The Game Can’t Love You Back Read online

  “Marcella.”

  She looked up in surprise.

  I sighed loudly. “Girlfriend, you know I love you with all my heart, but it was a bad week, all right? Did you honestly lure me out to vent about bullshit prom politics, or at some point before my food digests are you going to get around to telling me whatever it is you wanted to tell me?”

  “I might have had sex with Brian.”

  My stomach turned cold at once, something akin to fear settling there, but I managed to chuckle anyway. “Umm, not speaking from experience or anything, but I’m pretty sure that’s a yes-or-no situation, not a maybe.”

  Her head fell forward, long hair covering her face. “It’s a yes,” she mumbled.

  I had a million feelings I didn’t quite understand swirling about, but after a minute of silence, all I could do was state the obvious.

  “That wasn’t part of your plan,” I pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “You, deviating from the plan … wow.”

  I know Marcella’s timeline. She’s spelled it out for me on several occasions. Married by twenty-four, kids by twenty-six, because she wants at least three of them. Sex wouldn’t happen until college, at least, if I remember correctly, something about “wanting to feel like an adult first” so it didn’t seem dirty. Under her parents’ roof would feel dirty.

  “I didn’t change the plan,” she said. “It just happened. Last night we were just doing … stuff … in his basement. And he didn’t stop me, because, well, he never has. And last night … I didn’t stop him.” Marcella gave a tiny shrug. “In the moment, it felt okay, I guess.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked flatly. “The look on your face … doesn’t look all that okay.”

  Abruptly, she sat up straight and even folded her hands on the table. This time, she nodded assuredly. “No. It is. Okay. It felt like the time was right. It just was, and I had to ask myself: Why am I applying all these rules? What am I waiting for, really?” Marcella smoothed her hair and looked me in the eye. “We’ve been together for three years, and it’s time for our relationship to actually develop.”

  “Uh, okay. If you’re sure.”

  At that moment, our waitress returned and delivered our food. There was a double cheeseburger and fries on my plate. A house salad on hers. I watched as she barely picked at it. Then I put my burger down and looked at her again.

  Her eyes dropped back to the tabletop. “Anyway … what I just told you … that’s not really what the … big … problem is.”

  “What’s the big problem?”

  “Well, as I said…” She shredded a piece of romaine into bits. “It wasn’t exactly planned, and…”

  She couldn’t finish her sentence, her cheeks turning bright red.

  I was confused for a minute. Then my eyes almost popped out of my head.

  “Marcella! Are you kidding me?! You, of all people, had sex without protection?”

  Her head whipped from left to right and all the way behind her. “Shh, okay?” she hissed. She swallowed hard. “At first, I didn’t think it was really happening, and then everything got carried away, and then it was, and everything was happening really fast, and it was sort of over before I could even really … and I don’t know…”

  The bright red drained from her cheeks entirely, and suddenly she looked pale enough to puke.

  “I don’t want to feel like I made a mistake with this, but this part of it…,” she whispered. “I’m scared to death, Eve. I have to fix this.”

  I was about to lecture her that it wasn’t really an action that could be fixed, or undone, but then I remembered something. “Aren’t there, like, pills? Isn’t there something you can take?”

  She started gnawing on her nails. “I’ve been too scared to look. I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  I shook my head as I felt around for my phone. Apparently my best friend lost her virginity and her good sense in one fell swoop. The Marcella I’d known for over a decade would have immediately googled it and promptly handled it by now. “I’ll look,” I said, swiping my screen.

  “I think you have up to seventy-two hours. They probably carry this pill at the CVS on Maple Ave.”

  “No, look for one farther away,” she said. “What if we run into someone?”

  “Who’s we? You and Brian?”

  “No, umm…” She took a long drink of her water. “Me and you.”

  I laughed out loud.

  “Please, Eve! I can’t do this by myself. I can’t look someone in the eye and ask for the morning-after pill.”

  I wanted to point out that if she was ready for sex, she might as well be ready to say those words aloud to a pharmacist. Except I’d sound way too much like our health teacher, and not like her best friend.

  And why wasn’t Brian going with her?

  I didn’t say anything about that, either.

  “It’s going to make you really sick,” I informed her, still scrolling through the sites. “Like headaches and nausea and vomiting sick.”

  Her shoulders collapsed as she nodded miserably.

  I shook my head, struggling to understand how any of it was worth such awful side effects. Looking at the expression on Marcella’s face, I decided she didn’t seem convinced, either.

  So I leaned forward. “Marcella, what’s wrong? For real?”

  She looked into my eyes for a long moment before retreating again, pulling herself together. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I just need to get this taken care of, and then I’ll feel one hundred percent better about this. And I’ll always be smart going forward.”

  It was clear right then she wasn’t going to tell me the truth of what was eating her, what else was eating her, regardless of how many truth bombs she’d just dropped on me.

  But Marcella is my best friend, so all I did before she left was tell her when I’d pick her up and give her a big hug.

  “Get some sleep,” I told her. “You’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

  Then I watched her walk toward her car, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling that she was somehow walking away from me, on some scale larger than the Burger Barn parking lot.

