IF I HAVE TO GO BACK TO THE SCENE OF THE INCIDENT TO SCOUR the sand, I’m not doing it in this ridiculous dress. I limp-run to my room, throw on a pair of old cutoffs and a plain black tank.
Watford quirks his head as I put on my flip-flops. “I’ll be back soon, you mongrel—”
Wait. What is that noise? I spin around in a circle, tracing the sound. It’s definitely a brrring. I jog into Aunt Emma’s room and there on the bedside table is an old phone. The kind they have in hotels, which makes sense since the Belden-Stratford is technically a hotel.
I hesitate before I pick up the beige, corded thing. “Hello?”
“Maddie!”
“Mom?”
She lets out a big, relieved sigh. “This guy called me from the beach, and he said he had your phone, but he sort of had an accent and I thought he said he had you. And I asked him, ‘Is this some sort of sick joke?’ And he said—”
This. This is why I can’t go home. “Mom! Relax. Slow down a little bit. Someone has my phone?”
“Yes! And that proves I was right. Remember when I made you add me as your emergency contact on your lock screen? Well, it worked. And someone found your phone. He said something about needing to play another soccer game on North Avenue Beach, so he’ll be there for a while. I tried to call Emma, but her phone went straight to voice mail. So—”
“Yeah. Emma’s in this crazy meeting, and she asked me to take Watford home.” Not a lie. None of that was a lie. Emma is headed to a meeting and as far as I know it’s crazy. And if I tell my mom that meeting is in another country, she’s going to drive straight to Chicago from our hometown of Normal, Illinois. And the last thing I need right now is for her to remind me how completely incapable I am.
“She’ll be home later.” Much later.
“Okay, well. You should wait for her and then—”
“No!” I choke down the panic rising in my chest and pace a few steps away from the nightstand, only to be pulled back by the curly cord. How did people ever use these things? “Mom, it’s fine. I don’t want to bother her, and the sun is still up, and I’ve got Watford.”
He pokes his head through the bedroom door, ears perked as if I’ve called for him. Devil Dog. None of this would have happened if not for him.
“But if there are a lot of people, then someone could snatch you.”
“Motherrrr. I am seventeen years old.” She forgets this fact constantly.
She sighs again, and this time, I hear resignation in her voice. “Well.” Mom says nothing for a long while, and I can imagine her in our kitchen. Her laptop is probably open on the counter, her newest book on the screen. Although at this stage it’s not actually a book; it’s just an idea. She’s had a lot of ideas over the past ten years but hasn’t sold any of them to publishers.
“Well,” she says again because that’s what she says when she’s trying to figure her way into the winning side of a conversation, which is all the time.
“I’ll be fine.” I drop to the side of Aunt Emma’s bed, and Watford plunges his face directly into my crotch. This. Darn. Dog.
“Just get there and get back.”
I can’t help but smile in relief. There’s still worry brimming her voice, but it isn’t spilling over into an emergency situation. “I’ll call you as soon as I have my phone.”
She gives me his name—Gabe, of course—and his number in case I can’t find him and then says, “I really miss you, Mads.”
The sink turns on in the background. She’s probably washing dishes while we talk. Mom may freak out once in a while, but she never wastes time. There’s probably something in the crockpot and a load of laundry on the couch that I’m not there to fold. I ignore the self-condemnation that rises with that thought. I’m pretty sure that’s what she wants me to feel, anyway.
“I miss watching Star Trek reruns with the only other Trekkie in the house. And I wish you were here to take your little brother to math camp,” she continues, driving the spike of guilt in deeper. I can imagine the pile of worksheets she makes my younger brother do even though school is officially out. “Heaven knows Max doesn’t have time to help me.”
Gotta give Mom credit for staying on brand. This is so completely expected, that even though today sucked I’m still glad I’m in Chicago, breaking out of the box she keeps me in. Normal was a fine place to grow up for the most part, but it’s just small enough and my last name is just uncommon enough to make me the “other” McPherson.
