I glimpsed Tristan a couple of times that afternoon as he passed in crowds. A true- blue girlfriend would have shouted his name or shouldered her way toward him. But as an impostor (and one who had already had enough drama for one day, thankyouverymuch), I went with the head- in- the- sand routine and was relieved that he let me get away with it.
But on the field later, suited up to lead some defense drills, I'd have to have been Helen Keller not to notice the arrival of my faux beau. For suddenly, there he was on the sidelines, looking big and solid and pretty danged cute in darkish jeans and his gray “DeGroot High School Water Polo” T-shirt.
The action around me all but stopped, the gazes of a dozen and a half players racing from Tristan to me and then each other.
“Parker, isn't that your new guy?” Lyric asked, wiping her brow of running- induced sweat.
“He's hot,” one of the froshies said, and was immediately seconded by her drill partner.
“Didn't he go to Greenfield with us?” another one asked, referring to the middle school.
“Yeah,” a third girl said, and let out a dreamy sigh, “but he's grown up … a lot.”
Emotions battled inside me. Embarrassment, reluctance and—to my surprise—a hint of pride. “ Uh- huh,” I said, in agreement with them all.
Lyric looked straight at me. Pretty in- your- face for a girl who it was easy to forget existed. “Aren't you going to go see what he wants?”
Her suggestion rocked me like a penalty kick to my head. It hadn't occurred to me that Tristan wanted anything; I guess I was getting used to him existing in the periphery of my life.
I walked over, eager to get him off the field, and stopped a few feet short of him. “Hey, you,” I said, and reached back to tighten the band around my ponytail. I felt a bit dorky in my baggy practice clothes, and smoothing out my hair was at least proactive.
“Hey yourself.”
“Proof.” He nodded toward some freshman- type people on an upper level of the bleachers. “My friends don't believe we're a couple.”
I crossed my arms. “What, that kiss earlier wasn't good enough?”
“They thought you lost a bet, that a gorgeous older girl wouldn't fall for a guy like me.”
I wanted to pause, to let that sentence drift lazily through the air for all to hear … but since no one who really mattered was on the field at the moment, what was the point? “Sounds like you've got smarter friends than I gave you credit for.”
“Yeah, well, we gotta straighten this out if you want to keep your friends fooled. So now that we've had this wonderful and very public conversation,” he said, bending down toward me, “I'm going to kiss you goodbye.”
“You are, huh?” Energy fizzled inside me, although— believe me—I tried to hide it. “The See- You- Later Kiss?”
“No, the Official Goodbye Kiss. Shorter, but you'll still like it.”
He was close now. Super-close. So close I could breathe him in, all male and clean.
“We'll see—” I said in teasing singsong. I started to say “about that,” but his kiss took the words right out of my mouth.
Tristan was right about the kiss. It was quick, just a brush of the lips, with maybe a second or two of contact before the pullback. As far as passion went, it was low-maybe a three on a scale of ten (and I suspected we'd gone as high as eight or nine with the Leave- Them-Wanting-More Kiss).
Still, I liked it. I liked it a lot….
Hartley, however, had a different take. (Surprise, surprise.) Her voice carried across the field, shouting my name— “Parrrrr- kerrrrr!”—with the demand “Get back to work!”
“I'm very important,” I deadpanned to him.
“I can see that.”
“They can't survive without me.”
“And they shouldn't have to.”
As I took a few steps backward, my gaze stayed locked with his. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
A smile crept over his face, and I had no doubt he would.
•
Practice resumed. Some of the girls were actually good, and not just the ones who'd played on JV last year. I saw some raw talent—players with speed, with tireless legs, and some who could use their heads to make judgments as well as move the ball. With enough work, I figured they could be league- title contenders.
I just didn't plan to be around to help make it happen.
“Game speed!” I yelled at a couple of the slower girls (Smurfs, as Chrissandra would have called them).
But once we divided into teams for scrimmages, the play started to get good, started to feel real. For the first time since the summer practices, I went to that hot, sweaty, stinky place where I didn't care if I was hot, sweaty and stinky, as long as my side was winning.
And, as corny as it sounds, I felt like myself again. Focused, in the zone. I realized that I'd missed playing, that it was an outlet for me. And that quitting for the sake of saving face would have been just plain stupid.
“Up the line!” Hartley shouted as an orange- haired newbie tossed a throw- in. A short, squat girl named Dayle trapped the ball with the side of her foot and slammed it forward to me. I rushed it, did a fast receive, then booted it past the goalie to put our team ahead.
