I’ve been waiting for Jesse to text me at the end of the day for ten whole-ass minutes. I’m sitting on a bench in the women’s locker room, glaring down at my phone like it insulted my mother, and I can’t figure out a good enough comeback.

If ten minutes have passed by, it means he’s not going to text you.

Just when I feel like an invisible eighteen-wheeler has parked itself on my chest and I’ve gone and swallowed a bowling ball, my phone buzzes in my hand and I open my messaging app so fast, my thumb knuckle cracks under the strain I’ve put it under.

Windy: Had to talk to Coach. I’ll be outside in five minutes if you’d like a ride home.

Well, here goes nothing. Should I wait longer to text back? Nah, I have to keep reminding him how much he likes me.

Me: Be outside in ten. Thanks.

I nod to myself because I kept it short and sweet and am just about to literally give myself a pat on the back when someone flicks my forehead and I grab onto the spot like I’ve been stabbed in the middle of my skull. “What the hell? Abby? Why’d you do that for?” Great. I’m going to make a great impression on Jesse with this giant red spot forming right in the middle of my forehead, like a real-life bull’s-eye. What are the odds?

I narrow my eyes at her when all she does is keep grinning at me, the sharp kind of grin that has my intestines twisting into knots. I shake my head and refuse the bait, instead stuffing my phone in my bag, making sure it’s locked and only my own fingerprint can open it. It has been known to happen that some girls steal each other’s phones to see what dick pics we’ve all gotten, and we do contrast and compare, judging them on a scale of one to ten. There haven’t been that many tenners, sadly.

“Who put that huge smile on your face?” Abby asks, and I drop that smile like it’s hot, clear my throat, and look everywhere but at her while I get my shit together. I frown down at my track suit and joggers, wondering if I should’ve changed into jeans and a t-shirt—if I thought to bring any this morning when I left home. Right, like I’m trying to impress Jesse now with my limited wardrobe.

This is who we are. We’re this uniform, this sport. You should be used to it by now, Maddie.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I evade, going for The Crown-type accent and running it through a tree shredder. I zip up my bag and make sure my phone is now in the pocket of my joggers so I can feel it vibrate if I need to get to it right quick.

Abby gives me a knowing smile, a nod, and an overexaggerated wink that has me wondering if her face could permanently get stuck like that. “Right, right,” is all she says, and I want to text Jesse right now and tell him to kill his headlights, that no one can know that I’m sneaking into his car, least of all Abby ‘The Talker’ Webber. She lives for gossip and drama, which is fine, but I don’t want it to be my business that gets thrown around town.

I wave goodbye to her and sneak into the ladies’ loo—my favourite word in the universe—to text Jesse my recent note to self, and all I get back is a yes that sounds pretty terse, even across text. Huh. Maybe that’s a discussion for a later time.

I only leave the washroom after I think the coast is clear, and I can hear Roxanne’s belting opera. I pass our locker room, where she’s packing up our laundry for the day, singing her heart out. It sounds like heaven, the notes, the song, and I wonder if this is what it looks like to see a dream never realized. There’s the other side of that coin, too, when you’re just not good enough and have to live with it, find something else before the knowledge consumes you.

I leave the locker room behind and wave to her when we make eye contact, and she just keeps on singing, not embarrassed or anything.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, does Jesse think I’m embarrassed of him or something? That I’m embarrassed to be seen with Jesse Windmeier, the King of the Pitch?

Stranger things have happened.

Who would be embarrassed of Jesse Windmeier? Who?

Shaking my head at myself, I walk outside to find his car waiting for me, one of the few that are left, while my straggling teammates are all in their cars, about to leave. I keep my head down, not going to make eye contact with anybody, even if it’s just through their rear-view mirror, and book it to Jesse’s car like I’m not a skulking prisoner about to pull a Michael Scofield and break out of this joint.

I open the passenger side door to find Jesse has even made sure the interior light doesn’t turn once I get inside the car, and he gives me a smile that looks a mile wide with the faint glow from the stadium lights, washing out everything in silver in the staff parking lot.

“Hi,” I say, lifting myself into the car, mindful of my leg, and settling my bag on the floor right next to my feet. Shit, I’m acting shy all of a sudden and I know that I just have to go full tilt like I always do.

Try not to get injured this time, eh?

“Hello,” Jesse says, his voice a little husky and I frown at him, looking over at his profile. Damn, why did it have to be such a nice profile, too?

“Are you catching a cold?” I ask, noting the change in his voice.

Jesse shakes his head and turns the ignition, the car roaring to life, and he makes sure to put my seat warmer on the lowest setting so my ass doesn’t melt right off. He takes his time adjusting the heat and the GPS panel on the dash to how he wants it, and then makes a music selection which he keeps low enough that means he doesn’t want to ice out any potential conversation.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, probing, because now I’m really confused. I find myself wanting to touch him, even for a second, just to have that connection, that ability to make him aware of me, that I’m sitting next to him and that I’m just here, willing to listen to whatever he has to tell me. I fist my hands in my lap so I don’t do anything stupid like reach for his hand at the gear shift. I want to talk first, I want to set out the ground rules. There have to be rules or else we could both end up ruining our lives.

It’s happened before—I’ve seen relationships go south, any kind of relationship, romantic or not, and how that affects a player on the pitch, how they start to question every little decision they make while their head is everywhere but the game being played. I can’t allow myself to be that person, to be in that headspace, so yeah, we’re going to need to talk first and decide if this is what we want to do.

If he would just look at me and tell me what’s wrong. I can practically feel the misery in the car, even though his smile when I got in was enough to set my heart racing like I’ve been doing drills.

“Jesse?” I call his name, my voice uncertain, even to my own ears. I don’t know how to be around him, now, in this type of setting, I don’t know if this is right. How do I even deal with this? Where’s the playbook with step-by-step descriptive instructions?

“I’m starved,” is all he says and looks over at me for confirmation, so I give him a nod and we head out of the parking lot.

I look out the window, hoping no one’s seen us and hoping we won’t get caught and made fun of for the rest of my natural life. Not yet, not when this hasn’t even started, not when I’m about to give it a chance.

There’s some mumbling where to go, and I just let him choose because I don’t care right now, although I could go for a huge plate of pasta with a slab of steak right next to it even though it’s late enough that I won’t be able to sleep with such a full stomach. What I really want is another bath with a shit ton of Epsom salts to draw away the soreness in my body from the stretching exercises that had me reaching close to my limit, and my leg is twinging something awful.

I don’t even notice I’m rubbing along my thigh until Jesse comments on it.

“Yeah, Trainer Bee had me doing some balance work and stretches. All careful-like since my last results from the doc says I’ve injured myself a little more.” I sigh, looking out the windshield at the traffic even though there’s always traffic here, no matter what time it is, and seriously, don’t people have anything better to do than clog the streets?

You’re being irritable. Just ask him what’s wrong again. He doesn’t have to tell you every little thing that goes on through his head, you know.