“Are you Max McPherson’s little sister?” every teacher, administrator, and coach would ask, failing to hide the awe in their voice. I can’t count the number of times I considered lying, but there was no point. Max and I have the same shade of brown hair, the same gray eyes, the same gap between our front teeth until orthodontia gave us matching smiles. We are still confused for twins—he’s fourteen months older—but our similarities are only physical.
Max is a certifiable genius. Pretty much everyone in Normal knows his IQ and his GPA, 146 and 4.8, respectively. He’s also a great athlete, good member of the community, and a literal Boy Scout. And as such, I’ve always been a huge disappointment to anyone who knew him first. Max is “gifted.” I’m normal.
I’d probably hate him if he wasn’t also one of the nicest humans in existence.
On bad days, I hate him a little anyways.
There are negative side effects to living your entire life in your older brother’s shadow. People (read: parents) start to believe you belong there.
I hold in a sigh. I know I mean more to Mom than a dishwasher, laundry folder, and a younger sibling chauffeur. She and Dad say they want the “best” for me, but sometimes it just feels like they want what’s safe and easy. With Max, they push him to reach for his dreams, expect him to apply and get premier scholarships, but when I told them about my dream school and program they both responded with something like, “Wouldn’t it be better to pursue something you’re good at?” and “Stick with what you can achieve, Maddie.” That’s why I’ve gotta make it happen on my own.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Call me as soon as you have it.”
“I will. Promise.”
I CLIP WATFORD’S LEASH BACK ON HIS HARNESS—I CAN AT LEAST BE honest in that part—and we rush out of the building. Kevin is singing some gospel song as he waits under the awning, and his voice is a gorgeous, rich baritone. He stops the minute I push through the rotating door, concern showing under his flat-brimmed uniform hat. “Where you headed, Miss Maddie?”
It wouldn’t surprise me if Emma asked him to keep an eye on me. She’s subtler than my mom, but still a worrier underneath. “Just back to the beach. I dropped my phone.”
“You sure you don’t want me to call a cab?”
My leg hurts, but it’s not that bad. Plus, waiting for a cab might take as long as it would to walk down there. “No, but thank you.”
He goes back to humming the same song, but I can feel his eyes on me as I hurry away.
I take the most direct path, cutting across the park to get to the beach faster, not even reveling in the gorgeous flower beds. Watford trots along beside me, getting pulled up short every time he stops to sniff the trees or fire hydrants. I’m not putting up with any more of his crap.
As the grandstand comes into view, I worry that maybe I won’t recognize this Gabe guy. Besides the reflective glasses and godlike body, I don’t really remember what he looks like. Luckily, I don’t have to search long. He’s leaning against the side of the bleachers, Super Tall and a group of guys beside him, laughing about something. Probably me.
Super Tall notices me—or Watford first—and raises his chin in my direction.
Suddenly, nervousness bites. Little prickles creep over my skin as Gabe peels himself off the side of the grandstand and moves toward me, a smile on his face.
“Hi,” I say, as he gets closer. “Thanks for finding my phone and calling my mom.”
Watford lunges toward him, but Gabe drops to a knee beside the dog, ruffling his ears. “Of course. How’s your leg?”
I look down at the gauze patch Jan taped over the gash on my knee, face flaming in embarrassment. “It’s fine. Nothing a Band-Aid couldn’t fix.”
He straightens and pushes his sunglasses on top of his head, revealing hazel eyes rimmed with thick black lashes. Something about his face pings in my memory. Where have I seen him before?
In your dreams.
Okay, fine. He’s gorgeous. If you see a face like that in person, you don’t forget where.
“I’m glad you’re all right. And your name is Maddie?”
Why does he care? Do I care if he cares? I mean—I take a closer look—he’s not that much older than me. Maybe eighteen? Nineteen? Suddenly, I do care that he wants to know my name. “Yes. Maddie. Madeline McPherson.”
Belatedly, I hold out my hand. The grin on his face goes a little crooked, but he shakes it, hanging on for a second longer than necessary. Either the sun went supernova or I’m blushing. The back of my ears are on fire.
“And this is Watford? Such an unusual name.”
