Chapter Twelve
I kick the ball into the goal, take a breath, and run back to the first cone I set up. It’s part of my Saturday morning drill. While some of my teammates are still sleeping their hangovers away, I’m out here practicing. Sometimes some of them join me, but today it’s just me out here by myself, and I prefer it this way, with my rap music blasting in my ears as I concentrate on nothing else except dodging my invisible opponents, which I set up as cones for the time being, and kicking that ball into the goal. I’m on my third cone when I spot Maverick walking down the field over to me. Sometimes he joins as well. Not often though, especially not during the season when he’d rather be on the ice than out here. I don’t pause on the fourth cone or the fifth; I concentrate until I get to the last cone and then I kick. Breathing heavily, I pull an AirPod out of my right ear, pausing the Drake music that was just playing, and dribble the ball back up the field as I look over at Maverick who’s now standing between me and the first cone. I know he’s going to try to block me if I go right before he even makes the move. It’s his go-to—to go right instead of left. He always assumes his opponent will go that way to try to fake him out.
“I’m surprised you’re not sleeping.” I ease past him with the ball still at my feet and stop when I get to the cone.
“I hate when you get past me,” he says.
“Try harder and stop making the same move over and over.” I shrug a shoulder. He frowns.
“I don’t always make that move. Sometimes I go left.”
“How often would you say you go left?” I bring an arm up to wipe the sweat off my face. “I feel like we have this conversation every time.”
He shakes his head, still frowning, and meets my eyes. “You locked your door.”
“I’m surprised you came to my room at all.” I fight the blush. Thankfully, I’m already hot and sweating out here so it’s not like he’d know the difference.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Hm. Even after Rebecca from chemistry left?”
“I didn’t bring Rebecca home.”
“Right. She’s the one you’re holding out for.”
We used to talk about this so easily, and now it makes me uncomfortable. I hate it. He’s been talking about this girl for a year now and saying how she’s his dream girl, perfection, the one he’s going to get serious about as soon as he stops messing around, because that’s what he’s doing right now, getting all of this out of his system so when he settles down with Rebecca it’ll be for good.
“I kissed her last night.” He moves forward and snaps the ball from where it is in front of me and sets a foot over it so that it stays put until he’s ready to go.
“I saw, remember?”
“Right.” He smiles, not fully, but enough that I know he’s remembering whatever transpired last night.
“So why are you here? Why didn’t you take her home?”
“I don’t know.” He exhales. “It’s like I’m lost on what to do, you know? It’s easy to just hook up with girls but getting serious with one is another ball game. I asked her out on a date and now I don’t even know how to act.”
“Hm.” My heart slams against my chest. I swallow down the uneasiness and look away, my gaze on the rustling leaves of the trees a few feet away. “You’re interrupting my practice.”
“I thought you were going to teach me the rules of engagement or whatever. I have to get this right.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate anything you do.”
“Should I get her flowers?”
I sigh heavily, jog forward, and kick the ball from underneath his foot. He recovers quickly, getting it back and dribbling it up the field as I run beside him. He slows down for my benefit. If he really wanted, he’d already be at the goal scoring, but that’s not what Mav comes here for. He enjoys the hustle, he’s patient and persistent. It’s what makes him a great striker in his own sport. We run drills like this until we’re both drenched in sweat and decide we need a break. Then, we lie on the grass to catch our breath.
“It feels good out today,” he says.
“It does. I was afraid it might rain.” I roll my head to look at him. “So, when’s the date with Rebecca?”
“Tonight.”
“Damn. Okay.” I swallow. I need to stop with the foolishness of letting this make me jealous and be happy for him. “So, flowers. Definitely not red roses.”
“Why not?” He chuckles. “Don’t red roses mean love?”
“Exactly. Are you in love with her?”