Ryder’s eyes are deep green, and damn him, that’s my favorite color, the precise shade of a pristine soccer field. That’s all I have time to notice before my resentment blinds me to appreciating any more of his features. When his gaze returns from my sneakers and sweatpants ensemble, our eyes meet, his narrowing as he processes whatever terrifying expression I wear. I am enraged. I’m sure I look murderous.
Now he acknowledges my existence, after so thoroughly ignoring me?
Rolling his shoulders back, he straightens fully. All I can think is, Wow, that’s not just an asshole. That’s a tall asshole.
I shoot out of my seat, sweeping my notebook off the desk. Jamming my pen into the giant messy bun on top of my head, I give him a death glare. Ryder’s gaze widens as I take a step closer and meet those nauseatingly perfect green eyes.
A long, intense stare-down ensues. Ryder’s eyes narrow. Mine do, too. They water, begging me to blink. I refuse to.
Slowly, the corner of his mouth tugs up. He’s smirking at me, the asshole.
And just like that, my eyes drag down to his mouth which is hidden under all that gnarly facial hair. I blink.
Shit. I hate losing. I hate losing.
I’m about to open my mouth and ask just what’s so damn funny when Ryder backs away and pivots smoothly, then jogs up the ramp of the lecture hall. I stand, shaking with rage, pissed at this jerk and his odd, dismissive behavior, until the room is virtually empty.
“Cheer up, Miss Sutter.” MacCormack switches off the lights, bathing the lecture hall in gray shadows and faint morning sun that streams through the windows.
“I don’t really know how to be cheery when I’m about to fail your class and I can’t afford to do that, Professor.”
For a moment, his mask of detached amusement slips, but it’s back before I can even be sure it ever left. “You’ll figure out what to do. Have a nice day.”
When the door falls shut, and I’m left alone, I sink into my seat once again, the whisper of failure echoing in the room.
“He really just walked off?” Rooney—my teammate and roommate—stares at me in disbelief.
“Yup.” I’d say more, but I’m too angry and winded. We’re doing technical drills, and while I’m in the best shape of my life, ladders always kick my butt.
“Wow.” Rooney, on the other hand, isn’t winded one bit. I’ve decided she’s a mutant, because I have never heard that woman short of breath, and it’s not for lack of trying. Our coach is a clinically verified sadist. “What a dick.”
Rooney looks like a life-size Barbie. Classic SoCal girl—legs for miles, glowing skin and faint freckles, a sheet of platinum blonde hair that’s forever in a long, smooth ponytail. She stands and drinks her water, looking like a beach model as the sun lowers in the sky. I, on the other hand, look like Dolores Umbridge after the centaurs got her. My wiry hair puffs madly from my ponytail, my cheeks are dark pink with exertion, and my muscular soccer quads are shaking from effort. Rooney and I could not be more opposite, not just when it comes to looks but also personality, and that’s perhaps what makes us such good friends.
“No doubt, he’s a dick,” I confirm. “But he’s the dick who has what I need: past lecture notes and the ones I’ll miss when I’m gone for two more classes during away games.”
We both jog toward the next section of the field to start one-touch drills. I run backward first, Rooney flicking the ball into the air before she lofts it my way. I head it back, she volleys it to me, I head it back. We’ll do this until we switch directions, then it’s her turn.
Rooney serves me the ball and I head it down to her feet. “So if that guy won’t give you the notes, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know what to do. That’s my problem. I see no solution for a guy who downright ignores me. I know I can be a little prickly, but I was polite. Whereas he was just…rude. I don’t get why. And I really need those notes.”
Switching directions, I scoop the ball onto my foot and softly kick it into the air, right to Rooney’s forehead.
“Honestly,” Rooney says as she returns my pass with a header, “I’d say the issue is with your professor. He’s obligated by our student contract to accommodate your schedule, and this behavior is overtly hostile to your efforts as a student athlete. If I were you, I’d print out our agreement, head to office hours, and remind that jerk that he’s ethically and legally bound to support your learning while you earn his college more publicity and money than his pathetic academic papers have ever contributed.”
Yeah. Rooney looks like Barbie but she’s got stuff between her ears. She’ll make a great lawyer one day.
“Maybe. But this guy’s a hard-ass, Roo. I think he’ll just make my life even more miserable if I do that.”
Rooney frowns, heading the ball back again. “Okay, so show him the contract but do it nicely. Kill him with kindness. Do whatever it takes to be sure you’re eligible to play next week. We need you, and honestly, Willa, I think if you don’t play, you’ll internally combust.”
As we finish our drill, the ball drops to my feet, and I stare down at its familiar shape. It’s a view I’ve seen a thousand times—that black and white ball, set against bright green grass, my cleats on either side of it. Soccer is the one constant in my life when everything else has been unpredictable. I live and breathe this sport not only because I want to be the best, but because it’s the only thing that’s kept me going sometimes.
Rooney’s right. I can’t miss, I can’t be ineligible. I’m going to have to suck it up and do whatever it takes to pass this class.
“Come on,” she says, throwing an arm over my shoulder. “My turn to cook tonight.”
I fake a dry heave, earning her rough shove that sends me stumbling sideways. “Great. I needed a good cleanse anyway.”
Willa
Playlist: “Might Not Like Me,” Brynn Elliott
My reputation as a hothead is well-known across campus. I’ve had a few altercations on the soccer field, as well as one episode freshman year, when some chick went off on Rooney in the cafeteria, accusing her of stealing her boyfriend. I’d already climbed the table with the intent to knock that liar on the ground and finish her off with a good, WWE-style elbow drop, when Rooney thankfully grabbed me by the collar before I could get myself expelled. Nevertheless, the incident earned me a reputation I’ve done nothing to disabuse people of. It’s kept almost everyone either afraid of me or allowing me a healthy distance. That suits me just fine.
But the truth is, as much as I spring to the defense of the people I love, as ready as I am to lean in a shoulder, to shove and struggle for possession every moment I’m on the field, I do not like verbal conflict. I think I’m actually allergic to verbal disagreements and uncomfortable conversations. Every time they happen, I break out in hives.
Which is why angry itchy spots pop up along my neck and chest, as I sit at Professor MacCormack’s desk and watch him read my student athlete agreement.
“Hm.” Flipping over the last page, he spins the document on his desk and slides it back my way. “Listen, Sutter. Believe it or not, I like and respect you.”