Chapter 39 Chelsea
Chelsea
Two months later
A suburb of Columbus, Ohio
IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT now. I’m lying in bed in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by purple walls and math posters, while working on the team spreadsheet I’ve been meticulously building all season.
When I’m all done with this latest masterpiece, it will help me perform a detailed, sweeping analysis about this past season and every player’s performance so we can identify and prioritize the areas most requiring improvement next season.
It’s batshit crazy of me to be working on this now, mere days after the end of the regular season, especially considering we’re not one of the lucky teams in the playoffs this season.
I should be relaxing before tomorrow’s big day of revelry in honor of my father: Ohio State’s Hall of Fame induction ceremony in the morning, the fancy luncheon attended by all manner of Buckeye luminaries after that, and the big, blowout after-party my mother’s throwing here at the house tonight.
But I don’t care if I’m a nutjob for working hard on this now.
I can’t help myself. After the Mastodons’ improbable winning streak that closed out the season, I’m now feeling way too inspired and optimistic about what lies ahead when training camp kicks off again in six short months or so to take a single day off from working to make us better.
Hopefully, after the way we finished up the season, Dad will be able to convince Bellamy to finally take an open-minded look at all the data and analyses I’ve been supplying to the coaching staff lately.
Dad told me that’s his plan: to persuade Bellamy to change his tune about analytics before our next season starts.
Recently, he told Ginny about everything I’ve been doing, and he said she seemed highly interested and deeply impressed, so I’m hoping Bellamy will have a similar reaction.
I’m not holding my breath for that, though.
Even so, even if my spreadsheets never lead anywhere for me at the Mastodons, I’m not going to stop making them. A fish needs to swim. A bird needs to fly. And Chelsea Parker needs to make spreadsheets and perform multi-level analyses to feel like the best version of herself.
I realize I could probably get a job at another team by now.
One with an analytics department. But the truth is I’m way too thrilled about the way the Mastodons ended their season to even think about jumping ship now.
Why would I want to go to a perennial winner now, when I could be part of doing something unexpectedly great with an underdog?
As I’m still clacking away, a text pops onto the corner of my computer screen.
Luca: Look outside your window, Juliet.
Oh, God. Is he insane? My entire extended family is asleep in this house in anticipation of tomorrow’s multiple celebrations. What if someone sees him down there?
Luca doesn’t know this, but I’m going to tell my father and brother about Luca tomorrow night at the big soiree.
And once that’s done, I’m then going to drag Luca somewhere private and tell him the words I’ve barely been able to keep out of my mouth for weeks now, the magic words I never thought I’d be willing to say first: “I love you.” And I certainly can’t do that, at least not in the way I’m imagining it, if Luca gets caught skulking around my parents’ backyard in the dead of night, and I’m forced to explain what the heck he’s doing here underneath my window.
I bolt out of bed and stride to my window. And sure enough, my own personal Romeo is looking up at me from two stories below with a self-satisfied grin on his face.
Damn that man! I throw up my hands with reproach, chastising him for his recklessness, but Luca’s blazing smile tells me he’s deeply amused and proud of himself. He motions for me to open my window, but when I shake my head and scowl, he grabs his phone and taps out a text.
Luca: Open your window and say your line, Juliet!
Me: This isn’t even a balcony. And you’re playing with fire.
Luca: Come on, baby. I ask for so little.
Me: My father has a gun. Are you trying to get yourself killed?
What’s wrong with this man? Every single person in the Mastodons organization, other than my father and me, are staying at a large hotel booked by our benefactor for the trip, Ginny.
Surely, plenty of people who know Luca well were hanging out in the hotel bar or otherwise near the lobby when he left earlier.
What if someone saw him and thought it suspicious he was heading out by himself at this late hour?
Luca: Not killed, no. Just laid.
I can’t help but snort at that, despite how livid I am with him for taking such a huge risk, especially on the eve of my big reveal.
Me: How did you know which window was mine?
Luca’s never been to Columbus, let alone to my childhood home, and this is a big house.
When Dad got the job with Ohio State way back when, he used his new, cushy paycheck to buy a house that was big enough to host all his players, and also his two sons’ teammates, for pool parties and barbeques and such.
Luca: From that cute story you once told me in a film review sesh about the baby birds hatching in a nest outside your teenage window. I walked the perimeter and confirmed this is the only window near a tree that’s big enough to hold the nest you described.
