The Game Can’t Love You Back Page 16

  I have Naomi. It’s simple.

  She takes her time winding some spaghetti around her fork before bringing it to her mouth and taking a dainty bite. “What’s up with you and that girl?” she asks breezily, concentrating on her spaghetti.

  “What girl?”

  Naomi chortles. “Umm, the only girl who was sitting with you guys. You know who I mean.”

  I feel myself tensing beneath her, but I refuse to give her a reaction. “Nothing,” I say coolly.

  Now she looks at me, one eyebrow raised, eyes challenging. “You sure about that?”

  “Damn sure.”

  Then I laugh, like the idea is as completely ridiculous as it sounds coming out of Naomi’s mouth.

  She smiles in satisfaction at my response. “Good. ’Cause I want you to drive me home tonight.” She bends her head toward mine, the ends of her hair scratching my cheek, mouth right over my ear. “Let’s go the back way. I’ll get my car later.”

  From the distant corner of my eye, I see Eve stand up at the end of her table. I’m not sure, but I swear I can feel her eyes on me. So I smile back at Naomi, just in case. “Absolutely.”

  We leave the cafeteria together ten minutes later, going back the way I came, down the long hallway toward the locker room so I can pick up my stuff. As we approach the gym, Naomi grabs my arm, pulling me into the dark alcove in front of the boiler room.

  In the semidarkness, I can see her biting her lip. “Screw the car,” she says. She nods toward the supply room where team equipment is stashed during the off-season. Then her hands are on the back of my head, pulling me in for a kiss.

  But before my lips can even meet hers, I’m distracted by the sound of footsteps, and I glance over my shoulder in the direction they’re coming from.

  The person pauses, and I stand as still as stone, not certain she can see me, hoping she can’t.

  Because I can see her, even in the dim light of the hallway after hours, and I swear, before she even recognizes who it is inside the alcove, she looks upset. Then recognition must dawn, because I hear this little surprised, embarrassed gasp. That’s it before she turns on her heel and disappears. The footsteps sound faster than when they approached. She’s running away.

  When your team’s up to bat … when you’re at the plate … you have seconds to process, to make a decision between the time the pitcher releases the ball and when you start to swing. There’s no conscious decision made; your mind is made up before you even actively consider the choice.

  And just like that, I hear myself saying something to Naomi before I even process the thought. “I can’t take you home tonight.”

  Naomi’s face goes from confused … to shocked … to angry. The transformation happens in record time, her voice coming out cold and steely. “What the fuck?”

  “I forgot,” I say lamely. “Something I had to do.”

  Then I’m running down the hallway, too. I don’t look back.

  Eve

  I dart outside and end up leaning against the brick wall around the corner from the locker room, trying to get ahold of myself. The tears that started stinging my eyes the second I saw them turned from sad to angry in a flash. I actually bat at them, hard enough for it to hurt.

  Do not cry. For Christ’s sake, do not cry. You don’t want this. You don’t want any of this. And you will not disgrace yourself by crying over Jamie Abrams!

  I don’t want any of this. Lord knows I don’t.

  A shudder shakes my body as the vision of them cozied up in the dark corner flashes across my mind.

  I don’t want him. But apparently, I really, really don’t like seeing him with Naomi, either.

  What was the big surprise, anyway? Batting at my eyes again, I consider. She’s been there all along. The two of them have always had a thing. Why, when, did I start thinking that had changed?

  And it hurts, actually stumbling on the fact that it hasn’t. It hurt when he left with her, regardless of how I was acting toward him. Regardless of how much I don’t want it to hurt, regardless of how hard I’m actively pushing him away, it still hurt watching him go.

  Despite my battling them back, two tears spill over onto my cheeks. Damn it.

