Family dinners are an increasingly rare event at my house. Mom works late more often than not, which means there isn’t much cooking going on in general, which usually gives my dad an excuse to meet up with his golf buddies after work. When the weather was nice they’d play a quick round, but now that it’s winter, I’m pretty sure they just go to a bar.
Anyway, we’re all here tonight. Twirling spaghetti around our forks in a frigid silence until finally my mom sips her red wine and asks what my plans are for the night.
“I’m going to the basketball game.”
“Really?” My dad looks up from his plate. I can’t remember the last time he was this interested in my social life. Though to be fair, my response is almost always “hanging out with Reese.” So. I kind of get it. “That’s great, honey. Who are they playing?”
“West Rochester?”
He nods seriously, as though he’s been keeping up with the stats for the local high school basketball league. “That should be a great game. You going with Reese?”
“She’s cheering. So I won’t see her until after.”
My mom seizes the opportunity to point out she knows something my dad doesn’t. “Honestly, John. Reese has been cheering for years.”
He ignores her. “Home game though, right?”
I nod.
“Good. It’s supposed to snow again, so I don’t want you driving too far. You still have plenty of windshield wiper fluid, right?”
This is what passes for affection at my house. Checking up on automotive fluid levels. “Yeah. I think I’m good.”
“Doesn’t the team usually go out after Friday games?” my mom asks.
“I don’t know.” And I especially don’t know why my mom would have this information.
“Well, if people are doing something after, I think you should go.”
...“Why?”
Mom laughs and looks at me like I’m being funny on purpose. “Because you’re young! And it’s nice seeing you get out a bit more.”
“Don’t push her, Irene,” Dad interjects.
Mom’s grip tightens on her fork. “I wasn’t pushing her.”
He rips off a chunk of garlic bread. “I don’t want you drinking at this party.”
“I’m not even going to a party.”
“See?” my mom scoffs. “Now you’ve made her feel like she can’t go out and have fun with her friends.”
“Well, if she has to drink to have fun—”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. Of course that’s not what I meant.” Mom looks at me, even though I’m pretty sure this has nothing to do with me anymore. Not that they ever actually talk about why they’re fighting. “She knows that’s not what I meant. Don’t you?”
“Mm-hmm.”
They snipe at each other for a few more minutes, then my mom lets out a big huff and we go back to a soundtrack of silverware on ceramic plates. It’s so quiet that I can hear my dad’s jaw click when he chews. Apparently my mother can, too, because she keeps shooting him salty looks like he’s doing it on purpose.
Back when these dinners were an everyday thing, I used to put in a lot more effort. I’d try to carry the conversation—a difficult feat considering my life pretty much consists of school then homework then sleep, repeat. But especially after walking in on my mom and David from work, it seemed important to steer the conversation away from any touchy subjects, to fill the silences that sprang up like leaks in the family ship.
Sometimes I think I should have just told my dad what I saw. Because keeping it a secret doesn’t seem to have made any difference. Their fighting still got worse, and now there’s no such thing as a safe subject, and I wish we could just go back to eating in different rooms. That I could pick up my plate and go sit in front of the TV, or eat at my desk with my door closed. But my mother makes me sit there until we’ve all finished, and she intentionally takes forever to clear her plate.
The second she does, I’m out of there.
I get in my car, and it’s not until I’ve backed out of the driveway that I notice Webster standing in his. He has the hood of his car propped open and is staring at the engine with both hands on his hips. I shift my car into Drive and ease my foot off the brake. Whatever he’s dealing with, it’s not my problem.
Ugh, except. As I slowly roll down the street, all I can think is: it’s freezing out, and he’s wearing his warm-up sweats because he’s clearly headed to the game, and I’m driving there anyway, so it’d be an asshole move to just leave him there.
I sigh and pull into his driveway. I roll down my window and stick my head out. “You need a ride?”
Webster looks from me to his car and back again. “Um. Yes, actually.”
I roll my window back up and wait for him to close the hood and grab his bag from the trunk. He slides into the passenger seat of my car, clutching his duffel to his chest and eyeing me suspiciously. Hard to say if it’s because he’s not sure why I offered him a ride (same, to be honest), or because some part of him suspects I’m responsible for his car not starting. I decide not to comment either way.
“Thanks for the lift,” he says. “You have great timing.”
“No big deal. I’m going to the game anyway.”
