Chapter 3 Sabrina
As I rush across the nearly empty Hamilton Lakes High School parking lot, I’m grateful for the mid-August breeze.
I’ve been taking advantage of the last week before classes start to complete my fall kickoff to-do list, but my ponytail is drooping and my glow is becoming a lot more swampy than dewy.
This town might be small, but it’s big enough when you’re circling the square asking businesses to sponsor the homecoming dance so we can hire a real band, picking up T-shirt samples from the post office, and racing back home to get the stack of flyers you forgot to bring along in the first place.
For a minute, I let myself wish my dad were around to help me run the errands, or that Mom didn’t work twelve-hour shifts and could drop the papers off at school for me.
She’s taken to leaving me sticky notes all over the house with the funniest motivational quotes she can find—if she can’t be there personally to gas me up, she’ll do it from afar.
This morning’s? I learned a long time ago that worrying is like a rocking chair.
It gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.
And she’s right. I haven’t talked to Dad since he dropped me at the Charleston airport, and Mom loves her job and shouldn’t be spending her time chasing around after me, and it’s good for me to be busy. So. Less worrying, more flyer-distributing.
Speaking of which. I check the time on my phone, and it confirms the sinking feeling I got when I saw the deserted lot.
Football practice is definitely over, the players surely long gone.
And I was hoping to drop off the flyers so they can help advertise for the pep rally, since we all know they’re the main attraction anyway.
I really outdid myself: There are six different layouts, all profiling different players and the talents we might see them display at the pep rally, like Gabe’s juggling and Kai’s infamous body rolls.
And maybe part of this visit was to convince them to perform those talents at said pep rally.
I huff in frustration—this is what I get for falling behind schedule!
Whatever. I tighten my ponytail, cinching any threat of mess together with the ribbon, and march toward the locker room.
The sun still sets late, but golden hour is coming on strong, gilding the bleachers and goalposts and making everything look extra romantic.
The thought of those stands crammed with fans in just a few weeks fills me with a bubbling sense of possibility.
When home started to feel a whole lot less homey last year, family dinners rippling with tense moments I could only contribute to by trying to defuse them, the ease I’d always taken for granted at Hamilton Lakes High became even more precious.
That’s why I do all this—for that feeling of being part of one massive organism, shouting with the same lungs, hearts beating with the same urgency. Everything out of sight decidedly out of mind.
My step turns into a skip. My class is going to have the best senior year Hamilton Lakes High has ever seen, starting with this pep rally.
I’ll just leave the stack of flyers in the locker room and the team can grab them tomorrow.
I still have access to their group email, right?
If I shoot them a note later, it’ll all be fine.
I always say: Ask forgiveness, not permission.
The flyers are all printed up—what are they going to do, back out? No way.
By the time I make it to the locker room, tucked away at the far end of the field, my smile is firmly back in place even though there’s no one to see it.
I knock sharply several times just to be safe, even though the place seems deserted. “Hello?” I call. “All hot, naked football players, please speak now or forever hold your peace!”
I pause to listen. No response, of course.
I can’t help giggling at my own joke as I step over the threshold, holding my breath against the scent of sweaty socks and Axe body spray.
Hamilton Lakes keeps the locker room tidy, thank goodness—nary a jockstrap to be seen—but there’s nothing you can do to get the stench of teenage boy out of the place.
I’m just about to set the stack of flyers down on the table by the door—even distracted prepractice football players are bound to see them there, right?—when someone rounds the bank of lockers, nearly bumping right into me.
And that someone is in a towel.
My hands fly up, papers scattering across the floor, but I don’t even care.
There’s a bare, muscled chest inches from my face.
Close enough I can see the tiny sprinkling of hair dusting his pecs, the droplets of water he forgot to towel off glimmering against the golden glow of his summer-tan skin.
One more step and my face would be squashed against it.
“What the hell?” I squawk.
I take in his wide brown eyes, the hastily towel-dried, floppy brown hair, the strong ridge of his brow and bridge of his nose. A droplet of water traces down the column of his throat.