  Shaking my hands at my sides, I try to distract my body with some other physical sensation so that I’ll stop crying. I hate crying, hate everything that goes along with it, the snotty nose and that gaping feeling in your chest.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I’m so startled, my hand goes to my heart and my entire body flinches. When I calm down enough to realize it’s Jamie who’s found me there, Jamie who’s actively come looking, I turn my back on him at once, desperate to hide my tear-streaked face. Which will require an explanation I really don’t want to give.

  “Go away, Jamie,” I mumble over my shoulder. I discreetly wipe at my eyes and nose. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  He doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “That was my question for you.”

  I turn only my head to look at him, to offer up a weary look. “I don’t feel like playing tonight.”

  “Okay.” He nods. “I’ll answer you, then.”

  Jamie comes around, so that he’s leaning against the wall beside me in the direction I’m facing. I’m tempted to turn my back again, except I’ll look like a toddler. And because I guess I’m more tempted to hear his answer.

  “You were upset. I could tell. So I followed you.”

  He turns his face toward mine, only inches away. He looks genuinely confused, like he doesn’t even fully understand the answer he’s just given me.

  And I snap back into snark mode.

  “That was big of you,” I say, my voice sharp. “Considering Naomi’s hand was halfway down your pants.”

  But Jamie doesn’t snark back. He just stares into my eyes, this look of pleading in his. “Eve,” he whispers. “Stop. Okay?” He spreads his hands before him. “My weapons are down. Maybe you could drop yours, too.”

  My head hangs. I don’t make some retort. It’s the best I can do right then.

  “Why did you look sad?” he asks quietly. “When you saw us?”

  I try to lift my chin. “I wasn’t sad.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You were.”

  His voice is insistent this last time, increasing in pitch and frustration, and the words explode from me before I have any chance to wrangle them back inside.

  “I like you, okay?”

  I throw my hands up when I say it, but I need them back, right away, to cover my face. Jamie must be stunned into silence, and I end up continuing on through my fingers. “I hate you. I think I really hate you, except”—my voice goes quiet for a second—“except I don’t. And so I’m pissed off, and confused, and sad, and…”

  My hands fall back to my sides as I stare at him, looking more appealing than ever in that worn baseball tee. “And how many of those damn shirts do you own?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  I take another glance at him. He’s smirking. “You like me?”

  I try not to notice the way those beautiful blue eyes light up when he asks the question. Otherwise, I’d want to smile, too. “Stop mocking me,” I murmur.

  He shakes his head. “I’m not mocking you.” Jamie inches closer to me. “So maybe I know what it feels like to … like someone against my will, too. Sucks, doesn’t it?” he whispers. I close my eyes. I don’t see his hand gently capture mine, but I feel it. In every single cell of my body, I feel it.

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Jamie kisses me instead.

  His lips touch mine, and this kiss is the last thing I’d ever expect from the legendary Jamie Abrams. It’s soft, and gentle, his fingers closing infinitesimally tighter around mine when he finds my mouth with his. My eyes pop open, just for a second, instantly seeing how his are clenched, like he’s tentative. Almost like he’s scared to look.

  It’s this alone that does me in, an
d as I let my eyes fall back shut, my hand goes to his chest. I feel him stiffen in response, probably anticipating my pushing him away, but my fingers twist in the soft cotton of that shirt instead, pulling him closer. Pulling him all the way against me, feeling the warmth and firmness of his torso against mine as I deepen the kiss.

  Jamie’s free hand goes to my hip, steadying me, keeping me close, before cupping my jaw, keeping my face close to his as he kisses me back. And for every imaginable thing that Jamie and I have argued about, there’s some kind of natural agreement in our kissing. We find our rhythm easily, without bumping, or awkwardness, or hesitancy.

  Jamie lets me kiss him for a long time, and I let him kiss me. It’s only when I hear the echo of him chuckling from inside my mouth that I pull back, ever so slightly, seeing some new person whom I’ve never seen before in front of my face.

  “What?”

  He’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “Just making sure this is okay. That you’re not on the verge of kneeing me in the groin or anything.”

  I’m grinning right back, grabbing a breath, letting my forehead fall against his. “Don’t give me reason to.”

