Chapter 9
Logan
I wouldn’t call myself the king of great ideas, but neither have I ever been full of bad ones. Usually I fall somewhere in the middle, most of my ideas being solid with a few questionables thrown in. This? This feels like the worst decision in the world.
The idiocy of showing up to a high school lacrosse practice hasn’t stopped me from following through, which I’m blaming on the lethal combination of desperation and frustration.
In the last two weeks, I’ve had no forward progress with Lola, and nothing drives me madder than stagnation.
Hence my questionable dive into school records.
If nothing else, coming here is less dangerous than going to Savannah’s flat and discovering how it feels to kiss her, something I’ve been wanting to do for a full week now.
I’m still not sure how I managed to leave before I followed through with that desire last week, and I know better than to tempt fate. Which is why I asked her to drop my meals off at my door this morning instead of my usual pickup from her place. I told her I had a busy day.
I lied.
As I slip from my car, a sharp whistle pierces the air through the cacophony of teenage boys shouting and smacking lacrosse sticks against each other.
I slink forward, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the pitch where practice is in full swing.
There are a couple dozen lads in practice bibs and helmets on the grass, running around and passing a ball back and forth between their sticks.
As I watch, two boys slam into each other hard enough that I hear the impact.
I wince. They’re wearing pads, which likely means they’re not careful with their hits, and my shoulder hurts from watching the way they ram their own teammates without remorse.
Or maybe my shoulder hurts because of the hit I took in Friday’s match.
The hit was high, and while the Dallas player got a yellow card because of it, it put a fair dent in me.
Three days in, and I still have the bruises to show for it.
The only positive that came from the hit was the penalty kick Moxie sent between the posts, pushing the Thunder’s score up just enough to clinch a win.
The victory felt extra good after watching last week’s loss from the sidelines, even if the win came at a painful price.
The lacrosse coach blows his whistle, gathering all the boys to one side of the pitch. The side closest to where I’m standing.
I should leave before someone sees me creeping, but instead I pull the hood of my jumper over my head and press myself against the concrete wall next to me, keeping as out of sight as I can.
I just want to see them. Find out if we have anything in common aside from the woman who gave birth to us.
It’s ridiculous, thinking I can get any info by watching from a distance, but when I learned my half-brothers are on the school team, my curiosity grew too strong to ignore.
They’re clearly athletic, like I am, but do the similarities stop there?
With more than twenty teens on the pitch, it’s hard to distinguish one from another, but the one at the front of the pack pulls his helmet from his head, giving me a clear view of his face.
Kacen. Seventeen years old, team captain, bigger than most of his teammates.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his face resolute as he listens to his coach.
My stomach clenches when I take in his red-brown hair. So similar to mine.
Yeah, coming here was a terrible idea, but now I’m stuck, frozen as I watch Kacen nod along to whatever the coach is saying. He stands out from the others, especially compared to some of the boys shoving each other and playing with their sticks in the back.
The coach blows his whistle, and the team spreads out to run some sort of drill.
Kacen heads straight for one of the boys goofing off and hits him in the chest with his stick, not hard but enough to catch his attention.
Then he wraps his arm around the other kid’s neck and says something to him with a furrowed brow.
When the boy shoves him away with clear frustration, Kacen sighs and stuffs his helmet back onto his head, moving to the other end of the pitch.
Looks a lot like when I try to give tips to Bean.
“Shafer!”
At the shout from what I’m guessing is an assistant coach, the second boy flinches and drops his stick. “Yeah, Coach?”
“If you get your head out of your butt, you might actually play a game one of these days. Focus! Get out there before I make you run laps!”
Shafer. He’s the other brother. He grabs his stick and turns to join his teammates, but he pauses. Looking over in my direction.
Cursing, I grab my phone and pretend to text, as if that makes me standing here any less dodgy. To my surprise, I do have a text that I didn’t notice, and I keep my focus on that instead of the brother staring me down.
Moxie:
How’s the shoulder? Good for practice today?
No matter how much this man aggravates me sometimes, he keeps giving me reasons not to hate him.
