Students of the Game (10 page)

He’s just finished setting the needle down on the turntable, and a crackle of static fills the silence before the music begins to play. Carver turns around to face me but is still kneeling on the floor. “Do I like you?” His eyes twinkle mischievously and he starts to crawl towards me on his knees. “Hmm…Do I like you?” he repeats, this time a little bit closer to the couch.

Carver crawls over and is now kneeling directly in front of me. He takes my legs and pushes them apart, pressing his body right up in between my thighs. “Do I like you?” he asks. Fingering my braid, he uses it to gently pull my face towards his and draws me into a kiss.

I wrap my arms around his neck and tilt my head to the side, as he explores my mouth with his tongue. I can taste a hint of bitterness from the beer he’s been drinking, but there’s something else mixed in that’s sweet. The combination makes for my own private intoxicating cocktail.

Carver climbs up on to the couch and straddles my body, pinning me down. With both hands, he tucks his hair behind his ears then lowers his face to my neck. The kisses are soft and delicate, yet somehow feel suffocating at the same time. Needing some air, I turn my head and happen to glance at the clock.
Shit.
“Carver, I have to go,” I whisper.

He keeps kissing my neck moving down to my collarbone. Wondering if he didn’t hear me over the music, I say it again a little bit louder. “I have to go, Carver. I have to be home by 11:30.”

He groans and as much as I don’t want him to, he finally stops. “You’re killing me, Joy Anderson,” he says and flops to a sitting position next to me on the couch. He relaxes his head against the back of the couch and looks over at me with pleading eyes. “Don’t go yet.”

“I have to,” I frown, feeling bad that he’s disappointed. “If there’s one thing my mom is strict about, it’s curfew.”

He exhales deeply and stands up, taking a minute to shut off the record player, then heads towards the kitchen. I stand and straighten out my shirt, before following him to the door. Carver walks me down to my car. It’s quite chilly, and seemingly influenced by the guys in my life, I didn’t bring a jacket. Carver pulls me into a hug to warm me up, and jokes about how I should be wearing his scarf. He puts his hand under my chin and leaves me with a goodbye kiss that causes my body to no longer require the services of an outer layer, anyway.

“Let’s see if we can work on that whole ‘do for
you’ thing…called your curfew,” he jokes.

The thrilling whirlwind of the night makes me fly home with wings and I arrive just as the illuminated clock on my dash catches my pace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

            I should be licking the taste of my kiss off your lips right now…

           
I sigh and force myself to turn off the phone completely, it’s the only way I can fully ignore all the sexy texts from Carver. It’s the Tuesday after our date, and Bryce is perched on his usual bench at the table. He’s doing research for a history essay on my laptop and I’m doing my best to focus on college applications. At one point Bryce pauses and inquires about my top choice of schools. I tell him it’s Brown, and always has been. I find myself confiding in him the fact that I’ve been putting off submitting the application, and the deadline is only weeks away.

When he asks why, I finally decide to get it out in the open. “A reject
ion letter,” I say flatly. “I’m scared they won’t want me. I’ve been working so hard at this, for so long. If I don’t get in, then I’ll know for a fact that I’m just not as good as everyone thinks I am.”

“Couldn’t you do a
couple semesters somewhere else and try again?” Bryce asks.

“It wouldn’t be the same,” I sigh, “You don’t understand. It’s different for you, Bryce. Colleges are begging on your doorstep, they want you so bad.”

His lips tighten in a straight line, like he wants to say something but decides to hold back. Looking at my laptop, Bryce rubs his temples and says, “Let’s take a break. This screen is giving me a headache.”

“Alright, I could use some air.” I agree, those text messages still in the back of my mind.

We walk outside and Bryce goes over to his Jeep. Slamming the door shut, he then jogs over to me with a football in hand. “You
wanna play pass?” he grins.

“Are you kidding? I don’t even know how to throw that thing.”

“Well, I’ll show you then,” he says, like it’s a simple solution.

I cross my arms. “Yeah, me and anything remotely requiring coordination, do
not
mix.”

He doesn’t take no for an answer, and tells me the ball will do all the work, it’s just about the right position and release.

Sounds like work to me.

“Here, hold it like this.” Bryce tries to place the ball in my hand, but when he sees that my small fingers can’t even grip it, he just laughs. “On second thought, wait a minute.” He runs back to his car then returns with a red foam football.

“This is probably more your speed.” Bryce smiles, and flicks the ball at me unexpectedly. I bobble it around in my hands before finally securing a grip, and I can tell he’s getting a big kick out of it.

Bryce uses his hand as a demo on how to hold the ball correctly. Pulling his arm back in slow motion a few times, he shows me the mechanics and when he comes the release, the ball sails gracefully in a perfect spiral to the other side of my front yard.

“Impressive! But I can’t do that!” I call confidently, as he jogs into my neighbor’s yard to retrieve it.

“Just give it a try. There’s no one here to judge you. I’m not going to be disappointed if you can’t do it…though I’m pretty sure you can.” He trots back to me, wiping the dirt off the ball’s surface.

