42. Kodi
CHAPTER 42
Fuck. FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK.
As Zeke and his cronies guide me through the crisp, immaculate hallways still smelling of fresh paint, down to the indoor rubber track and the indoor turf football field beyond, all I can think about is how fucking nice this goddamn sports complex is.
Curiosity beats out animosity in my mind, and I can’t help but ask. “When did Spitz Hollow build this?”
“Oh, Spitz Hollow didn’t. Spitz-Shein did,” The beefiest of the cronies says over his shoulder. He’s easily 6’5”, with a short, brown buzz-cut and a doughy face that’s wider on the bottom than it is on top. In fact, his head just sort of becomes his neck–not in a fat way, but in a way that reminds me of those old Cartoon Network animated shows from the 90’s. If he had a blonde pompadour, he would look like Johnny Bravo.
I squint at him. “Spitz-Shein?” Where have I heard that name before?
“Where we all work, across the street.”
Then I remember. Spitz-Shein is that start-up that Dr. Cratchet invests in. The one that seems to be kinda having a moment right now.
They make enough money to build a place like this?
Zeke opens his pouty mouth. “With the kinds of moves we’re making, we need facilities that can attract the best talent to our campus. It’s not like the bars around this shite town are going to get Google-caliber employees to move out here.”
“You moved out here,” I argue. “It’s nice around here.”
“Nice is a bit of a strong word. Quaint, maybe.”
“Twee,” another crone chimes in.
“Claustrophobic,” Johnny mutters.
I feel my hackles rise.
It’s one thing for me to feel claustrophobic in and around Tuft Swallow. I grew up here, got stuck here, was condemned to my fate here. It’s another thing entirely for some fancy-pants outsiders to come in, steal our jobs, erect a giant chode of a building, and then call our county twee.
My armpits ache from hobbling the mile and a half it feels like it takes to finally reach the visitor’s sideline. As I wait for the rest of our team to get back, I eye the shiny new boards and equipment scattered throughout the expensive space.
Shouts ring through the giant complex, and I look over towards the nearest entrance, where a small scuffle is taking place.
It seems that the Dirty Hookers, the local knitting and craft circle, brought along Winston for the game. Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem, as the county cornhole matches have always been outdoors. No other town can afford some kind of indoor arena to host games in. The closest thing we have to compare it to is the community ice skating rink in Robin Springs.
But in the new, sparkling Spitz-Shein Sports Complex, the appearance of a dirty goat in an orange-and-turquoise afghan is causing a kerfuffle.
“He’s our mascot!” Mrs. Dougherty shouts at two employees who currently bar the entrance.
“Ma’am, only service animals are allowed–”
“He’s my service animal,” a low growl rumbles from the open doorway. “Here’s his vest.”
It’s a good thing the rest of the team is still out taking care of the cornhole boards, because I’m pretty sure Lily might have a heart attack if she were to see Winston’s Hot Daddy making puppy eyes while holding up a (likely never worn) service vest for our town mayor.
The giant man pushes past the gaping faces of the complex employees to affix the vest on Winston, tucking it underneath the various crocheted accoutrements. The rest of the Hookers follow him in single-file with arms full of turquoise scarves and orange blankets to hang from the bleachers.
Some of the other Tuft Swallowers begin to arrive, and they tote with them just about everything you can think of in the town colors. Flags, seat cushions, jackets, shirts, banners–you name it. They spread out like a stain over the sterile, pristine space, and it warms my heart to see it.
A minute later, Lily and Brian lead the rest of the team over to the bench where I’ve been resting. About half the players oooh and aaah like tourists gazing up at the Empire State Building for the first time as they take in the facility around them. Geneva points at Winston and waves at her parents in the stands. The other half have their game faces on.
“Alright, everyone, huddle up!”
They gather around my crippled ass on the bench, and I take in a deep breath to center myself. When I open my eyes, Brian is right across from me in the huddle, carrying the extra drinks cooler with Nick.
He gives me that heart-stopping smile of his, his color-changing eyes reflecting the turquoise of all the banners behind me, and his confidence gives me strength.
