Hooking up with Gordy gave Mel a way out of her own head. When they were kissing, she thought only of kissing. It was a huge relief to let go. After all, how could things fall back into place with her holding on so tightly to the pieces?
And now, just as she’d hoped, they have. Pretty much.
“Mel? You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Just for the record, I’m happy for you. Last night … I’ve never heard you sound so unsure of yourself. I mean, you’re—”
“Ooh. Hey, Gordy?” Mel bites her lip. “That’s my mom on the other line.”
“Right.”
Something in his voice tells Mel that Gordy knows she’s lying. Mel likes him. She really does. But the ache that’s appeared in Mel’s chest only makes her clearheaded about what she needs to do. So, with a finger already hovering over the red circle, she ends the call with a purposefully cool and detached “Bye.”
Mel hops off the curb and hurries inside.
Phoebe sits at a table, lips around her straw, draining her usual—a Grande iced mocha, no whip. Mel’s usual—a Grande iced mocha, extra whip—is in front of an empty chair. Phoebe’s staring at her phone, dragging her finger down the screen, the same steady stroke, over and over again.
“Everything okay, Phoebs?”
“Yup.” Phoebe turns her phone over, screen side down. “You?”
Mel tucks her hands inside her sweater cuffs and pulls her cup greedily toward her. She takes a sip. Perfectly sweet. “Never better.”
* * *
Back at home, Mel finds Psych-Up party prep in full swing. A cleaning crew is spread out across the house, vacuuming stripes into the carpet, cleaning windows, fluffing pillows. The caterers have arrived and are stacking three different sizes of white china plates. Outside, the pool guy is lying on his belly, testing the pH in a little beaker.
Her parents spared no expense. Why would they, with so much to celebrate? Their daughter got a full ride to Truman. No matter the outcome of this season, Mr. and Mrs. Gingrich are certain they’ve already won.
There are plenty of other success stories. Most of her senior teammates have already committed to top schools. Jenny Puglisi is headed to Monroe College, Summer Ackerman to DCU. The rest are still weighing their options.
The only senior who hasn’t received a single offer yet is Phoebe.
Mel always knew that two scholarships to Truman would be a long shot, even before Phoebe got hurt. But Phoebe’s worked so, so hard to come back after her injury. Landing a spot on a college team has to happen for her. And Mel is ready to do whatever she can to help Phoebe shine. Fingers crossed, they will at least end up playing in the same division next year. It will be totally surreal for her and Phoebe to be on the same field wearing different jerseys. But the secret truth is that they could never really be against each other. Not in their hearts.
Mel flips through the mail on the kitchen island. Even though she committed to Truman a month ago, she still gets university brochures from schools who aren’t targeting her for field hockey. But it’s the new September issue of Vogue that catches Mel’s eye, a glossy behemoth, addressed to her mom. She slips it underneath her arm and heads upstairs.
Mel finds her varsity jacket laid out on her bed, back from the dry cleaner and sheathed in plastic, a C in blocky font newly sewn onto her sleeve. She tiptoes over, sits carefully next to it, and snakes her hand under the plastic. Thousands of soft, delicate white loops, like a brand-new fluffy towel.
Coach years ago let it slip to Mel that when the time came, the captain’s C would be hers. Mel understood that to mean immediately after the championship game of her junior season, as it had been for the previous captains. Knowing the honor was coming to her ahead of time didn’t take anything away from Mel’s excitement about it. Only shifted it by a few seconds, to right after Coach would call her forward to stand in front of the entire team and give a little speech about her, listing the qualities he felt made her the most deserving.
Would Coach try to surprise her with some new compliment? Or would he say the sorts of things he’d already told her privately? Either way, Mel hoped she wouldn’t blush too badly.
Never in a million years did she imagine her junior season ending with the seniors crying in a huddle. Or Phoebe using her stick like a crutch to hobble over to the trainer’s table. Ali never even made it back into the locker room. Apparently, she walked straight off the field and onto the bus.
Mel lowered her head and watched as pinpricks of blood speckled through her sports bra. Turf rash from a desperate dive she’d made in the final seconds of the match for a ball that had been stolen off her stick. She knew it hurt, but she felt only the shock that she would not turn this around. That she would have no more chances to pull something off and save the day. It was over.
All the compliments she’d been imagining Coach might pay her evaporated. She suddenly had no idea what he thought of her. Her performance in these last three games like an eraser rubbed over her, exposing her for a fluke. Or, worse, a fraud.
And yet, when Coach finally came in to address them, Mel still glanced up, hopeful and hungry.
He said, “I want everyone on the bus in five minutes,” and then left. Without so much as a glance in Mel’s direction.
Their team captain, Rose Tynam-Reed, stepped into Mel’s sight line with a look of disgust that made Mel pull out her ponytail so she could hide behind her hair.
What a horrible teammate she was. With all the hearts that were breaking around her, Mel even thinking about getting the C was the worst kind of betrayal.
She can see now that Coach withholding it from her was just. It hurt at the time, but isn’t that why they call it growing pains?
Anyway. It’s a new season now. Comeback time.
Mel tears away the plastic bag and slips her varsity jacket on, loving the weight of it, and flops on her bed, her feather pillows catching her in a puff.
This season will be Mel’s victory lap. This time she will deliver. For Phoebe, for Coach, for all the girls. There’s no other choice.
Her phone buzzes in the blankets. Another time her heart skips a beat.
Gordy: I’m having people over tonight. You should come.
Gordy: And before you accuse me of forgetting about your sleepover, you can bring the entire team.
Gordy: In fact, I looked up the field hockey calendar. The Wildcats’ season doesn’t officially begin until tomorrow’s scrimmage. So you can’t start ghosting me until then. Deal?
Gordy’s persistence makes her smile. Mel respects it. But she doesn’t text him back.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 26
3:12 P.M.
PHOEBE
Phoebe Holt drops her duffel bag and closes the front door. The central air quickly, mercifully, overtakes the summer steam she’s pulled inside with her. She smiles, hearing Hamburger, the Holt family golden retriever, clamber off the living room couch and come galloping down the front hallway to greet her, his nails scraping against the hardwood floors.
He’d been a handsome dog for most of his life. Silky fur, pink tongue, white teeth, the best boy. But at thirteen, evidence of Hamburger’s age is suddenly everywhere. His dull coat, the fatty tumors on his belly, his horrible breath. Cataracts, a drop of oil on the lens of each eye.