Tiebreaker (It Takes Two 2)

Walking quickly, I headed in the direction I last saw them. My heart beat faster and faster with each step I took, a riot growing inside my chest. I searched the school. Bathrooms, classrooms, closets.

I couldn’t find hide nor hair of them. I doubled back, retraced my steps. His truck was in the parking lot so I knew he couldn’t have gone far. In a last-ditch effort I decided to check under the empty bleachers on the other end of the field.

As soon as I stepped underneath them, I knew what I was going to find. The low murmur of voices hit me as hard as a ton of bricks. Noah’s voice, specifically. I could pick it out of a crowd with my eyes closed.

Trembling, breathless, I stepped around the corner and found them against the opposite wall. His jeans hung low, his underwear with them. Her hand gripped his bare ass, short red nails digging into his skin. I don’t know how long I stood there shaking, my throat immobilized, unable to make a sound while I watched the horror before me play out.

“Noah.”

His body braced, stopped moving. Crystal opened her eyes and shock flashed in her blue gaze before she hid her face on his shoulder––a shoulder that belonged to me. That had carried my burdens the same way I had carried his.

“Get the fuck out, Maren.” His voice was a low growl directed at the wall. Neither of them made an attempt to move apart.

“Don’t do this, Noah. I know things are bad but don’t ruin this,” I sobbed, voice broken, heart shattered. I had no pride left. In hindsight it was already ruined but I would’ve said anything to keep him.

“Get out!”

“Come with me. Don’t do this to us! I love you!”

His head came around for the first time and his glazed eyes drilled into mine. I’d never seen him look that way before, malicious, like he wanted to hurt someone––and that someone was me.

“Just ’cause I fucked a couple of your holes doesn’t mean we’re forever.”

When the words finally sunk in, I stumbled backward gasping for air. Death would’ve been preferable, the pain so all-consuming I never did recover from it.

When I didn’t move fast enough for his liking, he snarled, “Get the fuck out. We’re over, done––you hear me!”

The little self-preservation I had left made my legs move. Rubbery and weak and barely able to hold me up, they carried me out from beneath the bleachers with only the roar of blood rushing in my ears to reassure me that I hadn’t fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in hell.

In a daze I managed to drag myself back to the field. It was eerily quiet. No music, no talking. Only hushed whispers––close to a thousand people perfectly quiet. And when I stepped onto the edge of the field, I realized why.

My microphone had been on, broadcasting the entire, horrible event to a wide audience. Almost everyone in town, including my parents and Bebe, had borne witness to my humiliation. I don’t remember anything else about that night. My parents told me I’d promptly fainted.

A week later I was on a flight headed to California, my transfer to UCLA expedited thanks to my father. After that I always found excuses not to come home. A teammate had invited me for Christmas. Too busy training for an important tournament to appear at Thanksgiving. It wasn’t always a lie, but more often than not it was.

* * *

The next day we’re up early, dressed and ready to hike back to the truck by seven. Mentally and emotionally drained, I’m ready to put this whole debacle behind me. It’s going to take a long time to get over the I-threw-my-pussy-at-him-and-he-said-no-thanks thing. Every time I think of it I dry heave.

“Maren.”

I can’t look at him. I’m still too raw from the night before and don’t trust myself not to say things I’ll regret. Hence, I quicken my pace down the trail.

“Wanna stop and rest?” he says from somewhere behind me.

“No.”

“That’s three nos in the last hour. Can I get somethin’ else?”

“How about––fuck off.”

“I’ll stick with no. Maren, come on.”

“Come on, what?”

“I know you’re pissed at me but can we stop for a minute? My knee is killing me.”

That stops me in my tracks. I turn and find him rubbing it and my stomach fills with concern. More than concern, I feel terrible. That was a dick move on my part, not remembering that he has to be careful with it.

“I’m sorry. How bad is it?”

“Bad enough I need a break.” He grimaces and bends over to rub it again.

“You need painkillers?”

“I’ll take some ibuprofen when we get back to the truck.”

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. In the past he hated to bring any attention to it and I wonder if he’s still touchy about it. Looks that way.