“Right. Well...still.” We pull out of the neighborhood, and Webster glances my way again. “Don’t think I’ve seen you at any of my games before. Any particular reason you’re going to this one?”
“No.” I’m so not falling into the trap of talking about Holland with him again. “Reese just wanted me to come.”
Webster nods, but I get the sense he doesn’t remotely believe me. I turn up the radio, only to realize the song currently playing is one Webster sent me that summer. Back when we were constantly trading recommendations on movies and music and books, when we were hungry for details about each other, so supportive of each other’s interests.
We don’t talk the rest of the drive, and when I park it’s made slightly more awkward by the fact that I don’t move to get out of the car.
“I thought you were coming in,” Webster says, hesitating with one foot out the door.
“Yeah, I am.” But it’s super early, so I was planning to sit in the parking lot and read for a bit. “Just...not yet.”
“Okay... Guess I’ll see you later, then.”
Webster goes, and I pull up an article about Bayes’ theorem that I bookmarked on my phone. The past few days, I’ve pored over real-world examples of Bayesian probability—like how it applies to poker. If all the players have an equal understanding of the game, then poker boils down to standard probability: the chance certain cards will appear. But if you know the person sitting across the table from you, know how likely they are to bluff or how to identify their tells, then you can use that information to reassess your own hand.
That’s what I like about Bayes’—it takes into account how unpredictable people can be. The focus is on why things happen. And that’s the question that’s haunted me ever since Webster stood me up at homecoming.
But I’m still figuring out how to use it in the context of my love life. I close out the article and open my text thread with Holland. We’ve been messaging all week. Reese says we’re in a full-on flirtationship, but for now I’m just focused on getting to know him better, one tidbit at a time.
More people have started to funnel into the gym. I drop my phone into my bag but don’t move yet. I haven’t been here at night in a long time. Since last year’s homecoming, to be exact.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel and, for a moment, I consider turning around and going back home. But finally I blow out a deep breath and join the stream of people moving toward the gymnasium.
The reason I don’t generally attend athletic events isn’t that I’m wholly against sports. I do understand the appeal. It’s the logistics that have always kept me away. None of my friends outside of Reese’s core group are the type to come to games, and since she’s down on the court cheering, I’m left in the bleachers...by myself.
I brought a notebook with me, because I figure multitasking will help me look like I actually chose to sit alone. But discreetly as possible, I scan the bleachers for someone I know. The first person I spot is Phil Marlow, whom I was sort of friends with when we had orchestra together, but haven’t spoken to since I quit last year to fit in an extra science elective. Then, to my surprise, I spot Veronica a few rows behind him, surrounded by a bunch of girls of similar height. I’m pretty sure this group makes up the girls’ varsity basketball team, and I’m not sure if I’m allowed to sit with them, but when she sees me she gives her usual nod, so I figure I’ll give it a try.
“Surprised to see you here.”
“Likewise.” She scoots down the bleacher to make more room for me. “Coach makes us come to three of the boys’ home games. Solidarity, or whatever. This is my last one.”
“Oh. Cool.”
I settle in, dropping my bag and propping my feet on the empty bench in front of us. I scan the sidelines and see the new vice principal, Mr. Davis, beckon a couple sophomore girls wearing crop tops over to him. They both end up putting their coats back on before finding a seat. Ever since he started fall semester, he’s been strictly enforcing the dress code—even, apparently, at extracurricular events. I roll my eyes as he continues to stroll in front of the bleachers with his hands folded behind his back.
“So, what number do you like?” Veronica asks.
“Sorry?”
The game is just starting, and she keeps her eyes on the court until tip-off, then faces me. “I figured that’s why you’re here. To watch a guy you have a crush on?”
Oh. She means jersey number. I feel my face heat up. “That’s not a very feminist assumption. But also...not incorrect.”
She smirks and raises an eyebrow. “So?”
We’re not this level of friends, Veronica and me. We don’t gossip, especially about who we want to make out with. And I’m generally not the type to go blabbing about a crush. And yet...the answer slips off my tongue.
“He actually plays for West Rochester. Holland Sawyer?”
Veronica barely reacts. “Yeah, I could see that,” is all she says.
“You know him?”
She shrugs. “Not well. He’s a good point guard, though.”