  And then we’re kissing again, urgently, like both of us regret breaking it off in the first place. We kiss for so long that my muscles feel stiff from standing up straight, and I end up pressed against the brick wall, Jamie’s body against mine, both hands on my lower back, dropping dangerously close to my butt.

  When I open my eyes, it’s completely dark. I have no idea how much time has passed. My parents are probably starting to wonder where I am.

  So after letting myself enjoy the feel of his lips for ten more seconds, maybe fifteen, I pull away, taking a quick gasp of air, trying to focus. I take a step away. I tuck a strand of hair that’s escaped from a braid behind my ear. “I should go home,” I exhale.

  Jamie plants one last, slow kiss on my jaw. “Do you need a ride?”

  “No. I have my car.”

  Now that they’re no longer attached to him, I don’t know where to put my hands. They flounder awhile before coming to rest on my thighs. They feel damp with sweat.

  I start looking left, then right, making sure no one is possibly around.

  I mean … what if someone was? What would happen? What would that be like?

  I frown, thinking about it, because … how does something this private translate into something public? When it’s me … and Jamie Abrams.

  I poke one finger into his chest. “Don’t ever talk about this,” I warn him.

  He raises his eyebrows. “No deal.” But he’s smiling, a little bit. “That was pretty good; you have to admit it.”

  I cross my arms. I bite my lip. “No, I don’t.”

  But I make the mistake of looking at him. The impish nature of his smile is irresistible, and before I know it, a smile blooms in spite of me, revealing everything.

  As soon as it appears, he kisses it, like he was waiting for it to make an appearance. “Those smiles are so worth it,” he whispers.

  Never in a million years would I tell him so, but maybe so were those kisses. Maybe I’d endure it all over again—the warring, the confusion, the heartache—for a first kiss like that.

  Chapter 19

  April 15

  Eve

  I’m groggy when I wake up, my thoughts confused and hazy, feeling like I’ve been startled out of a dream. One of those good ones, full of moments and feelings and characters that have no place in your actual universe. The kind that makes you wish that the alternate universe within your head is somewhere you could actually stay.

  My fingers go to my lips as consciousness fully dawns. The pressure on them last night was real. The admissions they made … also real. The herd of butterflies in my stomach might as well be real.

  There is a warm glow alive within me, like I swallowed the sun. Because Jamie kissed me last night. He left her, to track me down. To kiss me.

  Barely managing to contain a squeal, I jump out of bed, flip on the light, my reflection appearing suddenly in the mirror on the back of my door. Questioning me at once.

  Do you not see the million issues inherent in that equation? my brain berates me. That five minutes before he kissed you he was ready to go for it on school grounds with another girl?

  I stare at myself in the mirror.

  God, look at you. You look downright smitten.

  This is Jamie Abrams, player extraordinaire, we’re talking about here. You’ve seen him with half a million girls. He does more scoring off the field than on.

  Why do you feel special?

  And what would Scott say?

  Good God, what would Marcella say? When she suggested you let loose every once in a while, getting down and dirty against a brick wall with Jamie Abrams was hardly what she had in mind.

  What would your parents … your teammates … everyone say?

  A cold pebble of futility announces itself in the pit of my stomach, growing in size by the second, weighing down the butterflies until I can’t feel them at all. I don’t like how it feels when they’re gone. I don’t like the way my brain obliterated the light, breezy, happy feeling I’d awoken with.

  So I turn my back on my reflection. I straighten my shoulders, talk back to my brain.

  I don’t care, I decide. For at least a few hours … I’m not gonna care.

  I grab my towel and go shower in the hallway bathroom. Afterward, I don’t like the clean smell of my skin, how it seems to punctuate the ending of yesterday and the beginning of today. But when I bring my discarded shirt up to my nose, I make the amazing discovery that it still smells like him around the collar. I’m grinning like an idiot again, and I pull it back over my head.

  I braid my hair quickly and skip downstairs, finding my mom in the kitchen.