“These Spitzers are a bunch of soft-handed, tech-bro pansies!” I shout out, and the group all hoots and hollers in agreement. “They had to build this fancy-ass complex because they’re too pampered at their cushy jobs to step outside into the fresh air!”
“They don’t even carry their own boards!” Lily adds.
“Yeah, and their colors are boring!”
I hold up my hand, trying to suppress my grin at the interruptions, but failing. If there’s one thing that can get us Tuft Swallowers fired up, it’s making fun of Spitz Hollow.
I can tell that the team is blindsided by the new building, and the clear influx of money into our rival’s town. Even I’m shaken. Adding that stress to the already raging imposter syndrome I feel with my injury, and it’s just about everything I can do to muster up the fire for this pep talk. If Brian wasn’t here, I’m not sure I could.
“But you know what we have that they don’t?”
The team chimes in answers.
“Heart!”
“Winston!”
“More afghans and ponchos than you can shake a feather at!”
I laugh. “Yes, haha, all of that–but we also got one other thing.”
They look at me with anticipation, and Brian nods.
“The fucking BEST CORNHOLE TEAM IN THE GODDAMN LEAGUE!”
Everyone erupts at that, and I pick up steam. “Think of all the cornhole legends that have walked past our founder’s statue in the town square on their way to victory. Peter Harrelson. Harry “Chugs” Lebowitz. Genie “Hip Bump” Bouchard. And of course, my predecessor, 54-year reigning team captain John “The Toss” Bosco.”
“May he rest in peace,” the team chants.
“These are our mentors,” I say, gaining momentum, feeling the spirit of all of our past champions flowing through my veins. “These are the legends we carry on, for ourselves, for our progeny, for TUFT SWALLOW!”
“For Tuft Swallow!”
“WHO ARE WE?”
“The Mighty Swallows!”
“WHO? ARE? WE??”
“THE MIGHTY SWALLOWS!!”
At the swell of pride from the team, the Tuftettes, our rag-tag cheering squad comprised of young girls and boys and their dance moms, start chanting to psyche up the crowd. The giant gymnasium fills with the sound of a bunch of toddlers and what feels like the whole town spelling out “aggressive” as the little girls wave their sparkly pom-poms and their moms take dozens of pictures with their iPhones.
The noise and the adrenaline fill my chest, and Brian drops the cooler of drinks and thrusts his hand into the circle. My stomach clenches.
“Mighty Swallows on three!” He shouts.
Everyone throws their hands on top of his and we all join our voices as one.
“One, two, three–Mighty Swallows!”
“Let’s go out there and fucking corn some holes!”
I collapse back onto the cold metal bench. Somehow, I’d risen to my feet during my little speech. The players scatter with their partners to their starting lineup: Lily and Callie on board one, D’Shawn and Geneva on board two, and Tammy and Cooper on board three. Piper, Mr. Landon, Ginger, and the others are on deck for the second round.
Our little county cornhole league is not huge. We only have a handful of teams: The Spring Chickens, Robin Springs (The Fightin’ Robin’s), The Eagle’s Peak Dolphins (don’t ask me why they insist on being called the Dolphins—apparently, some shithead in their town stuffed the ballot box on mascot day and was never caught), us, and of course, Spitz Hollow. We make sure every team gets to play every other team at least twice to fill out the summer schedule, before starting our playoff bracket in August.
While the early season games are smaller because most towns are still filling up their rosters for the season, these mid-season games have three rounds of three so everyone gets a chance to play. In the beginning of the season, we actually had more players than we do now, so almost all of our tossers are going to have to play twice, especially now that I’m on the bench.
Brian sits beside me, and Nick next to him as the players tee off against the red shirts. The loudest, most obnoxious buzzer I’ve ever heard in my life rips out of the giant speakers in the ceiling, and it’s off to the races.
Thankfully Rowenna, the leader of the Tuftettes, brought a boombox along to play music for the pom squad to dance to, so it’s not completely silent as the first round begins.
The brand-new, freshly painted boards across the field reflect the fluorescent lights directly into my eyes, practically blinding me from actually observing the game. I begin to wonder if it’s sabotage. The boards are painted the SH colors of red and white: the red ones on our side facing the home team, and the white ones on their side facing us. It’s immediately clear how much they’re affecting the players, as players from both teams that are situated on the home side are playing better than the ones in front of us.