And that’s when I see the headphones he’s wearing.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” No wonder he didn’t hear me knocking.
He tugs them off and finally takes a giant step back. “What are you doing here?” he asks, eyes flicking around the empty locker room.
“Me?” My voice is higher pitched than I’ve ever heard it. “What are you doing here?”
His whole face creases in befuddlement. “I was in the shower?”
“I called out! I knocked! A lot!” It is imperative that this guy know I was not trying to sneak up on him in the shower. How do I make him understand I was not trying to sneak up on him in the shower?!
That’s when I remember the flyers and almost collapse in relief. I bend to pick them up, which has the added advantage of avoiding looking directly into the pecs of one of the most built football players I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Unfortunately, he stoops to help me. Chivalrous, I’ll give him that, but he has to clutch the towel at his waist with one hand to keep it from falling open, and, oh God, that thought is extremely distracting, and is this locker room especially steamy or—
“I’m sorry I didn’t hear you,” he says. “I—the headphones—I put them on when I got out—”
“Why are you still here?” I ask, my voice plaintive even to my own ears.
His is defensive. “I was practicing late! And it’s nice to have the showers to yourself!”
“If I had the showers to myself, I’d be playing my music out loud!”
“Felt presumptuous,” he mutters.
And then we reach for the last flyer at the same time, and his fingers brush mine, and I almost drop the whole stack again.
He looks up at me, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smile, and suddenly the ridiculousness of this whole situation is bubbling up inside me and I have to bite back the laughter. “Presumptuous,” I echo. “Yeah. You’re definitely the presumptuous one in this scenario.”
His lips twitch again, his face shifting into something goofy despite his intimidating stature.
I straighten up, holding out the stack of flyers for him. He stands a beat later, accepting them automatically. “For the team,” I say as I back toward the door. My whole face is ablaze, and I suddenly wish I were wearing something cuter than cutoffs and an old tank top.
“O… kay?”
I wave goodbye with both hands, for some reason, and then I’m through the door and can take in a big lungful of fresh air.
I close my eyes for one brief oh shit, what just happened?
moment before opening them and booking it across the field at double speed.
No time to savor the quality of light on the goalposts or the crows circling the trees when you’ve just mortified yourself in front of an extremely attractive guy.
Where did he come from? Who is he? And why, oh why did he have to be wearing headphones? !
I’m breathless by the time I climb into my car and jam the keys in the ignition. The engine turns over once, twice, three times.
“Not today, Satan,” I mutter under my breath.
After being handed down from my aunt to my cousin to me, this damn car is on its last legs and has been giving me trouble for over a year now.
But today is definitely not the time for it to break down.
Not when I need to make a clean getaway and consider fleeing the town entirely.
When the engine finally catches, I heave a sigh of relief and peel out of the parking lot as if the guy is chasing me.
It’s only when I hit the familiar shops of Main Street that my breathing stabilizes and my heart rate slows. And that’s when my brain starts working again.
Okay, so we had an awkward meeting. Big deal!
That’s never gotten me down before. Embarrassment is a state of mind.
I am certainly not going to let myself get flustered by another hot football player.
They’re a dime a dozen, and it’s not like I haven’t had my share of encounters with them over the years.
The way his afterimage is burned on my retinas doesn’t mean anything. Just that I was taken by surprise, and anyone would be a little hot and bothered after a face-first encounter with that much muscle. A girl can appreciate some nice aesthetics, can’t she?
Besides, there’s something more interesting to think about here.
I turn on the radio, clicking to the local college station, and start bobbing my head to the beat of the pop remix they’re playing.
A smile spreads across my face as I crowd out the pulse-racing electricity of that meeting with a fresh project.
There’s a new football player in town. One I don’t know about.
I manually crank down the window and let the breeze run its fingers through my hair as I start a new mental list. There are stories to unravel, special talents to discover, and a new player to celebrate.
It’s my Spirit Committee duty to welcome the guy to town, isn’t it?