Games We Play (Thistle Cove 2)

“What was it?” I ask. “Specifically.”

“Each year, the senior class would all go to a lodge up on Silver Lake and spend the weekend. Kind of a way to blow off steam before finals and graduation. It was a huge tradition, but they stopped when Jacqueline was murdered and didn’t restart it the next year when I was a senior. I guess they never did.” Her eyes flit over to the chaperones. “I guess not all traditions carry on in Thistle Cove.”

“They’ve announced they’re not having homecoming court because of Rose this year. I have a hard time believing that one won’t come back.”

She laughs. “I think you’re right about that.”

The boys on the trailer are goofing off more than working. “I may go try to get them back on track. Please feel free to come by the yearbook office whenever you get a chance. We’d love to have you just visit or help out if you have time.”

“That sounds great, Kenley, thank you.”

She walks across the driveway toward some of the kids, and she stops to give some advice on how to properly roll a pomp (trust me, there’s a right way and a wrong way to do it.)

I should be surprised that Thistle Cove has secrets I don’t know about, but the murder of a student isn’t something I expect. The bigger coincidence, I think as I look down at Mr. Baxter, Mrs. Chandler, and Mrs. Wells by the fire pit, is that they were here both times a girl from town went missing.

7

Ozzy

It’s colder than it was the first game we attended together, and coats, sweaters, and gloves are noticeable everywhere. Even the cheerleaders wear hoodies and leggings. Not that I’m looking at the cheerleaders. My thigh is pressed discreetly against Kenley’s, and our shoulders keep rubbing against one another. It’s tiny, benign stuff, but since the place I first kissed her is right under my feet, my brain and body can’t help but respond accordingly. I want to do it again. I have done it again. Right beneath us, in the relative privacy under the bleachers. It happens every game, home or away, by halftime my body starts ticking like a timebomb—knowing privacy is just under our feet.

Tick, tick, tick

/> We don’t start down here, like that first night. Kenley likes to get here for the pregame announcements. “To support Ezra and Finn.”

She’s right. We should support them. So instead of succumbing to our hormones, we smush close together on the edge of the student section and half watch the game while half fantasizing about those full, pink lips.

“Ouch,” I say, watching Ezra take a particularly hard hit. He’s down on the ground for a minute. Kenley’s gloved fingers thread with mine and clench tight.

“Is he okay?”

I half stand, but he’s already back on his feet. “That was a hard hit; he probably just needed to catch his breath.”

“Football is so dangerous,” she says, releasing the tightness of her grip, but not her hand from mine. “Why can’t they play something like soccer?”

“Still dangerous,” I say. “Concussions and torn ACLs are a huge problem. Surgeries lead to painkillers which is a whole other level of sports-related issues.”

She shakes her head. “You know, it’s okay if you don’t know the facts and data to everything.”

“I can’t help the fact that I read something, and it sticks in my head.” I nudge her shoulder. “I’m just saying all sports are dangerous, but you’re right. Football is especially so, but it’s a major focus in the town. I don’t see it changing any time soon, if ever.”

I look down on the field where Coach Chandler paces the sidelines. We’re up by seven, but that’s not enough for him. He likes big wins. Across the stands, with the cluster of adults, is Mr. Baxter and Mr. Waller. Ezra’s dad watches his son carefully, like he’s assessing him for any noticeable injury. Mr. Waller has on a baseball cap with his campaign slogan, “Thistle Cove: The Town to Beat!” Across the front. The election is the week after homecoming. There’s little doubt he’ll win in a landslide.

“Oh,” Kenley says, releasing my hand and pointing a few feet away from the men, “there’s Shannon.”

I see the woman from float building tucked in among the other adults. Kenley told us about the former yearbook editor last night—well, not much about her—but about Jaqueline Cates. None of us had heard of another student being murdered before.

“I did a little digging on Jaqueline today,” she says, unsurprisingly. “There’s not a lot of information, like, nothing about her being very involved in school activities. It listed her as being on the debate team. She was last seen at the library on Main Street. She didn’t have a car, so she walked everywhere. She disappeared somewhere between the library and her house.”

“Did she have to cross the bridge?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Her house was just a few blocks from the library, one of those older ones in town, but they searched for her for a week. Full effort, kind of like Rose. Dogs, helicopter, divers, search teams. They were about to give up when someone found her body on the shore.”

“And you said she’d been strangled?”

“Marks around her neck,” she replies. “There were a lot of newspaper articles about it for a while, but after a few months they dried up. They had no real leads from what I can tell, and the police never found who did it.”

“Maybe it was just someone passing through town. It does happen.”