The other thing I notice is the colors of the bags. Spitz Hollow’s bags are black, which stand out from both of the boards easily, making it easy to gauge and aim, but the bags they gave our team are this shitty red-and-white gingham that read horribly on both boards. Add that to the fact that half of our players are blinded by the reflections, and even our best players have their bags slipping off the boards half of the time.
While we started out pumped, morale quickly dips once it becomes clear that we’re behind in the first round. D’Shawn and Geneva are in the lead with their match, but the others are floundering. To my despair, Lily and Callie are the first to lose their match; a giant, glaring red “1” appears on the scoreboard next to HOME and five minutes later, the score sits at 2:1, Spitz Hollow.
Brian rubs my back and I bite my lip as the players gather round the bench before the second period. Nick passes out Gatorades. Pharrel’s Happy blares annoyingly from Rowenna’s boombox as the Tuftettes do their prepared half-time dance beside us. On the other side of the field, the older, more promiscuous cheer squad for Spitz Hollow start doing a suggestive pom routine to Cherry Pie that seems equally inappropriate for the current mood of the match, albeit for different reasons.
“I can’t see a damn thing out there! And those plastic boards they have are super slippery. Who can play with those?” Lily kicks her foot into the turf as if she’s attempting to fold it up like carpet.
D’Shawn nods. “Seriously. We haven’t practiced on plastic boards before. All of our sliding moves are useless.”
“You seemed to adjust well, though,” I point out. “Got any tips?”
He nods. “You gotta arc the bags high. If they don’t land almost perpendicularly to the board, they’re gonna sail right off.”
“I threw all mine like this.” Geneva demonstrates a clumsy underhand throw. I clap my hands together.
“Alright then, that’s the strategy. We’ve practiced this, you guys: high arcs like the ones to sink hanging chads. Only do low tosses if you need to knock one off. Sound good?”
Nods all around. Not nearly as enthusiastic as they were twenty minutes ago.
“Okay. Ginger? Mr. Landon? You’re on board one. Jonah and Delilah, you’re on board two. Now go out there and show the world how unbeatable the Mighty Swallows really are!”
The buzzer sounds again, and the second string drifts off to their places. Brian leans into my ear.
“Do you think all this new equipment and stuff was on purpose?”
“Oh I absolutely do,” I whisper back. “They’re playing dirty.”
“It seems a little silly for something like cornhole.”
I stare at him, eyes wide. “Dude, this is like, the most important thing in Hawkthorne County. Teams try to cheat all the time.”
“Try?” He smirks. “What do you mean, try?”
“Well, there aren’t many ways to cheat at cornhole. People almost always get caught. We’ve got an intra-team Board of Standards that checks out the specs of every play field and all the equipment before each match, too.”
“Wait—seriously?”
His jaw drops. I bob my head emphatically. “Oh yeah. Honestly, I’m surprised they allowed these new boards in the first place. I mean, I guess they’re the same for all players, so it isn’t technically cheating, but the fact that only Spitz Hollow can afford new equipment and they’re the only ones who’ve practiced on plastic boards is kinda bogus. I wonder if we could find a few online to practice on…”
My mind is already racing with ideas for how we can better prepare for the next match. I zone out for a second, thinking of places that might sell plastic cornhole boards (I mean, seriously. Who plays on plastic boards??) when a kiss to my temple interrupts my thoughts.
“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?”
“Huh?”
I look up, and Brian’s eyes are doing that color-shifting thing again as he meets my gaze. “You’re already thinking of how the team can train to be better, aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “That’s my job.”
He pulls me in close next to him, and puts his finger under my chin, tipping my head so his lips aren’t even a breath away from mine. “The way you asked D’Shawn what he did to win, and engaged everyone in their own moves to improve…that was good work. Good captain-ing.” My heart beats in overtime as his compliment makes my chest glow. “You’re a champion, baby girl.”
