“Shit. I kinda liked the misconception.”
“Because everyone left you alone?” She frowns. “Are you mad at me for blowing it?”
I don’t know…maybe. I’m definitely angry, but I can’t tell why. Suddenly, I feel like I’m at the starting line of a marathon and the pistol was just fired, but I’m not ready to run. My laces are untied. I haven’t stretched. For three years, I’ve sort of just been walking around in track shoes, calling myself a runner.
I’m scared of what will happen if I try to sprint now, but even more scared of what will happen if I don’t.
Too bad.
The race for Sam has begun whether I like it or not.
5
S A M
I’ve been to every one of Ian’s soccer games. He’s the head coach for the JV team and takes the gig pretty seriously. The soccer program at Oak Hill is actually pretty well known across the state, and they haven’t lost a game in two years. Even so, JV games aren’t all that exciting. The fans usually include four or five overzealous parents, one stoner kid who was going to be out under the bleachers anyway, and me. I’ve never missed one of Ian’s games because I know if I were involved in any kind of extracurricular activity (pfff, hilarious), Ian would be there to support me too.
Today, however, the bleachers are filled with half a dozen female teachers, including the Freshman Four. They’re sitting on the bottom bleacher in a little pack, forming a makeshift cheering section. One of them made a sign with sparkly glitter just like the one that now sits crumpled up under my feet. They’re treating this early season game like it’s the World Cup finals.
They chant, “Ian, Ian, he’s our man. If he can’t do it, no one can!”
The overprotective moms in attendance glare, unhappy that their motherly enthusiasm is being eclipsed by horny teachers. The referee tells them to stop disrupting and my grin is so wide, I think it’ll stay there permanently. Then Bianca stands up and takes Ian an ice-cold Gatorade, a lemon-lime love potion. I want him to swat it out of her hand, or better yet, untwist the cap and dump the contents on her head. Instead, he takes it and offers her a warm smile and thanks. When he takes a sip, it feels like I’m watching them make out. I fight the urge to fire up the groundskeeper’s riding lawn mower and chase her around the field.
Ian goes back to coaching, and Bianca walks back to her friends with swaying hips and a gloating smile. They all high-five her and she says proudly, “That’s how it’s done.”
I stomp a little harder on my poster.
The last week has been nearly unbearable as I’ve watched teachers fight for Ian’s attention.
To all of them, he’s been my toy for the last few years, and now that I’m not playing with him, why shouldn’t they get a turn? If we were on a kindergarten playground, I’d stand on their chubby necks and demand they leave him alone. The teachers would drag me off to the principal’s office and I’d kick and flail, promising swift retribution for anyone who touched him while I was in the slammer.
A camera flashes from the edge of the bleachers, momentarily blinding me.
I turn and spot Phoebe, from my first period, aiming her lens right at me.
She waves and announces loudly, “Just getting photos for my newspaper assignment!”
Wonderful. She’s finally decided to do some actual work and it’s at my expense.
The game lasts for a short eternity. They go into overtime. Ian looks hot as hell on the sideline in his coach’s jersey. The Freshman Four are champing at the bit. The wind keeps whipping my poster board and flecks of glitter lodge themselves in my eyes. By the time Ian and I are walking to his car after the game, I look like I’ve been crying.
“You didn’t use the signs,” he points out.
I glance down at where I have them folded under my arm. “Oh…yeah. They’re silly. I didn’t want to be a distraction.”
I try to stuff them in a trashcan we pass by, but Ian insists he wants to keep them. “You spent a lot of time on them.”
“Not that long,” I say, quick to clarify in case it saves me from looking desperate.
I don’t want to seem like I’m in the same boat as the Freshman Four—who, by the way, catch up to us in the parking lot and ask Ian if he wants to go with them to dinner to celebrate winning the game. They don’t extend the invitation to me, going so far as to say the restaurant they picked only has tables that accommodate five people. That’s the best lie you can come up with?
I open my mouth to let out the string of curse words I’ve been holding in for the entirety of the game, but Ian quickly declines their offer and drags me off to his car.
“Everything copacetic over there?” he asks as we drive home.
I have no clue what he’s referring to. Oh right—in the last few minutes, I’ve grumbled and yanked on my seatbelt when it wasn’t cooperating, fiddled with the air conditioning because it was too cold and then too hot, and adjusted the sun visor up and down half a dozen times before giving up altogether.
“Fine. Just hungry.”
He buys this excuse. “All right, I’ll feed you, but then I have a special request.”
I keep my scowl aimed out the window and grunt in response.
“I need your help.”
“With what?”
“I was having a tough time motivating my guys at the beginning of overtime, so I promised if they won this game, I’d dye my hair blue.”
My attention whips back to him. “What?!”
He’s wearing a small teasing smile as he stares out the front windshield.
“Just temporarily. I already bought some stuff that should wash out within a week.”
“You’ll look ridiculous.”
No he won’t.
“It’s all for morale. Sometimes you have to be unconventional.”
“Okay, but why do you need my help?”
“I don’t want it to look stupid and uneven.”
So that’s how Ian ropes me into helping him dye his beautiful brown hair a shocking shade of electric blue. As soon as we get home from the game, he showers while I transform his kitchen sink into a salon.
When he steps out of the bathroom, steam billows out with him. Time slows. The sultry sounds of “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye play in my head. He’s barefoot, wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt. His short hair is damp and a few strands are plastered to his forehead. His eyes are bluer than blue when he assesses me coolly.
“Ready for me?”
DEAR GOD YES.
I gulp and remind myself of his actual meaning.
“Sure thing.”
I pat the chair and tell him to take a seat.
“The instructions say to start with damp hair, so step one is complete.”
He leans his head back and stares up at me. The position reminds me of that iconic upside-down Spiderman kiss with Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst.
His lips are so inviting.
“Okay, now what?”
I realize he’s asking me a question a second too late. “Huh?”
“What next?”
“Oh.” I swallow and turn my attention back to the box.
“It says to drape a towel over your clothes so they don’t get stained.”
He stands back up and yanks off his t-shirt.
Whoa!
“It didn’t say strip!” I shout, covering my eyes.
He laughs and grabs a kitchen towel to drape over his broad shoulders. It’s not quite big enough, so he’s forced to grab one from his bathroom. When he walks back out, he explains, “I like that shirt, don’t want it ruined.”
“I’ll be careful,” I insist, peeking at him from between my fingers. “You can put it back on.” I withhold a desperate please.
“This is easier.”
I force out a resigned sigh and drop my hand.
He sits, leans his head back again, and closes his eyes. It’s a gift. He’s saying, Here, take your fill, and I won’t even watch you while you do it.
Ho ho ho, Christmas has come early.