  “Hey,” I call to her breezily, opening the fridge, grabbing the eggs, a bag of cheese, and milk.

  “I’ll cook,” she tells me, reaching for the ingredients in my full hands.

  But I shrug her off. “That’s okay. I feel like doing it.”

  Glancing through the small window above the sink, I notice the sun’s already shining, notice a few buds on the Japanese cherry tree have actually blossomed. Spring might truly be here.

  I crack two eggs into the bowl and add some milk. I whisk, then dump the whole mess into a small frying pan, keeping an eye on the edges, occasionally nudging it with my fork.

  I don’t even notice my mom come stand beside me or feel her eyes on my face as she stares. Not until her voice interrupts my whistling.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  I turn toward her, finding her smiling, too, her eyes narrowed and pensive.

  Crap. I didn’t even know I was smiling, and I work quickly to wipe it off my face. What if my mom is one of those sitcom moms who can tell? Who knows exactly what I was up to last night?

  “I’m not,” I insist, staring down at the pan with renewed concentration, willing my eggs to cook faster so I can busy my mouth with eating and keep less of a close eye on what it might be up to when I’m not paying attention.

  * * *

  Besides all the random smiling, it’s a pretty typical Saturday. I’m supposed to meet up with Marcella around four, after she’s done with one pageant rehearsal or another, and I fill my hours the same way I always do, with schoolwork, school activities, and sports. I drive to the bank to make a deposit for honor society and stop at the store to buy ingredients for the flan I promised to make for Spanish Club. Then I sit down at my desk and get as far as opening my backpack. But my mom must’ve snuck in and opened my bedroom window, and I can actually hear the birds chirping and feel a gentle, warm breeze reach me after it ruffles my curtains.

  I sigh. There’s no sense in trying to focus on something as boring as On Walden Pond on a spring day as nice as this one. Seconds later I’m pushing my chair back, tying on my sneakers, and grabbing a decently inflated basketball I find lying around my room.

  There’s
a backboard mounted above the garage, one I spend quality time with on pretty much a daily basis. Even during soccer season, even during baseball season. On the weekends, I’m doing something with the future in mind, whether it’s running, hitting the gym, or shooting hoops. Hundreds of them, relishing the fluid, automatic feel of my arm motions, the consistent swish of the ball through the net. I’ve spent days of my life, weeks maybe, shooting in my driveway, and it’s easy to get lost in the zone, let my mind go blank, and enjoy the way the sun warms my skin as it creeps toward noon.

  I’ve made seventeen consecutive three-point shots when I hear my phone ringing from where I tossed it in the grass. Frowning at the interruption, I cradle the ball in my elbow and jog over to grab it. I’m annoyed that I broke my streak to go get it—the number flashing across its front isn’t one I recognize.

  I quickly swipe the screen. “Hello?” I don’t bother to try to hide the annoyance that reveals itself when I speak.

  The voice at the other end is substantially warmer. “Hey.” It’s a single-word response, but somehow it’s still slow … liquidy … like warm honey.

  “Who is this?”

  The resulting chuckle is familiar. “I’m insulted, Marshall. I mean, I thought I made an impression last night.”

  Instantaneously, my heart starts pounding like a jackhammer. Apparently destroying my mental filter as it goes. “How did you get my number?”

  “Jeez, treat me like a telemarketer?” he says. “It’s on the roster.”

  I consider this, feeling stupid. And never in a million years would it have crossed my mind to look his up. To use it. But he looked mine up.

  Just like that I’m smiling again.

  I’m happy you called.

  The words flash across my consciousness, naturally. But they don’t make it any further. Nowhere near the tip of my tongue. I just can’t seem to say them.

  “Oh,” is all I manage. Stunning conversationalist that I am.

  But Jamie doesn’t seem offended. “So anyway…”

  “So anyway…”

  I glance around. Both of my parents are gone. I drop the ball into the soft grass and settle down beside it.