I lick my lips. I should flirt, right? Or at least try not to act like I’m suffering from a concussion. “Yeah. He’s my aunt’s dog. I’m just watching him for the weekend. My uncle—well, my former uncle—named him. I guess he didn’t like the soccer team from that city, so he thought it was hysterical to name an ugly dog after them.”
Gabe laughs, then looks over his shoulder to where his friends are waiting. They’re not watching us, but I can still feel them checking us out every now and then. “Your uncle likes Premier League football?”
He says football like “futbol,” and I remember that he’s probably European. Max could probably identify Gabe’s country of origin from his accent and then converse fluently in his native tongue. “Not liked,” I say. “He played for a long time. For Arsenal, I think?”
I don’t think. I know. Before he became The Cheating Bastard, we all had jerseys with his name on the back. I used to love to watch his games. It’s where my obsession with sports business really started.
Gabe’s eyebrows pop up, surprised. It’s sort of nice that I can use my ex-uncle’s career for some benefit. Considering what he did to Aunt Emma, something good should come out of my association with him.
“What’s his name?”
I almost refer to him as The Cheating Bastard because that’s all any of us have called him for the last four years. His affair with an American Olympian was splashed all over the tabloids in the UK, coinciding with his retirement from professional soccer. My blush flashes to anger on Aunt Emma’s behalf. She covered for him, saving his career and all his sponsorships, playing the forgiving wife. Then, once it was out of the news, she quietly divorced him, took half of everything he owned—and his dog. She did it with such savvy and tact that Velocity Marketing hired her to help their problem clientele.
“You probably wouldn’t recognize it,” I say, trying to tug Watford back toward me, but he isn’t having any of that. “He’s been out of the league for a few years.”
Gabe gives me an expectant look and I wish I hadn’t said anything besides, Phone. Now.
Finally, I mumble, “Geoffrey Jones.”
There’s a long pause as Gabe evaluates this information. I can feel his disbelief like a slap to the face. “Your uncle is Geoffrey Jones?”
I nod, not blaming him for the doubt. “Can I have my phone, please?”
“Wait.” The funniest expression crosses his face, like he’s tasted something bitter and wants to spit it out. “Your uncle is the greatest midfielder of all time?”
“Ex-uncle.” There’s no way he can miss the emphasis on The Cheating Bastard’s unofficial title. “And as far as the greatest whatever, I wouldn’t know. I don’t really do the whole soccer fan thing.” Anymore.
He hesitates, then swings the sack-style backpack off his shoulder, digs around, and hands me my phone, miraculously no worse for wear.
“No offense, but your uncle is an …” He pauses, as if looking for the right term. “Asshat?”
“Yes.” I smile, relieved that he doesn’t worship at the Geoffrey Jones altar like most of the soccer-loving world. “Or Bastard.”
“Bastardo.” He nods like we’ve come to an agreement on something.
We both laugh and a little attraction zings around my belly. “Well. Thank you.” Gah! I sound like my mother instead of Aunt Emma. “Can I buy you a bottle of Gatorade or a hot dog or something?”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. “Out of gratitude, I mean.”
“I’m actually headed out with my friends.” He checks over his shoulder at the group of people who are looking a little irritated that he’s taking so long. “Would you like to come with us?”
Yes. “Oh. I can’t.” And by that, I mean I shouldn’t. Leaving with four guys, some of whom are clearly much older than I am, is a pretty dumb idea. Even for someone with a normal IQ. “I really should get Watford home.”
The dog is lying across Gabe’s feet. I know Aunt Emma walks him a lot, so he’s probably not tired, but it’s a good enough excuse.
Gabe buys it. “Do you bring him to the beach a lot?”
“Yes.” Of course not. I haven’t brought him anywhere until today, but because Gabe is ridiculously hot and talking to me with something that feels like interest, I lie. “And to the dog park.”
“Maybe I’ll see you here sometime?” He cocks one eyebrow, and I wonder if he’s practiced that expression in the mirror or if he comes by this charm and gloriousness naturally.
I tilt my head, aiming for coy but probably missing. “Maybe you will.”
He walks off, looking back over his shoulder and waving once, just like he did after he helped me get on the bike.
I nibble my bottom lip and return his wave, praying that I’ll bump—without actual physical bumping—into him again.