Tiebreaker (It Takes Two 2)

“Don’t you ever feel like cryin’?” I asked a few moments later. There was quite a lot of hero worship going on at that point in our friendship; every word out of Noah’s mouth was sacred and if he didn’t cry then I was to going make a concerted effort to stop as well.

I remember watching his reaction with rapt attention, how pensive he got before answering. If I could sum up what it was that called to me about Noah, pin it down, I would have to say there’s always been something profoundly noble about him. In his countenance and bearing. In how he perceived things––even when he was a kid. I think that’s part of what made his betrayal so devastating. It was so far out of character as to be inconceivable.

“I used to…when I was your age. But I don’t anymore. I just try real hard to play twice as good the next time we have a game.”

The relief I felt was overwhelming. That he was willing to admit that he had cried too made me want to hug him, throw my arms around his skinny waist and squeeze. But I was afraid to. I would’ve died a thousand deaths if he would’ve put a stop to it, or God forbid pushed me away, and I wasn’t about to risk our friendship. Outside of tennis and my family, it’s all I had.

We were crossing the street, headed to his house, when Dane and Jermaine rolled up on their dirt bikes. Jermaine was the first to speak while Dane stared weirdly at us. “Yo.”

“What are you doin’?” Dane asked, both his expression and tone implying he’d caught Noah drowning kittens, or doing something equally horrific.

I didn’t fail to notice how quickly Noah dropped my wrist, how his posture changed from relaxed to defensive. I looked up to find his expression uncomfortable, eyes shifty, avoiding mine at all cost.

“We’re going to Kevin’s house to play hoops. You coming?” Jermaine asked as his attention bounced between me and Noah.

I watched Noah expectantly. It wasn’t the first time he seemed embarrassed to be caught hanging out with me and as the silent seconds ticked by my embarrassment grew.

“She’s a little kid, man. Come on,” Dane taunted.

“Catch you later,” he said as he walked past me without looking my way again.

After that he pulled his bike out of his garage and the three of them rode off while I stood in the middle of the dead-end street watching them go.

* * *

As usual, I was up at six this next morning, ready to go on my daily run, only to discover that there was absolutely no food in the refrigerator. A small oversight considering my world has been turned upside down. Which is how I now find myself at the diner in town, zero appetite notwithstanding.

Fueling my body with the right food is an essential component of being a professional athlete. Ask anybody at the top of their game and they’ll tell you that they have a stringent and exacting diet, as important if not more so than their training routine. To sustain this kind of muscle, I need to consume clean protein ideally every four hours. It’s a chore, but one that has been ingrained in me since I started training seriously.

I stare at the lifeless egg white omelet with spinach before me with ambivalence. After going through Rowdy’s letter, I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling. And now my stomach is roiling. Roiling stomach or not, I need to eat.

“Did you read it?” I’m so lost in aggrieved thoughts, I don’t notice Annabelle until she slides onto the bench across from me. She swipes the coffee mug out of my hand and takes a sip.

“Did you know about this stupid list?” I snatch the letter Walters gave me out of my purse and wave the offensive piece of paper at my sister. Because there’s no change to her expression, I answer for her. “I’m guessing that’s a yes.”

Bebe steals a couple of French fries from my dish and stuffs them in her mouth.

“Coffee and French fries? That’s gross.” Then again, self-control has never been Bebe’s strong suit.

“Dad told me.”

Of course he did. Once again I’m low man of the totem pole. “And you didn’t think to warn me before I got here? You let me walk into this ambush.”

She gives me a knowing look and scoffs. “Right, like you would’ve come if I’d told you.” Probably not. Still, that doesn’t excuse her. “How’d you get here?” she asks around a mouth full of fries.

I hook a thumb toward the window, where the vehicle is parked at the curb. Annabelle’s eyes widen.

“I don’t know what that’s about––”

I found a set of car keys in the miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen and figured it was the keys to my grandfather’s old pickup. What I found in the garage, however, was not his old truck. It was a remodeled 1951 Chevy pickup. Fully loaded with a supercharged engine and a custom paint job. Electric-blue flames curling over a black base. Between the list and this I’m convinced the man had lost his marbles.