I sigh and snag it from his grasp. Taking a couple steps away from him, I try to mimic his stance then I pull my arm back and let the ball go. It’s even worse than I expected. The thing looks like a child’s top that’s losing momentum as it takes a few wobbly spins. Then after a couple sporadic bounces, the ball comes to a solitary standstill at the edge of our tree line. “Told you,” I smirk.

“C’mon, Joy. Don’t expect it to be perfect on your first try.” Again he retrieves the ball, and once back, places it into my hands. I stand facing the edge of the yard, and set myself to throw.

“No, here…like this.” Bryce comes over and stands behind me. He takes his hands and puts them on my waist, turning my body so my back is now pressed gently up against his front.

Um, OK…

“You want to aim your shoulder towards your target, not your torso,” Bryce says, apparently unfazed or maybe simply unaware of where his hands or body are, at the given moment. He tells me to move my legs apart and bend my knees, and we bob together lightly, up and down. Bryce then guides my body with his hands to show me how to twist, gyrating in sync with me. Suddenly we’re dancing to our own private number and I try my best to concentrate as his breath tickles my ear. With his right hand, he touches my throwing arm, and bends it to a ninety degree angle. “When you throw, keep your arm in that position, and this one?” Like a vice grip, his massive hand squeezes around my left bicep. “This is your guide.”

He slowly pulls my arm down, and tucks my elbow in closer to my side. “
After you release, you’re going to depress it like this, and follow through with a swing. Almost like your intending to elbow someone who’s attacking you.”

“Oh, you mean like this?” I joke, nudging him in the ribcage as a way to lighten this seemingly intimate moment between us.

“Very funny,” he says, backing away to rub it, “but yes, exactly like that. Lastly, don’t forget to roll the ball off your fingers as you release it.” He taps me on the back of my head. “Alright, give it a try.”

“What did you tap me on the head for?”

“Well if you were a guy, I would have tapped you on the ass, but I don’t think you’d like that too much,” he chuckles.

“Jocks are so weird,” I mumble, shaking my head.

“Hey, don’t try and change the subject! Let’s see it.” He motions to the ball, and I reset myself into position.

OK, here goes nothing.

I pull my arm back and concentrate, closing my eyes to retrace the steps in my head. I step forward with my left foot, and simultaneously release the ball, letting it roll off my fingertips. I swing my torso in the same direction as the throw, and tuck in my left arm like Bryce told me to. The ball whirls through the air smoothly, even going a greater distance than its first attempt. Yes, it’s a spiral, granted not as elegant or far as Bryce’s, but a spiral all the same.

“I did it!” I exclaim happily. “I did it!” And before I realize it, I’m giving him a hug. “Oh, sorry,” I say, and pull away quickly.

Bryce laughs, “No problem. That was awesome.”

After all that, I can’t help but wonder if he means the throw or the hug.

“See, Joy? It’s OK to not get it right on the first try. Maybe it takes two tries or two thousand. But, when you finally do it? You finally get exactly what you’re after? The end result is so much better…so much more satisfying…than if you could do it without a second thought, just because you can.” He looks over in the direction of my neighbor’s yard, as if expecting to see a ball soaring off into the atmosphere. “It’s one thing to give up, but it’s another to give up so easily.” he says and takes off to get the football. He throws it to me and I catch it, meeting his eye. “Alright then, let’s play some catch.”

Well I’ll be.

“Bryce Colton! Are you trying to teach me a lesson?” I yell.

“Nah…I just wanted to cop a feel!” he yells back, and I can’t be positive, but I’m pretty sure he just winked at me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

That night I dream that I’m walking in a rose garden, verdant and lush. The silver bladed sheers at my side reflect the sun with every step I take. Bending down, I snip a single rose of brilliant scarlet, then weave my hair into a thick, long plait. I delicately tuck the rose behind my ear and suddenly the three sections of braid begin to wriggle and uncoil. Serpent like, they slowly begin to wrap themselves around my arms and neck. I slash at the locks with my sheers, cutting all three off, completely. The hair falls dead to the ground and the rose which has also fallen, is now whithered and free of all beauty, its scent, miasmal.

I drop heavily to the ground and pick up the lifeless flower. And as I sit there, cradling it’s remnants in my palms, a hand
then reaches out towards me. Fingers wrap around mine and give a gentle squeeze. When they pull away, I open my palms to find that the rose has regenerated into a bloom of brilliant, pure white. I look up towards the face, but can’t see clearly through my tears. I blink.

Then of course, I wake up.

I wipe the sleep from the corner of my eyes and roll over, picturing Mrs. Colton’s rose gardens, a memory that has lay dormant within me for years. Every spring I’d hop out of our car and run across to where she’d be on her hands and knees, toying in the garden. Skidding to a stop, I would then proceed with a thorough inspection, and most likely find the roses still closed up in tight little buds.