Heat rushes up to my cheeks as he claims my lips with his, right there on the bench, in front of the whole town. If I were a Looney Tunes cartoon, little wings would have sprouted on my feet and wrists and I’d have floated into the air. With just the slant of his pillowy lips gently nipping onto mine, my insides melt away, and my heart feels a million times lighter as my head fills with helium.
“Wow,” I whisper as he pulls away. He grips my shoulder and squeezes me in close.
“Yeah. My words exactly.”
The buzzer stabs through our bubble, and with a jump I turn my head to the scoreboard.
Shit. 5-1.
The Spitz Hollow asshats all break out in gross growls and jeers of celebration as my players trudge back to our sideline. The Tuftettes break out into a pre-school rendition of “Single Ladies,” their tight spiral-curled ponytails bouncing in the fluorescent light. The crowd behind us starts murmuring and muttering amongst themselves behind me, and I can feel their worry and worse—their judgment—aimed at the huddle forming around the bench.
“I can’t see a goddamn thing out there,” Ginger sneers. “Seriously, who’s idea was it to make the boards Vanta White?”
“I don’t think Vanta White is a thing.” Mr. Landon sneezes then, making Ginger jump back in disgust. “Just Vantablack.”
“Whatever you want to call it, it’s obnoxious, and between that and the gross warehouse lighting in this dump, I’m feeling super off my game.”
Brian squeezes my hand, and I take a deep breath. Don’t yell at her. Try to be encouraging. Don’t be so hard on everybody. “Ginger, nobody’s blaming you. It was totally a dick move on their part.”
“Yeah, Kodi, I know no one’s blaming me. Why would they? I’m fucking great.”
I hold back an eye roll, and glance back up at the field. It’s then that I notice that half of the Spitzers that were playing in the last round have sunglasses on. At first, I assume it’s just because they’re the type of assholes that wear sunglasses inside, but then it clicks, and a growl builds in my throat.
Those fucking bastards.
“Were they wearing sunglasses when they played last round?”
Mr. Landon looks over his shoulder at the players, and nods. “Yeah. I thought that was odd…”
“Quick, who has sunglasses with them?”
Ginger, Geneva, Lily, Nick, and D’Shawn raise their hands. I rub my hands together, forming a plan.
“Okay, this round we’re five teams against five, which means we still have a chance to beat them or get them down to a tiebreaker. Nick, give your glasses to Jonah. We’re going to have the five of you with sunglasses face the white boards next round, which should at least help with you not having to squint so much. As for the slippery boards…I can’t do anything about that, but if we follow the original plan of high underhand throws we might be able to at least get back on the board.”
Single Ladies ends, and a lukewarm round of applause scatters through the indoor arena. The buzzer blares once again.
I try to fill my voice with as much motivation as I can muster. “Alright, y’all, get out there and show everyone that the Mighty Swallows don’t give up!”
Ginger mutters about my use of the word “y’all,” and the rest of the team scurries away in higher spirits than they huddled with. They’re still pretty subdued, though.
Meanwhile, the home crowd has started chanting on the other side. Only, instead of cheering on their own players, they’ve come up with a couple rhymes to specifically call out and insult our players. None are particularly clever. But when they break out into “Gander’s on the bench / Her team can’t bear the stench,” I feel my hackles rise.
Brian narrows his eyes at them. Ginger, however, laughs, and I remind myself to punch her in the face later. My pocket vibrates, and when I pull out my phone I can see that Lily texted me.
Lily
dont let them get2u
When I look up, I can see she’s holding her phone behind her back and typing it one-handed, to avoid getting caught by the refs with her phone out. For some reason, the board decided that texting on the field was cheating a few years ago. I’m torn between shouting at Lily to put her phone away, and thanking her for the encouragement.
That thought evaporates, however, when the red-and-white fans change gears and focus their less-than-stellar poetry skills on her.
“Coo-ley’s such a ditz / Her only asset is her tits!”
“Fowl!” I call out to the refs. But I’m too late. Lily stomps across the field, heading for the head cheerleader with the megaphone.
“This is a family sport!”
But as I’m shouting, my best friend reaches the squad and grabs one of the scantily-clad dancers by the ponytail, and all hell breaks loose. Whistles erupt through the space and both crowds start booing—or in the case of a group of teenage Spitz Hollow boys sneaking beer behind the bleachers, hollering inappropriate words of encouragement.