  * * *

  I stare at her window some more, hands twisting uneasily in my bedspread, wondering if she’s at home, asleep, or if she went over to Brian’s.

  The thing with my car, the interaction with Jamie … the truth is they fazed me way less than they probably should have.

  This thing with Marcella is what’s really shaken me.

  She and Brian are closer than ever. And even though she came to me for help and support, suddenly it feels like there’s this huge gap between us. She’s on one side and I’m on the other, and the truth is, I have no interest in crossing over to hers. Marcella feels like someone different, someone I don’t fully know.

  It’s just sex, Eve.

  It is just sex, and lots of people have sex. Marcella hasn’t turned into an alien.

  But …

  … this is Marcella. And for all the ways we’re different, it was one way we were alike that is now gone.

  She’s having sex and tracking down the morning-after pill.

  And me, I’m taping my boobs down.

  I close my eyes, swallowing over the lump in my throat, forcing myself to confront the question in my mind head-on.

  What are you scared of?

  It takes me a minute to answer myself. I squeeze my eyes tighter shut, forcing myself to face it, in the hopes that I’ll stop feeling so bothered and finally be able to get some sleep.

  I’m scared of it changing.

  All of it.

  My body. My place on the team. My friendship with Marcella.

  Because if it all changes … will I even know who I am anymore? Will there even be a place where I fit?

  Chapter 12

  March 27

  Eve

  Before I run back onto Linville’s field, I take a final glance at the scoreboard, even though I’m well aware of the score and know when and how ever
y run was scored. We’re up 6–4, with a lead we’ve maintained from the second inning.

  Now, with two innings to go, it’s my job to hold on to things, keep it together, so we can take home another win. Jamie started off strong and probably could’ve kept going, but Coach wanted to save him for a particular opponent later in the week. He put me in at the bottom of the fourth, and I’m trying to stave off the fatigue that’s starting to settle over me.

  Scott lumbers toward the infield, adjusting his chest protector, hesitating when he sees me lingering behind the fence. “All good?”

  I take a deep breath, steeling my body and narrowing my eyes toward the mound. “All good.” I wipe my hands on my lucky bandanna and tuck it away. “Just want to get through these last two and out of here.”

  He steps toward me and extends his fist for a pound. “Let’s do that, then.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  I take a final deep breath, locking my line of vision dead ahead, doing everything in my power to keep my eyes off the home bench, the set of bleachers behind it.

  Some teams, some towns are just worse than others; that’s the way it’s always been. There’s an invisible animosity in the air surrounding the field, and without even so much as glancing in their direction, I can feel the weight of the crowd’s stares. It’s something I realized over time, that stares have a weight about them, and here at Linville, I feel their hostile presence on my back.

  I take my place on the mound and grind my cleats into the dirt. I have two X chromosomes, losers. Get over it.

  I stare into Scott’s eyes before winding up. Seconds later, a perfect curveball smacks his glove, which is centered perfectly within the strike zone.

  I hide my smile behind my glove. Stares have a weight about them, sure. Sometimes they can also be as motivating as hell.

  * * *

  It’s a quick inning with a couple of hits but no runs scored, and ten minutes later I’m tugging on a batting helmet and stepping up to the plate. It’s our last at bat, and we’d all feel more comfortable adding a run or two before Linville gets their last chance to take the victory.

  Their pitcher is tall, almost gangly, but has a mean fastball. His first pitch is a strike, but I get a piece of the second one, sending a pop fly into foul ball territory behind me.

  I grind my molars together, frustrated with the O–2 count, feeling the pressure building in my chest. It’s a tough hole to dig myself out of, and my resulting grip on the bat is painfully tight.

  The pitcher takes his sweet time before throwing the next pitch. He takes an extra second to look me in the eye and smile cruelly. Then he’s whipping his arm around the side of his body, windmill style, lobbing the ball toward the plate the way a softball pitcher would.

  I’m too stunned to think about swinging as the ball zips past me. I’m too stunned to react at all.

  Luckily, the plate umpire is not. He stands, pushing up his face mask with a heavy sigh, turning toward the home team’s dugout. “Coach, pull your player from the game or I will.”

  I look at Linville’s coach. Even from a distance, I can tell his face is already red with fury, his lip curled up like he’s snarling. He beckons for his player with some angry gesturing, and even though the idiot pitcher takes his time jogging over to his coach, there’s no avoiding the reaming-out that awaits him. We don’t get the pleasure of hearing it, but from the way the coach takes his arm and jerks him behind the dugout, we get a sense of what’s in store.

  There’s another moment of stunned silence, but before one of their assistant coaches can call another pitcher in, before the umpire can say “play ball,” someone stands in the second row of the home-team bleachers, shielding his eyes against the sun.

  “Hey, ump, can’t we have a sense of humor?” he calls. “He technically didn’t do anything illegal.”

  He’s tall and gangly, too. Must be the idiot’s dad. Father Idiot.