Mrs. Colton would just laugh, and tell me they’d bloom soon.
‘Give it time, Joy. Give it time,’
she’d tell me gently. And I can’t help but wonder, as I hear those words echo in my head, if just maybe I should have the same sort of patience with a certain guy, too.

As playoffs approach, the school becomes edgy with excitement. One gorgeous fall Friday afternoon, classes cease after all lunch periods are over, and the afternoon is dedicated to a pep-rally. As much as I lack school spirit, I always enjoy the rallies. I get a kick out of Seth’s hilarious impersonations and cheerleader voice overs. Leaving my upstairs Calculus classroom, I run into him in the hall and we start to head down to the gymnasium. I make out a mass of familiar curls, trying to make progress up the stairs, against the flow of excited students. The red of Farah’s hair reminds me of a salmon struggling upstream and she stops halfway up when sees us. “C'mon guys! I’ve been looking for you…I’ve got us prime seating arraignments!” she yells.

I smile as I watch Seth grab Farah’s hand so they don’t get separated. I only get a view of the back of her head, but judging by the fact that Farah doesn’t let go, I begin to wonder if something more could indeed be possible than a friendship between the two.

“Where exactly are these reserved seats?” Seth asks, looking at the bleachers, which seem to fill up as he speaks.

Farah points, “There.” We follow her finger up and she smiles, “See Joy? Being in yearbook does have some perks! I’ve been asked to take some photos of the rally from the crow’s nest.”

“Sweet!” Seth exclaims, and starts to climb up without a second thought. Farah and I follow suit. Looking down, the bleachers are a blan
ket of maroon and gold. Students are showing spirit with painted faces, while others hold up signs. I laugh out loud when I see a girl, by the look of her, maybe a sophomore holding one that says, BRYCE COLTON IS ONE HOT HOUND! GO #19

For real?

I had kind of forgotten how much of an effect he has on the female student body here. I scan the crowd over, hoping to locate Carver, but can’t find him in the masses. Someone blows a foghorn, and Missy walks to the center of the gymnasium to announce the start of the rally.

I tune her out and listen as Seth does a classic voice over,
“and blah blah blah…I like to hear myself talk…Did you know I’m wearing maroon and gold panties? Here let me show you…”

I snort a laugh and slap him on the arm. His voice gets drowned out when the band starts to play, and the football team bursts through a huge banner with a crudely painted Sea Hound on it. Bryce leads the pack as they run past the bleachers, every time he does a fist pump in the air, students go crazy. After a lap around the gym, he jogs to the center and takes hold of the microphone. He says a few words about how hard the team has worked, and that they couldn’t
have done it without ‘Coach M’ or the support from fellow students. I really got to hand it to Bryce. He’s cool, confident, and knows how to address a crowd. Between the band, cheerleading routines, and silly skits with the Sea Hounds Mascot, by the time the rally is over everyone is pretty…pepped up.

“I’m going down to take some ground shots.” Farah says stuffing her camera back into
its pouch.

“I’ll come with you,” Seth smiles.

I tell them I’m going to wait up here until the crowd has cleared out, with the silent intention of giving them some alone time. I try and pick Carver out of the crowd, but have no luck. The gym empties for the most part, and the post rally celebration moves to the parking lot as students make for their busses or cars. Then I see number nineteen come back in quietly through the gym entrance.

“Hey!” I call to Bryce. He looks around and all he sees are two not so peppy janitors, just starting to tackle confetti removal with push mops.

I laugh and call to him again. “Up here!”

Bryce finally looks up and I wave.

“Looks like you had the best seat in the house!” he yells up at me.
     I climb down with my backpack on both shoulders. Jumping down, I avoid the last couple of ladder rungs and land with a thud in front of Bryce. “Yeah, one advantage of being a geek, I guess.” I shrug. “That was a pretty crazy rally. Are you ready for tomorrow?”

Bryce nods,
“As much as I can be. I’m just going to the weight room now to try and blow off some of this anxiety.” He motions to the gray gym bag strung over his shoulder. I nod back in understanding.

“You’re coming to the game right?” he asks.

“Oh!” I say in surprise. I hadn’t even thought about it. “No…I have to work at the library,” I reply. Bryce looks slightly disappointed “Good luck though,” I add. “You probably don’t want to hear that from me, anyway.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to hear that from you?” He smiles down at me, and for a moment I see some of the boy I once knew and I wonder how things would be now if we were still friends…If my dad hadn’t died and if Bryce hadn’t become such a jerk. Looking at that smile I question the latter.
Is he really the jerk I’ve come to believe he is after all these years?
I’m not so sure anymore.

Suddenly
, a janitor yells over, and informs us that the gym is supposed to be empty by now, so they can finish cleaning.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” I say, grateful for the interruption from our awkward conversation.

“Yeah…See you, Joy.” He turns, adjusting the gym bag on his shoulder, and makes for the boy’s locker room. A small part of me feels a pang of guilt with each step he takes further away from me. Not just for Bryce’s obvious disappointment, but knowing deep down that going his game is something I’d really like to do. So in essence, I’ve let us both down.