Chapter Five
Nine years ago
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
“Hmm.” I slant my head and narrow my eyes at the laptop screen. It’s an odd feeling, when a face I know by heart suddenly looks like a stranger. “It’s just so . . . blond.”
Parker’s hands fidget endlessly, long fingers running through his newly golden tresses. The rest of him is just as agitated, shifting around in his desk chair. “Tell me I don’t look like a Super Saiyan.”
“I’m getting K-pop vibes, if I’m being honest.”
“That’s what my teammates said.” He stares intensely, but not at me. He’s focused on his own image at the corner of the video call. With a dramatic sigh, he drops his hand onto his lap. “You know what, I’ll take it.”
“I will never understand the purpose of initiations. How does the color of someone’s hair determine their loyalty to a sport?” I roll my eyes. “Men are weird.”
“It’s not about the color of your hair. It’s about what you’re willing to give up for the team. Nothing says solidarity like humiliation for the sake of your boys.”
“Like I said, men are weird.”
There’s a knock on the door, and Marisa peeks her head in.
I glance at the time on my screen. She’s wrapped up her evening classes, but my roommate won’t be here for long.
When I first moved into the dorm, Marisa warned me that she gets cabin fever and prefers company on her outings.
That’s how I sometimes find myself on Broadway at two a.m. splitting a burrito.
“Skype?”
“I’ll be done in a bit.”
She makes kissy faces at me and moans a soft, “Oh, Parker!”, to which I hurl a pillow in her direction. “Meet later for the usual?”
Marisa’s “usual” changes by the day, making it anything but. That said, it’s Wednesday, and we both have early classes tomorrow, so she means the dining hall. I give her a thumbs-up and she leaves, but not without blowing me another kiss.
“Was that your roommate?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” I hope he didn’t hear her—and I really hope he can’t tell my face is burning up. I try to change the subject. “How’s practice?”
“Great. I get to use a gym with equipment more expensive than my car. Oh, and on game days, I can travel with the team and pretend to be a member.”
The coaching staff have redshirted Parker for his freshman year at U of O.
When I asked for layman’s terms, he explained that he won’t play any games this season, and it won’t count toward his four years of NCAA eligibility.
They assured him it was a strategic choice to get him in peak shape: He’ll gain the size needed to face college-level rushers, learn the team’s playbook, and even have time to focus on his studies.
Parker agrees with all of that. It’s just that, for someone who spends all of his time thinking about football, “no games for one year” is basically a prison sentence.
“It still must be exciting.” I try to sound encouraging. “I saw your team on TV! Do you think one year they’ll put you in Media Day too?”
“Not if I’m a benchwarmer,” he mutters.
Okay, shifting gears again. “How are your classes?”
He shrugs. “If I stayed awake during lectures, I could tell you.”
“Parker.”
“I’m kidding. They’re fine.”
I watch as he pulls his hoodie over his head.
The dark green sweatshirt with OREGON across the chest reveals a T-shirt underneath with the same logo.
Since his first day at college, I haven’t seen Parker wear anything but the team’s apparel.
He’s even decorated the walls of his dorm with team banners.
He stretches his broad arms and then brings his attention back to me. As if automatically, a smile emerges on his face. “What about you? Bet you love being an English lit major at Columbia.”
I nod. “My classes are all really interesting. Postcolonial Lit can be a bit of a snooze, but The Art of Murder is my favorite. Did I mention that before? We literally just talk about fictional murders. There was a whole class on beheadings.”
“You did mention it,” he laughs.
“I never know if people find this equally fascinating or totally morbid,” I muse, hugging my knees to my chest. “I was telling this guy about it—I met him at a mixer—and I couldn’t get a read.
Like, are beheadings that strange in a fictional context?
Did we all just collectively move on from Ned Stark in Game of Thrones? ”
“A mixer? Like at a frat house?”
“It was cohosted by my roommate’s sorority,” I tell him. “She invited me as her plus-one.”
“Oh.” Parker scratches at a spot on his neck. “I’ve never been to one. Is it like every other college party?”
“Well, there’s alcohol and a deejay. Sometimes they’re themed.”
“Do they actually let you drink?”
“Technically, they’re not allowed to,” I say. “But you know how these things go. Sometimes the older sisters sneak us drinks. They’re very careful, though. They always make sure we’re not alone.”
“So, you go to sorority parties, and you drink.” A crease appears between his brows. “College Dani is different.”
I level him with a razor-sharp glare. “College Dani isn’t going to miss out like I did in high school. I didn’t go to a single house party then! Now that I’ve moved all the way here, you better believe I’m going to make the most of it.”
“No, I get it, I get it. Just—I don’t know. Be careful, I guess.”
And with that, he disarms me. I know Parker is the last person who would judge; if there was a party within five miles of Silverpine, he was sure to be there.
I, on the other hand, spent my most exciting nights at home, in front of the TV.
I used to believe I was sparing myself the social anxiety—everyone already knew me as Parker Tran’s friend, and I didn’t need to draw more attention to that.
But I think what I was really afraid of was finding out I didn’t fit in with kids my age.
“I thought you’d be proud of me. No one loves a party like you do.”
“I can’t even think of partying right now,” he sighs.
“I’m training all the time, and when I’m not, I feel guilty and go to the gym.
Yeah, the guys drag me to dorm parties, but I don’t drink because I’m so paranoid about getting caught.
If you’re underage, they take that shit really seriously here. I could get kicked off the team.”
I try to decode his expression: a little frustrated, anxious even. Maybe it’s the blond hair washing him out, but when did he start looking so tired?
“It sounds like your entire college life revolves around football.”
“Well, yeah. I’m here on a scholarship. This isn’t high school varsity anymore; I play for a nationally ranked school now.”
“I know, but you’re only eighteen. You should be able to act like it sometimes.”
He frowns. “Are you telling me to party and get drunk?”
“No, I’m saying you can try to be a regular teenager too,” I retort. “A healthy balance might take a little pressure off you.”
Parker doesn’t respond. He’s preoccupied with the wire of his headphones, twisting it between his fingers.
I can’t help but recall the day the press release went out about his recruitment.
C? threw the closest thing to a block party Silverpine had ever seen.
It was early February, but the entire neighborhood dropped by to offer their congratulations and leave with a plate of food and cake.
Parker didn’t stop smiling once, even when Nathan hosed him down with an entire bottle of champagne.
It’s finally happening, he’d said to me.
Under the sun, his smile was radiant. As if his joy alone could control the weather, there wasn’t a single storm cloud in sight.
I remember wishing I’d taken a photo of him; it felt like the kind of moment you’re meant to preserve forever. I’m living the dream, Dani.
I wonder if this is all still part of that dream.
“Hey, if this doesn’t work out, you might have a promising career as a K-pop idol.” It’s a shot at making light. I can’t do much, but maybe I can make him laugh. “How are your dancing skills?”
But Parker is still too fixated on his headphones to look at me. “You don’t get it. This has to work out, Dani. Football is my whole life.”
After we hang up, I sit at my desk recounting the conversation in my head. I pick up my phone and find our chat, hoping it won’t irritate him to see my name again so soon. With much trepidation, I type out a text: Sorry if that joke was in bad taste. You know I’m always rooting for you.
But I decide against sending it, erasing the message as I leave the dorm to meet up with Marisa.