  The umpire doesn’t even bother to turn in his direction. “My call,” he shouts in response. “Poor sportsmanship.”

  “It was just some good-natured heckling,” Father Idiot protests. “He didn’t say anything demeaning or nothing.” He gestures toward the scoreboard. “How is it poor sportsmanship? We don’t even have the lead.”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I notice the umpire finally turning toward him, squinting in confusion. “Really?”

  “Really. Charlie’s coming up to bat, and he could still bring this home,” the man continues. “You can’t throw him out of the game.”

  The umpire’s growing sense of irritation is evident, anger finally revealing itself in his voice. “Actually, I can. And I can ask you to leave as well.”

  “Well, that would just be par for the course, wouldn’t it?” Father Idiot directs his question toward the other Linville fans. He climbs down off the bleachers, but instead of turning toward the parking lot, he makes his way down to the fence, directly behind me. My limbs twitch when he grabs the fence. I’m mad at myself when I realize it, how his close proximity intimidates me. I freeze, sort of like a rabbit when a predator comes into its peripheral view.

  “Eve. Get in here.”

  It’s Coach Parsons who calls my name, and I finally have the wherewithal to trot toward the dugout and join my team, the players who have collectively jumped to their feet and are watching the scene unfold.

  “If I’m going to go, might as well say my piece first,” the man rants from behind the fence. He sticks a finger through it, pointing toward our dugout while unloading on the umpire. “This team has an unfair advantage in the conference. Those coaches over there got to cherry-pick players from two already strong teams. It’s bullshit that they got away with it.”

  Coach Jackson makes a move to step forward. “We should put a stop to this,” he mutters.

  But Coach Karlson extends an arm, blocking him from going any farther. “Let the umpire handle it,” he says, looking unruffled.

  “It’s going to be a farce if this team wins the conference. If they’re allowed to go on to districts,” he continues.

  Around me, I can sense my teammates growing angry, tension radiating from their bodies, a few of them spitting toward the dirt.

  I’m right there with them. None of this was our fault! I want to shout. We sure as hell didn’t ask for this!

  Then Father Idiot has to go ahead and make it personal.

  He presses his face against the fence, twisting his neck so he can scan the dugout, his gaze finally coming to rest on me. “And then there’s their little secret weapon.”

  He shakes his head with a chuckle, glancing over his shoulder toward the other Linville supporters. “Great tactic, right? Throw the other teams off-kilter, stick a girl out there on the mound as a novelty.”

  My ears pick up on a few people actually applauding him.

  The sound of it makes me see red when I blink.

  The umpire steps toward the man and stands face-to-face with him, glaring at him through the chain link. “It’s time for you to go. Don’t make me say it a third time.”

  “Whatever.” The man rattles the fence. “This season’s a joke.” He steps away, but not before pointing in my direction. “You’re a joke.”

  And just like that, I go from rabbit to mountain lion, launching my body in his direction without ever actively deciding to move.

  But hands grab my shoulders before I gain any momentum. I whip around, flinging them off, but it’s Scott’s steady face I find behind me, and it snaps me out of attack mode at once.

  “Don’t stoop to his level, Eve. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  I pause, take a breath.

  “You’ve dealt with this before,” he reminds me. “Don’t you dare give him the satisfaction of a reaction.”

  He’s right, of course, even though it takes me by surprise every time, how so many parents at rec sports are the most infantile individuals on the scene. They’ve always been more dismissive, more derisive, than the other coaches or opp
osing players. They all believe each of their precious little snowflakes is a star; they’re so upset when I shut them down.

  Scott puts his arm around my shoulder. “Come on. Sit down.”

  “Don’t let them get to you, Eve.”

  I turn toward the voice, surprised to hear that it’s Greg, one of the original Pirates.

  “Yeah, Eve. Forget that guy.”

  This time it’s Brendan giving the encouragement.

  Looking around the dugout, I’m so stunned at the realization that my team seems to have my back, my entire team, I actually manage to keep from charging toward the fence. My eyes end up meeting Jamie’s last, pausing there for a moment, trying to read his expression. I guess I sort of expect to find him gloating, enjoying this spectacle, but he isn’t. He just seems to be studying me in equal measure, his reaction inscrutable.

  I look down, peeling my batting gloves off, waiting for my heart rate to decrease.

  And then I have to wait some more. Wait for the ranting father to finally leave the field, wait for the other bench to settle down, wait for a replacement pitcher to warm up. Scott approaches me again, once I’ve calmed down, and makes a big deal of keeping my arm loose, jostling my shoulders and trying to make me laugh.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “He’s gone. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  But it sort of is. I still have a 0–2 count, and now there’s no way in hell I can let them strike me out.

  Luckily, the new pitcher isn’t nearly as strong as the jackass who got tossed, and on my first swing I send a solid line drive between the shortstop and third and safely make my way to first base. He walks the next two batters, and then a ground ball from Scott sends me home.

  And after the inning closes, when I run back onto the field, glove in hand, to put this game to bed once and for all, I do it with the sense that my team’s behind me. I hear their voices as I go.