath him. The faster he is, the fewer push-ups have to be done before there’s a one-minute break as we switch positions.

  When it’s my turn to get off the ground and grip the bar, I feel Coach grab my elbow.

  “Flexed arm hang for you, Marshall.”

  “’Scuse me?” I pant.

  “Flexed arm hang.” He meets my eye briefly. “Willing to make an adjustment on this one.”

  But …

  … I’m not. I can’t. Not today, when we’re all suffering together. I can’t expect any allowances on my behalf, not ones that highlight my physical differences, not ones that give any indication that Coach believes it wasn’t me involved in the vandalism.

  As miserable and grueling as they are, it’s days like these that build a team, and if I want to be part of that team, I have to get through today. All of it. “No thank you.”

  “What?”

  I inhale quickly. “No thank you. I’ll do the pull-ups.”

  I don’t know if my body can deliver. In gym class, we’ve always done the flexed arm hang during gym tests, and I’m not confident that I can do pull-up after pull-up.

  All the same, I hear myself rejecting Coach’s offer.

  He’s irritated and impatient now. “Suit yourself, Marshall.”

  I grab the bar and hang there. How hard can it be? It’s just another case where mind has to triumph over matter. I mean, I’ve always crushed the flexed arm hang in comparison to my classmates, and I can crush this, too. Eight times. That’s all. I can do this.

  Below me, members of the group start in with push-ups. I summon all the willpower in my body, I channel it into my arms and shoulders, and … nothing happens. It’s like trying to push lead, and I’ve got nothing left behind my effort. I’m shaking just hanging there.

  I picture my teammates below me, still doing push-ups, possibly forever. They’re unable to look up and actually witness this debacle, but it will soon dawn on them that they’ve been doing more push-ups this time than any other. I try to use this humiliation to propel myself upward. But it doesn’t amount to much in terms of actual output, and I hang there like a cat from a limb, useless and weak, hating my body for letting me down for about the first time in forever.

  “Eve,” Coach says quietly. I think it’s the first time he’s ever said my first name. “Wise up and take my offer.”

  With tears in my eyes, I let myself fall. I turn around and grip the bar from the other direction.

  “Fifteen seconds is the equivalent,” Coach tells me, looking at his watch.

  I tremble like a leaf in a hurricane the entire time, but I make the fifteen-second mark before dropping onto the ground, landing heavily on my butt.

  Jamie is doing bleacher sprints, and he’s watching me on his descent. I close my eyes so it’s impossible for him to see the tears lingering there.

  And at last, we’re done. The torture wraps.

  We lie on the mats, struggling for air, dripping with sweat, several people laid out on their backs, staring vacantly toward the ceiling.

  “Next time any of you think it’s a good idea to gloat, I want you to remember how your bodies feel at this moment,” Coach chimes in. “And for damn sure, you better rethink your decisions. We’ll move forward, but it’s not forgotten.”

  The coaches leave, but no one makes any attempt to move. We all lie there for a long time, trying to recover, before people start extending hands to help others up, patting each other on the back. There’s no further grief given about who’s responsible for the actions that got us here; I think everyone’s too wiped to even care anymore.

  Today, I’m actually grateful to have a locker room to myself. I struggle inside, peel my sweaty clothes off, and collapse on the floor in my underwear under the warm spray of the shower. I sit like that a long time, limbs still quivering, feeling nausea as I sit there, then actual pain when I attempt to stand up again.

  I slowly dress in my sweats, noticing that even my fingers are shaking as I try to tie my sneakers. When I look in the mirror, exhaustion reveals itself on my face, my damp, matted braids pressed against my head like a doll that’s been left out in the rain.

  When I finally emerge, the hallways are quiet and semi-dark. But the gym doors are open, its lights still on, and that damn bar is directly in my line of vision. It’s silently mocking me, I swear, looking all superior from its spot high up on the wall.

  Nothing has ever defeated me so wholly and utterly before. Let alone a stupid horizontal piece of metal.

  I have to whip it into submission.

  As utterly incapacitated as my body feels at this moment, my mind is resolute. I have to whip it, and I have to whip it today.

  I drop my bag and stride across the gym, eyes focused on the bar.

  Fuck you.

  Anger propels me forward, and I feel confident and renewed as I grab the bar and hang there.

  And I’m immediately crushed all over again. I hang there, and it’s evident as I attempt to move my arms that absolutely nothing has changed.

  “For God’s sake, why are you back inside this gym?”

  Startled, I lose my grip and drop like a brick. It happens so fast it takes my breath away, and I whirl around to find Jamie leaning against the door frame.

  “Why are you still here?” I turn my back on him, looking up at the bar. “Go home.”

  But he doesn’t. Instead I hear him walking toward me. “I was already in my car and out of the parking lot when I realized I forgot my math book, and I can’t get another zero for homework. I’m staying on top of things this semester.”

  Jamie drops his backpack on the ground, and then walks around so that he’s standing in front of me, his back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “Girls aren’t expected to do pull-ups,” he tells me, so matter-of-factly I want to smack him. But when he starts up again, his voice really isn’t all that smug. “Look, Marshall, I get that you’re used to proving everyone wrong, overpowering physical limitations and all that jazz, but there are some things that just won’t work.” He shrugs. “Before you bite my head off or rip me a new one … that’s not a pe
rsonal insult. It’s not meant to be demeaning. It’s an anatomical fact that guys have greater upper body strength, more muscle mass.” I see a flicker of a smile. “It’s not God flipping you off. It’s just nature.”

  “Women have to do them in the Marines.”

  “What?”

  I won’t meet his eye. I’m still staring at the bar. “Women have to pass a pull-ups test in the Marines. If it were impossible, the test wouldn’t exist.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “My second-oldest brother is in the Marines. I know stuff.”

  “Are you planning on joining the Marines?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “So let it go already.”

  “No.” I stare at him, my position mirroring his as I fold my arms across my chest. “No, we’re not naturally inclined to do pull-ups, but partly because we’re not expected to. We’re not conditioned to; we’re not taught. But we are physically capable, and I’m going to get myself above that damn bar. Once.”

  Jamie doesn’t look amused. “Have I told you that you’re too stubborn for your own good?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Then let’s make it three. This is ridiculous.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter, stepping toward the bar again. “I told you to go home.”

  “Whatever,” he echoes, grabbing his bag, starting across the gym without a good-bye.

  When I’m sure he’s gone, I jump up and grab the bar again.

  I hang there, and seconds later, I hear the voice from the doorway.

  “Your elbows are too wide. And you’re holding your body too straight and rigid.”

  I look over my shoulder, finding that he hasn’t gone anywhere, that he’s walking back toward me again.

  “Huh?”

  “Your body’s too straight. There has to be some give.”

  I try to act on his instructions, tucking my elbows closer to my body.

  “You can’t be like a board,” I hear from below. Then, out of nowhere, his hands are on my body, on the small of my back, nudging it forward, forcing it to soften.