Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)

Brittany rolls her eyes. “You are so mooney-eyed I’m surprised that you aren’t humming cheesy love songs, Kate.” She chuckles at herself.

“Ok fine. I might be in a good mood,” I admit, pulling my hair up into my customary high ponytail, which, in light of my recent thoughts, makes me frown. I’m so predictable.

“So…?”

I look at Brittany, confused. “So… what?”

“Who’s got you so giddy? A man? You’ve never mentioned anyone.” She hikes her bag on her shoulder and we walk out of the locker room together. I shoot her a look to which she responds, “Please. I can tell it’s a man. No one gets like that unless love is involved.”

Trying to act casual, I play it off like no big deal. I haven’t mentioned Dax to my teammates because we only started dating this summer and by the time school started, the band was on tour. Plus, I’m not sure I want to share my semi-famous boyfriend with anyone else yet.

“Just a bloke I know.” I shrug casually as if it’s no big deal that I’m finally in a relationship with a man I’ve been in love with for the last fourteen years.

Brittany laughs loudly, following me out of the locker room. “Yeah right. ‘Just a bloke’,” she says in the worst British accent I’ve ever heard.

I laugh with her and push open the door to exit the athletic building. We must walk through a black hole that takes us to hell, because no sooner have we stepped foot outside than we are completely surrounded by screaming, pushing, loud reporters. Men with enormous cameras jostle for position amongst the journalists that shove microphones and recorders under my nose.

“Jesus! What the hell?” Brittany shouts as an overzealous paparazzo shoves her aside.

Brittany, being a brilliant defender for our team, kicks the man in the shin, eliciting a loud complaint.

“Kate, what the fuck is going on?” she asks, threading our arms together so we won’t get separated again.

I don’t want to explain it to her, and don’t get a chance. The questions have already begun.

“Kate! Is it true you’re dating Dax Davies from Sphere of Irony?”

“Kate! Kate! Did you cause a break up between Dax and Lila?”

“Kate! What’s it like being the other woman?”

“Kate! Are you dropping out of school to join Dax on his next tour?”

Holy hell.

The pack gets closer and closer until Brittany and I can no longer move. I resort to being polite so I won’t break down crying in front of them.

“Please. Let us through. We just want to get home.”

It doesn’t help. The extremely personal, and mostly untrue, questions keep hitting me rapid-fire like bullets sprayed from a machine gun. It’s been less than two minutes since we’ve stepped out of the building and I’m nearly in tears from the stress. The blood pulsing behind my ears is so loud I can barely hear Brittany threatening the reporters with bodily harm if they don’t let us through.

“Get out of here!” A thunderous voice booms across the quad. “This is completely out of line!” Muffled curses erupt from the direction of the bellowing. Coach Russo pushes his way into the tight inner circle amid a sea of protests.

He stands directly in front of Brittany and me and addresses the reporters in his loudest ‘don’t fuck with me’ voice. “You are harassing my players and causing a disturbance on campus. I will call the police if you don’t allow us through!” He puts one hand on the back of each of our necks, guiding us through the crowd towards the safety of the athletic building.

Once the door is shut and the frenzy locked out, Coach turns to speak. “They’re not allowed inside the buildings on campus without permission, but the public areas are fair game.” He gives me a strange look and turns to Brittany. “Miss Cavanaugh, you may go out the back entrance. Miss Campbell,” his piercing gaze hits me again, “come with me to my office.”

Brittany stares at me as if silently asking if I’m okay.

Nodding, I let her know it’s

fine. “Go ahead, Brit. I’ll talk to you later.”

She’s hesitant, I can see dozens of questions in her eyes, but eventually she turns and goes down the hallway in the opposite direction. Inhaling deep, I follow Coach Russo to his cramped, messy office.

“Sit.” He points at a chair covered with equipment. I move each item to the other one, now overflowing, and drop down heavily once it’s clear. He is a terrible slob.

Coach sits behind his desk, clasping his fingers in front of his mouth in a steeple. “So. Want to explain whatever that was I just saved you from?”