I turn back to the court and squint. Despite how many times I’ve heard Reese use that term, I still don’t know what the hell a point guard is, so it takes me a moment to pick him out. The back of his jersey has the number 14 on it. When the whistle blows, he jogs to the visitor bench, and I finally get a good look at him.
My stomach does a little squeeze because, even flushed from running around the court, he’s exactly as cute as I remembered. And so tall. And his arms are sculpted and I didn’t even know that was a turn-on for me, but apparently it is. I can’t stop staring as he reaches for a water bottle and takes a drink.
We just watch the game for a bit, in the casual silence I’ve grown used to with Veronica. Somehow I have no trouble spotting Webster. My gaze follows him down the court. He gets passed the ball and in one smooth motion makes an impossible-looking shot.
“Oh, sick,” Veronica says, and a bunch of the other girls start shouting and whistling. I look below, and Reese and the others are shaking their pom-poms in the air. My molars clench.
“So number 23...” I lower my voice a little. Though only a few people witnessed it happen, practically everyone heard about the stunt Webster pulled on me at homecoming. And while I’m pretty sure most people have forgotten by now—if they ever cared in the first place—I still don’t want the world to hear me ask about him. But after all the rumors that have gone around about Veronica, I trust her not to bring up any of mine. “He’s pretty good, huh?”
“Web? Yeah, he’s solid. Has a few scouts looking at him, I think.”
I knew this already, so I’m not sure why I bothered asking. I guess I hoped since Veronica actually plays basketball, she’d see something I didn’t. That she’d say, Webster Casey? That guy is so overrated.
Whatever. I came here to see Holland play, anyway. I keep my gaze trained on him all through the first half. As far as I can tell, he’s every bit as talented as Webster. And way more fun to watch. In fact, I practically forget Webster’s even on the court until he gets fouled a few minutes into the second half.
He lines up to take his free throw, dribbles the ball twice. I watch him bend his knees and lift the ball, and something about it takes me right back to that summer. His body behind mine, showing me how to position my feet. His hands at my elbows, mouth close to my ear as he reminds me to snap my wrist, to always follow through.
I don’t watch him take the shot. Don’t cheer with the rest of the crowd when he makes it.
We end up winning by nine points—thanks in large part to Webster, who scores a few more times in the final minutes of the game. After the clock winds down, the teams each form a line and walk past each other to slap hands and make other sportsmanlike gestures. When Holland and Webster meet, they do one of those handshake-turned-bro-hug maneuvers. And apparently Webster says something witty, because Holland’s head tilts back in a laugh and he claps him on the shoulder.
The bleachers are clearing out quickly. I focus my attention on not face-planting as I step down the risers toward Reese, who’s still talking to some of the cheerleaders. Veronica follows me to the bottom but then glances awkwardly toward the cheerleaders. I follow her gaze and catch Sam glaring at her.
“See you Monday,” she says, and hitches her bag higher on her shoulder as she weaves her way out of the gym. I’m tempted to follow her—partly because my feet are getting cold, but mostly because I know how shitty it is to feel like you’re not welcome somewhere you have every right to be.
But the next moment, Reese reaches me. She rustles her pom-poms against my waist, apparently still burning off energy from the game. “You actually came!”
“Yep. Great job boosting morale.”
Sam is still looking out the door Veronica left through. Her face has softened somewhat, and now she looks a little like she wishes she could follow Veronica. She turns to me, her perfect smile back in place. “Thanks for coming, Aubrey.” She taps Reese’s arm and reaches down for a duffel bag stashed under the side of the bleachers. “I’m going to change.”
“Okay, me too.” Reese turns to me. “Walk with me to the locker room? I just have to clean up, and then we’re all heading to Oscar’s.”
Oscar’s is a vintage car–themed diner on Woodward Ave. They specialize in cheese fries and mozzarella sticks, and don’t even serve alcohol. So, not exactly the rager my mother had in mind. But infinitely more appealing to me.
“Sure.” I follow her off the court.
“God, I’m so sick of this,” she says once we’re away from all the other cheerleaders.
“So why don’t you quit?” I know Reese is friends with the other girls, and that she wanted to join the squad ever since she saw Rachel cheer at her first football game, back when we were still in middle school. But given how obviously her feelings about it have changed, I don’t understand why she won’t give it up.
Like every other time I’ve made that suggestion, Reese simply shrugs. “The season’s almost over. Besides, I’d still be coming to the games to support Kevin.”