My team cheered (and so did I). Sure, it was only a JV scrimmage, but some days you had to take what you could get.
I think I was still smiling when I spotted Tristan back on the sideline. I had no idea what he wanted, but no way could I break ranks and go to him, so I had to hope he was enjoying the show.
Energized and positive, I watched the redhead knock a through ball between two defenders, straight at me. Receiving the ball, I heard her yell “Man on!” at me, letting me know the opposition was hot on my tail. I jammed around behind the ball and wound my leg back for the soccer equivalent of the football Hail Mary, then connected with force and, to my relief, amazing aim.
“Way to go!” the redhead cheered, celebrating my second goal.
I nodded her way, then threw a look at the bench for a silent nah-nahnah-nahnah at Heartless, an in- your-face reminder that I was one heck of a player (and that she'd made a terrible mistake). But Hartley's attention was focused down the foul line.
On Tristan. Who was now sandwiched between two ninth graders, Emma and Marg. They'd been taking breathers on the bench—and had apparently decided that this breather would include Tristan. His arms were crossed over his chest, doing that pumped- up biceps thing (which they were so falling for). Marg was grinning at him madly, and Emma was talking with cartoonlike animation, her hand on his wrist.
“Parker,” Hartley boomed, calling me out for replacement, “will you go do something about your boyfriend? He's distracting the players.”
I felt heat race to my already mottled face, unsure if it was perverse jealousy that my non- boyfriend was flirting with girls his own grade or if I'd picked up a Chrissandra-type age-discrimination razz in Hartley's tone.
Nodding at her, I stomped toward the three of them, still very much in game mode. Coming to a halt, I reached out and plucked Emma's hand off Tristan's skin while tilting my head and squinting at Marg in a glare my dad and Tristan's would have envied.
“Mine,” I told them, in my most mature five- year-old voice. “Now, you two, back on the bench.” I waited until they stepped away. “And you,” I said, turning to Tristan, “Coach wants you out of here.”
“No problem, I was just—”
“Tristan,” I said, shaking my head, “you're making trouble.”
“I just wanted—”
My hand went to my hip, but I left the bite out of my tone. “You're just too good- looking. You're killing our concentration.”
“Your coach said that?”
“No, I did. Now go—and don't come back.”
He gave me a long, slow smile, then walked away. I hustled back to the bench, putting my glare back on for the two froshie Smurfs.
“Um, Parker,” Emma said when I plopped down beside her, “what's your favorite color?”
I opened my mouth to tell her to shut hers and watch the scrimmage (which would have sounded alarmingly like Hartley) when her friend Marg whacked her.
“Nice, Emma. Real smooth.”
“Well?” Emma replied. “Jeez, I don't know how to do these things.”
I let my stare bounce from one face to the other as I put the pieces together. “Tristan called you over to ask my favorite color?”
“Yeah,” Emma said. “Something about flowers.”
Marg rolled her eyes. “God! I'm not telling you any secrets, Emma.”
While the two of them bickered, my brain was trying to get around Tristan's request. Flowers! He was taking things way too seriously.
But Heartless was summoning me over with a crook of her finger, so I knew this was a subject for another time. “Focus on the field,” I told the girls, then jogged over to join the coach.
“He gone, Parker?” Hartley asked. She stood alone down on the sideline, a whistle the only adornment on her maroon sweat suit.
I nodded.
“For good?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“Okay. Thanks for taking care of that.” Her gaze went back to the field—Dayle was on a breakaway—but she kept her voice full and directed at me. “You're doing a good job with the team. The players like you, already look up to you. I can see it's going to be a much better season.”
Much better? For her, maybe. She wasn't varsity material trapped in a junior- varsity uniform. Besides, I wasn't sure what she even meant. We'd finished in the top tier last year and had had a heck of a lot of fun getting there.
“You might want to spend one- on- one time with some of the girls, boost their skills and confidence a little.” Staring at the field, she let out a wounded groan. I followed her gaze, to see Dayle falling on her butt. “Get back in there, Parker,” she told me, “and show them how it's done.”
I adjusted a shin guard and scurried off. Not because I felt like being obedient or earning more praise from Heartless. But because I loved soccer. And because I totally related to the girl with her butt in the grass, waiting for someone to offer a hand, pull her up and give her a break.
I was waiting, too.