I keep walking for my car, noticing Amy holding a raincoat over her head and scowling. Clay pulls lacrosse gear out of the back of her baby blue, 1972 Ford Bronco convertible, seemingly unconcerned with the rain drenching her black leggings and sports bra.
She doesn’t deserve that car.
“Let’s go to the indoor center,” Krisjen whines. “Please?”
“No, I wanna get dirty.” Clay closes the tailgate and drops her stick to the ground, raindrops bouncing off the pavement around her bare feet.
“Clay, come on,” Amy snips. “It’s cold. And it’s Saturday. I want to go shopping. I snagged my mom’s black card.”
I walk past them, not looking away when Clay sees me and holds my eyes.
The knot in my stomach is there, as it always is when I anticipate bullshit from her, but so is the skip in my heartbeat when I look at her.
I head to my car a couple spaces down, pulling my shirt over my head and wringing it out.
“I love you,” Amy says, “but I’m just going to slip and break my ass out there.”
“Get back here,” Clay demands.
“And don’t pull the captain card either,” Amy tells her, already walking away, “I’ll see you tonight.”
She walks off, and I see Krisjen follow her, giving Clay a shrug. “She’s got her mom’s black card.”
Like limitless shopping is too much of a temptation to resist, and the fact that it’s fraud is completely lost on them.
“You leave me alone out here and you owe me,” Clay yells, “and owing me favors is painful.”
“Meet you at your house at seven,” Krisjen calls out, jumping into Amy’s car.
I hear the engine start and the tires screech as Amy peels out of the flooded parking lot. I slide the key into the lock on the door, slowly turning it as Clay’s eyes set fire to my back.
“Leaving?”
Chills cascade down my arms.
“Pity,” she says. “You need the practice, too.”
Just get in the car, I tell myself. People like her hate to be ignored.
“But it’s always the shit talkers who don’t bring it anyway.” I hear a shuffle, and her alarm chirps, signaling she’s locked her car. “I scored two goals the last game. Not you.”
I open my door, almost smiling at her effort. She scored two goals, because half the opposing team was down with strep throat and they were playing their backup goalie.
And I ran my ass down the field and intercepted both those balls before shooting them over to her so she could score. In four seasons, she’s never known a win without me.
I stare at her back as she goes, the car key cutting into my palm so deep I think it draws blood. Reaching inside the car, I grab my stick, slam the door, and follow her. She’s gonna get a taste of what it’s like without me on her side.
I match her step for step, the entire way back to the track, and I know she knows I’m behind her, because she shoves her gear bag onto a bench with a little extra oomph, psyching herself up without even looking back.
“We play the whole field,” she tells me, pulling her cleats out of her bag. “Whoever scores three goals first, wins.”
“Lucky for you there’s no one to pass to.”
“You’ll see how well I can pass when I shoot the ball into the net.”
The corner of my mouth curls.
She props her foot onto the bench and slips one shoe on after the other, turning her head.
Let’s see it, then. I push my hair over the top of my head again and start walking onto the field.
“No gear?” she shouts.
“Scared?”
She can protect her precious little face all she wants, but I hope she doesn’t. I’d love to see blood coming out of her fucking nose.
We head straight for center field, both of us turning toward each other, ready to face off as she drops the ball between us.
“Whistle after three,” I tell her, leaning down. “One.”
She leans down with me, our eyes locked. “Two.”
“Thr—”
But she charges, cutting me off and throwing her shoulder into me. I growl, crashing to my ass as she scoops up the ball and runs.
I should’ve known… I watch her ponytail swing as she flies down the field toward the goal, and I slam the ground with my fist, growling as I jump to my feet.
God, I hate her.
I bolt, charging after her, but she reaches the end of the field and launches the ball into the net. She doesn’t celebrate as she grabs the ball back out of the goal and tosses it to me. I catch it, the rain spilling in my eyes as I barely notice her clothes sticking to her body.
“Again!” she demands.
Yeah, you got that right. Digging in my heels, I take up position back at the center, but I don’t wait for her to be ready. I fling the ball down the field, but before she has a chance to move, I slam my body into her and rush past.
“Ugh!” she screams.
I run, picking up the ball and racing down the field, but in a moment, I feel her stick tapping harder and harder into my legs. “Move your ass!” she yells. “Come on. Come on.”
I tighten my fists around the damn stick, debating whether knocking her head off with my pole is worth the jail time.
I toss the ball, it lands in the net, and lightning flashes across the sky as her lips brush my ear. “I love how you move your ass for me.”
I whip around, shoving her off, but she just laughs, digging the ball out of the net. She runs backward, her eyes gleaming. “Come on, baby. Do it.”
I shake my head, but I do it. She rushes toward the other goal, and I race after her, but about mid-way down the field, a thought hits me.
This is what she wants. She doesn’t need to win. She just wants me to sweat. I’m ten times the player she is, and she’s enjoying this. She’s got me on a leash.
Fuck her.
I jam my stick between her legs mid-stride. She stumbles, but before she falls, she grabs onto me and pulls me with her. Shit!
She cries out, I grunt, and our sticks fall to the wayside as I crash on top of her, my skull damn-near hitting hers.
“Bitch!” she blurts out. She tries to shove me off, but I’m sick of her shit. I grapple for her wrists, pinning them to the ground and glare down at her.
“How desperate for attention you are,” I spit out. “How shallow and small. I think you like engaging me. You like spending any time you can with me, don’t you?”
She tips her chin up, closing her mouth but still breathing heavy through her nose, her jaw clenched. A lock of hair, darkened by rain, snakes under her left eye and across her nose.
I release her arms, but I don’t move. “Come on.” I hover over her, gazing down. “Hit me. Then I can hit you back and numb you like you want me to. Bullies are always in so much more pain than they inflict.”
Her wrists remain pinned to the grass, her stubborn, little chin unmoving and her eyes unwavering.
But I feel her, all the same. My legs around her body, my thighs hugging her… The cool, soft flesh of her wet legs presses against my calves.
All of a sudden, my smile falls, and I have no ambition to move. An amazing little buzz vibrates under my skin as I become aware of her body underneath mine.
Rain hits my skin like darts, but all I feel is the heat of her through our clothes.