Taking me off the starting line match before last made sense, and the Thunder don’t hate me any more now than they did two weeks ago, which in my book is an improvement.
I’ve gotten better too, knowing he’s keeping a close eye on me.
I’m actually quite proud of myself for holding back one particular comment during practice the other day. After Tink, the hooker, made some truly poor lineout throws, I almost told him that if he couldn’t figure out how to throw in a straight line, he might as well be playing for the other team.
Personally, I thought my double entendre would have been as funny as my assessment was accurate, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
And in our last match a few days ago, Tink didn’t have a single bad throw, so my critique wasn’t as warranted as I thought.
Moxie also let me back on the line for that one, and the lads were in a far better mood after winning than they’ve been in a long time.
A few of them even thanked me for taking the hit, speaking to me for the first time in weeks.
If I can use the momentum from that and keep improving things, we’ll all be better for it.
After a quick glance at the lacrosse pitch, making sure both Shafer boys are occupied, I type out a response to Moxie.
Logan:
A little bruising won’t stop me.
Moxie:
Mel wants to check you out before practice, just in case.
I roll my eyes. Mel, the team’s athletic trainer, is brilliant, but she’s also close with Moxie. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re conspiring together to keep me out of another match, but they know our chances of winning are higher if I’m on the pitch. Moxie needs me.
Logan:
Bruised. Nothing else.
Nothing except a lot more stiffness in my shoulder than I’m comfortable with and an inability to lift my arm without a sharp pain, but I’m not about to tell Moxie or Mel or anyone about that side effect.
I’ll get benched again for sure, and at this point the matches are all I have.
I’m no closer to a conversation with Lola, and it’s better if I keep my distance from Savannah before I start thinking of reasons to delay my return to Australia.
Aside from the ridiculous no-dating bet with the team, I don’t have enough counter-reasons to help me avoid getting closer to Savannah, so it’s taking everything I’ve got in me to stay away.
I flip to my text chain with her, studying the last few texts she sent me like I’ve been doing all day.
Savannah:
You could have given me your address right from the start, you know.
Am I just supposed to leave it all in the cooler outside your door? Usually I like to put everything in the fridge and freezer so nothing goes bad.
Are you home? I have some extra instructions to give you for the cordon bleu. It’ll be fast.
Guess not. Let me know if you have any questions.
Yes, I was home. Yes, I watched her via the doorbell camera as she frowned at her phone and typed out those texts to me. Yes, I badly wanted to open that door and wrap her up in my arms, which is why I didn’t let myself respond.
It’s better this way. Even if I hate it.
“Logan?”
I curse under my breath when a soft voice behind me, so familiar already, pulls my attention toward the parking lot and the woman standing a few feet from me with a box in her arms. Something softens in my chest at the sight of Savannah, like water pouring over a dry sponge.
I’m beyond glad to see her. And that’s a problem.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, drawing out the first word as she glances at the pitch behind me.
If anyone would understand my thought process, she might. She’s the only person aside from my parents who knows why I came to California in the first place. But the truth sticks to my throat, and the words that come out instead are gruff. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Scoffing, she nods toward the box she’s holding. “I’m working. I doubt you can say the same. I thought you were busy today.”
I ignore that comment, unwilling to lie again. “Food?”
She adjusts her hold on the box. “Post-practice snacks for the team. Kacen—uh, one of the Shafer boys—convinced the school to use some of the team budget to contract with me.” As soon as she stops talking, she drops her gaze to the box and refuses to meet my eyes.
“More clients,” I mutter as my chest grows tight.
She might be closer to the Shafers than I originally believed.
“That’s good.” And it is good. Savannah has a solid thing going for her and deserves some stability with her business.
But I can’t imagine this addition to her workload is enough to give her peace of mind, and I’m suddenly struck with the realization that aside from hiring her to make my meals, which is temporary, I’ve done nothing to help her business grow.
It would be so easy to bring up the notion of hiring a nutritionist to the Thunder’s owner. That’s literally all I have to do on my end of the bargain.