She folds her arms. “So. Your boy looked pretty good out there tonight.”
The hallway is filled with sweaty guys, most of whom are wearing our school’s colors. The away team walked off the court first and are already hidden away in the visitors’ locker room. In a low voice I say, “He’s not my boy.”
“Did you tell him you were coming?”
We’ve reached the girls’ locker room. I drop my bag by my feet and lean against the wall. “I told him I might make it.”
“Look at you, playing hard to get.” She hitches her bag higher and tugs a lock of my hair. “You got this, okay?”
She goes in to change, and I watch as the sea of proud parents sporting our school’s heinous purple and gold colors flows out of the gym and heads through the double doors to the parking lot. A few families linger down the hall, presumably waiting for their kids to come out of the locker room.
My thumb picks at the nail on my middle finger, right along the side until it catches and tears and then I have no choice but to bite it. Which is not my best habit but a hard one to break, because the second my nails get long enough to look nice, they get weak and bendy enough for me to start fiddling with them.
Right as the nail finally tears, Holland walks out of the visitor locker room. When he spots me, he says something to the guy walking next to him before veering over. I’m trying to be discreet as I scrape off the bit of nail stuck to my tongue and flick it away. Needless to say, I’m feeling super attractive by the time he reaches me.
My insides do a little dance. I can do this. I’m going to do this. “Hey.”
“Hey, glad you made it.” His dark hair is glossy and damp, and I can’t tell if it’s from sweat or a shower. Do the guys actually shower after games? It doesn’t seem like they would have had enough time and, besides, why would you shower here when you’re headed home right after? I try not to be grossed out by the fact that it’s probably sweat. “Guess your resolutions are off to a good start.”
“Yeah, so far so good.” The hall is more crowded now, so I reach for my tote bag. My fingers curl around the strap. “Great game, by the way.”
He winces a little. “Thanks.”
“I mean, I know you lost.” Yes. Good. Definitely remind him of that. “But...you looked great out there.”
“Thanks. Coach might not agree, but...” His cheeks are a little pink. And sure, it’s probably because he’s still overheated from all that running. But it’s still completely adorable.
Down the hall, the boys’ locker room door opens again, and Webster walks out with a few other guys. He sees me, too. And despite the good deed I did earlier, he doesn’t even attempt to control the look on his face—eyebrows puckered and lip curled, like I’m a groupie standing outside a stadium, pathetic.
I stand up a little straighter and try to remember what I’d planned to say, the words carefully chosen to sound casual, confident. Except now all I can think is, what if Webster said something to Holland? Or what if he’s waiting, biding his time until the two of us make plans, and then he’ll tell Holland terrible things about me, ruin everything just because he can?
But Holland wanted me here. I have the text chain to prove it. So screw Webster and his pretentious little smirk. His stupid, floppy hair. He’s probably just jealous because Holland got all the good genes.
“I actually have to run,” Holland says before I can get anything out. “Coach makes us take the bus back together.”
“Oh.” This isn’t going the way I pictured. I mean, it’s not like I thought he’d come with me and a bunch of players from the opposing team to Oscar’s. But I guess I figured we’d have a little more time to talk. That I wouldn’t feel Webster watching me, waiting for me to stumble and fall flat on my face. “Yeah, of course.”
Reese and Sam and a few other cheerleaders come back into the hall then. She stops right behind Holland, not even trying to hide the fact that she’s totally eavesdropping.
Now or never. “Before you go... I was wondering if you’re free next weekend?”
Holland smiles, the same parentheses-in-his-cheeks smile he gave me on New Year’s. “Yeah, I’m free. What’d you have in mind?”
“I’m seeing a movie with Reese and her boyfriend Saturday. You want to come?”
“Definitely.” His attention snags on the area down the hall, where his coach is waiting. “So, I’ll call you.”
“Great.”
He flashes another smile and then heads to where the rest of his team is gathered. Once he’s out of earshot, Reese nudges my ribs. “See, that wasn’t too painful, was it?”
“Relatively pain-free.” But since I apparently have to find something to fixate on, my thoughts immediately latch on to the next pressing problem: I have a date. And even if it’s for the good of science, that’s a scary prospect. I link my arm through Reese’s, and together we start toward the parking lot. “Here’s hoping the guy actually shows up this time.”