I’m flabbergasted. Floored. I told Luca that brief, throwaway story at least two months ago, and it’s not like it was some big, poignant moment in my life. The fact that he filed that information away and used it to hunt me down now is deeply impressive.
Luca: So, can I come up? You look insanely hot up there, Juliet. Romeo’s got a bon-e-o for you.
Again, I can’t help but laugh.
Shoot.
I’m beyond tempted.
As a schoolgirl, I was always too focused on my studies, math club, and football to bother with boys. If I say yes to this, it’ll be the first time I’ve ever sneaked a boy into my teenage bedroom, and that’s a huge turn-on.
Me: If you must.
Luca: I MUST. Open your window and step back, Juliet. I’m coming up!
I do as I’m told and watch in awe as Luca effortlessly climbs the trunk of the tree, swings on a branch that bridges the gap between the tree trunk and the facade of the house, hurtles himself toward my window like a flying squirrel, and then pulls himself up and over the sill.
“Hi, Juliet,” he says brightly once he’s standing before me. “Your secret boy toy is hard and reporting for duty.”
“You’re so crazy.”
He winks. “Only for you.”
“You’d better hope and pray my father didn’t see you and think you’re a burglar.”
“If he saw me, I’d be dead by now, so I think I’m good.”
He’s probably right about that. “Did your parents get in okay?”
“Yep, they’re at the hotel. Daisy, too.”
“She texted me.”
He looks around the bedroom, taking in his surroundings. “This room is so you. I love it.”
He always says stuff like that: comments that hint indirectly about his love for me.
We haven’t talked about it, but I’m certain Luca’s figured out we can’t say those three little words to each other until the season is over, which it is now, and we’ve figured out how to move on from there, which we haven’t done just yet.
If I’m wrong about that and Luca isn’t waiting around for some kind of a green light from me to say it, then tomorrow’s big reveal and the “I love you” I’m planning to say won’t go according to plan.
“This room is exactly the way I left it when I went off to college,” I say. I motion to a far wall covered in math-related posters. “Believe it or not, I thought those were edgy and cool when I hung them up.”
He laughs. “They’re not?”
“Nope. You only appreciate them because you’re a diehard mathlete, like me.”
“That must be it.”
While most high school girls, at least the ones I knew, had walls decorated with boy bands, anime, and/or tributes to their favorite Broadway musicals, my walls were (and still are) covered with images I only now realize were probably created for elementary-school classrooms—posters bearing phrases like, “Never argue with a ninety-degree angle: IT’S ALWAYS RIGHT. ”
“Ooh, a trophy shelf,” Luca murmurs, as he strides over to check it out with enthusiasm.
“From math competitions,” I murmur, following him over.
We talk about my various achievements, plaques, and trophies for a bit, but then Luca moves on to the adjacent shelf—one crammed with all manner of books.
“Are those diaries?” he asks, zeroing in on a row of neatly lined-up books marked with consecutive years on their spines. Crap.
“Yeah, I’ve kept a diary every year since age thirteen.”
He’s lit up. “Can I read them?” He slides his fingertip across several spines, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence his finger stops abruptly on the one marked with the year of our first meeting as teenagers.
“Sorry, no. Nobody’s allowed to read my diaries.”
“Seriously?”
When I nod, Luca frowns.
“I promise,” he coos, “whatever naughty teenage hijinks you wrote about, I won’t think less of you.”
I’d grin at his cute joke if I weren’t feeling so stressed. Luca knows I got into zero naughty teenage hijinks. But as it is, I’m too freaked out about him yanking that particular diary off the shelf to crack a smile or play along.
“You’re not missing out on much,” I say, trying to sound relaxed and casual. “I was always so paranoid about one of my brothers secretly reading my precious, innermost thoughts that nobody actually cared about, I wrote everything in code.”
“In code? Like a cipher?”
“No, nothing that elaborate. More like I wrote everything in a way that only I’d be able to understand.”
“Okay, so why can’t I read them, then?”
Shit. He’s made a good point. Fuck. “It’s a matter of principle. The way you do anything is the way you do everything. They’re filled with my private thoughts, Luca.”
Frowning, Luca’s gaze returns to that one specific diary and lingers, so I decide to prove my point while simultaneously throwing him off the scent. Quickly, I pull a diary off the shelf—one from the year I turned fifteen—and open it randomly.