By the time the refs separate the two women, the cheerleader’s limping away with a torn skort and Lily’s got a massive shiner blooming an angry red around her left eye. As she’s escorted back to our side of the arena, I notice a tuft of blonde hair hanging limply in her clenched fist.
The ref approaches me. “You know the rules, Gander. If a team throws punches, they forfeit the match.”
“What?” I thrust my hand out, gesturing to Lily. “Look at that black eye and tell me that she’s the one who threw hands.”
He shakes his head. “Not how it works, missy. Cooley’s a player. Fans are off-limits. That’s the rules.”
“Didn’t you hear their chant?? They were egging her on! Unsportsmanlike conduct!”
Tears are springing to my eyes, and I try to blink them back. I grab my crutches and force myself to stand right in the ref’s face.
These guys aren’t playing fair!
Lily hangs her head. The rest of the team circles around to get an understanding of what’s going on. I keep arguing with the ref, until Brian comes up behind me and puts his hand on my shoulder.
I shrug him off. No, dammit. It’s one thing to lose. It’s another thing to fucking forfeit on a technicality.
I wasn’t taught to play like this. This isn’t how Kodi Gander runs a team.
Suddenly, the other ref is standing in the center of the turf field, and his voice crackles over the intercom. “Mighty Swallows forfeit by foul play. Victory goes to Spitz Hollow.”
My mouth goes dry, all the extra water going straight to my tear ducts. No amount of blinking can keep the hot, angry rivers from rushing down my face. Brian reaches out again to calm me down, but I wave my crutch at him.
“This isn’t over, dammit!” I scream at the centerfield ref. “I’m appealing this call to the board!”
“Kodi, no,” Lily mumbles beside me. “It was my fault, okay? I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault! It was fucking–”
“Easy there, Gander. You might take flight if you keep waving those crutches like that.”
My shoulders tense, and I slowly turn at the smug, irritating British drawl behind me. “Go fuck yourself, Zeke.”
“You mean like you fucked my ex?”
All the air whooshes from my lungs as the circle around us goes eerily quiet. I feel Brian stiffen behind me, and it’s like Zeke’s words are a suckerpunch to both of us at once.
As quickly as the post-game chatter disappeared, a swell of whispers rise to fill its absence, mine and Brian’s names audible within them. I shake my head at Zeke, furious not just at him, but at myself, because my gut reaction is to shout “We haven’t even done it yet!”
But that would only make Zeke more smug, wouldn’t it? It would only widen that cocky smirk across his face, deepening that infuriating dimple in his cheek, and worst of all, convince him that Brian and I aren’t actually as serious as everyone thinks we are.
I want so badly to look back at Brian, to see what he’s thinking in reaction to all of this, but he’s still a foot away from me since I shrugged him off earlier. His comfort, that I threw in his face mere seconds ago, is now the only thing I need to get through this unbearably awkward moment.
His comfort? No, that’s not right. He told me earlier that he needed me when it came to Zeke. I’m supposed to be comforting him.
“Did I hit a nerve, Gander?”
“Fuck off, asshole.” This time, it’s Nick that speaks up, and while Zeke appeared confident when facing off against just me and Brian, he shrinks back a little when the former MMA fighter steps forward and rolls up his sleeve. “Seems like you’re a little confused. This cornhole is a family-friendly event. The kind you’re talking about doesn’t have a place here.”
Great. I can’t even come up with my own comeback for this asshole.
The Spitz Hollow captain smirks at him. “All is fair in love and war, Duckie.”
I want to speak up, talk back, but the anger swirling in my chest is choking any words from coming out. The refs are stalking toward us, the fans are all listening in, and I feel cornered.
Anything I say is just going to get twisted somehow. I can’t get myself out of this.
My gut lurches.
I can’t get Brian out of it, either.
“Well in case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t either of those,” D’Shawn rumbles. The refs are only feet away from us now.
Just before they break us up, Zeke opens his fuckboi mouth, and his words pierce right through my ribcage.
“I think your Captain would disagree.”