Russ: Score. I’ll send you deets soon.
Wincing, I remind myself that tone is tricky. And not everyone is a wordsmith. And Russ is kinda cute. And he’s not Pete, which is definitely a good thing.
Clicking out of our chat, I pull up a blank doc and begin my brain dump. My fingers fly over the keys as details and questions from the last several days make their way from my mind to the page. I’m not writing an advice column or even writing about the highlights of my trip. I guess you could say I’m writing about the lowlights? I want to make my mark on the world through journalism and this article feels right. It’s not just the thrill I’m after, even though I can’t lie. The adrenaline is unreal. I also feel like I have a purpose. Like my words are making a difference. Change is necessary. And my words are the spark that Bainbridge won’t see coming.
12
Pete
“Brick’s not coming home. I’m telling you, Pete, it’s been like this all week,” Ollie says, throwing his hands up in dismay.
“Dude, you’ve only been back for two days. I promise that you will see our goalie again,” I tell him, settling into my usual seat at our kitchen table and popping open the cooler I brought over from Gramma’s. I stocked it with a couple beers because our season starts back up in a few days, so tonight we’re all enjoying the last few hours of our holiday break.
Well, notallof us, which is why Ollie’s pissed.
“I went to all this trouble,” Ollie bitches, sweeping his hand across the kitchen for effect, “and no one gives a shit.”
“That’s not true, Olls,” Rosco says, stepping into the room and setting a plate on the counter. “I will always give you shit.”
Ollie flips him off, and Rosco just laughs, helping himself to a beer. The tell-tale hiss of a bottle opening is like a siren’s song that sends Mickey running in here withDean-o on his heels. I pass beverages in their direction, and the glare Dean gives me barely registers.
“Save it,” I tell him, putting a stop to his whining before it starts. “I’m not risking the teaching cert I don’t even have yet just so your underage ass can drink a beer.”
He grumbles but pops the top on his soda can and guzzles it down.
“Where is everybody?” Rosco asks, and I groan internally, knowing his question will inevitably send my linemate into a spiral once again.
“That’s a good fucking question,” Ollie says, right on cue. “Will’s on his way back, Van’s laid up at Josie’s, Kersey’s doing whatever Sophie tells him to, as usual, and JT is god-knows-where. He never calls, he never writes. I thought I’d make a nice meal we could all enjoy together?—”
“Dude, you ordered pizza and opened a couple bags of chips,” Dean says, clearly unimpressed with Ollie’s prowess in the kitchen.
“Yes, Dean, yes, I did. I got a pizza with green olives and pepperoni just for you because you love that shit for some inexplicable reason. And I got Will the honey barbecue chips he likes so damn much, and I got a fucking paper cut opening Mickey’s dill pickle chips. I even got kale chips for the greatest goalie who ever lived, but he’s never fucking home anymore. But you’re right, Deano, as always. I didn’t make the dough from scratch or pickle the cucumbers myself, so it means nothing to you fuckers.”
“Did you get any cinnamon twists?” Dean asks, proving the point that freshmen are oblivious.
Rosco stands and reaches for the tray he brought in, saving Dean’s life in the process. “Holland make cookies,” he tells us, a wide grin on his face.
“Did she lace them with arsenic?” Ollie asks, tossinghis oven mitts aside and letting his hand hover over the platter of sweets. “Because that woman is not your biggest fan.”
“She changed her mind,” Rosco says, his smile still in place.
The room goes quiet as we all stare at our teammate.
“The cookies are fine, I swear,” he says, plucking one off the plate and popping it into his mouth. “Holland and I were best friends when we were little kids. She never hated me,” he says, “we just drifted apart. We didn’t have much in common anymore. But then we got to the vacation house before the rest of our families did, and it turns out we have a lot more in common than we thought.” He stuffs another cookie in his face instead of elaborating, but we can all read between the lines.
“Hold up,” Dean says. “Holland’s the girl who picked you up to go to the airport right before break?” When Rosco nods, Dean keeps going. “The one who told you to hurry your ass up or she’d gladly leave without you?”
Mickey looks up from his phone for a second and huffs out a laugh. “No way I’m touching those cookies. Holland hates you as much as her bestie hates Santos.”
“Pay attention, Mick. The cookies are safe because Holland’s not gonna poison her boyfriend and cut off her daily supply of D,” Ollie corrects. “Besides, nobody hates anybody as much as Claire hates Pete.”
I wince at Ollie’s casual mention of Claire’s disdain for me, but also at his wording, so I’m gratified when Rosco reaches over to smack Ollie on the back of the head.
“Damn, Rosco,” Ollie says, whistling low. “This shit is for real?”
“As real as it gets,” Rosco confirms, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, it’s only been a couple weeks, but it just feels right. And we’ve known each other literally since we werebabies, so it’s just easy, comfortable. But still hot as hell. To those of you who haven’t taken the plunge,” he says, eyeing Mickey, Ollie, and me, “I highly recommend it. And you,” he says, looking at Deano. “No one knows how the hell you landed Anabelle, but keep doing it, man, because there’s no better feeling than finding your person.”
“Amen to that,” Dean agrees, clinking his empty soda can with Rosco’s beer.
