Long Hot Summer

Chapter One

Walking Cyclone

Jordan

The massive blue truck flies past my Civic with a petulant blowing of his horn that fuels my blazing road rage.

‘Oh, don’t you … don’t you dare,’ I shout to no one, except maybe the Bo-Peep-themed frog on my dashboard.

Ice cubes clink in my pink and orange polka-dotted Stanley in the cup-holder as I shoot forward in my tiny car, willing little Madonna, as much as she’s already puttering dangerously, to add just a hint more of speed to this chase.

This truck has been weaving into my lane for the last half-hour, and now he has the audacity to cut me off? Absolutely not.

‘Hang on,’ I tell the frog, before slamming the gas and popping out into the right lane, rounding the truck. He flashes me a particularly impolite gesture. I glare straight ahead, and before he can fight me on it, yank the steering wheel to retake my spot in the left lane.

Something slams around so loudly in the trunk, I think the car’s losing a tyre. It’s most likely my hot-pink luggage bag, and my prized possessions, my lacrosse sticks. A sea of Spanglish curses tumbles on out. My mom would have my mouth washed out with soap.

It only takes one glance back out of nervousness for me to slam my elbow into the top of my Stanley, and out comes another colourful expletive, coupled with a gush of very spicy-smelling, very cold liquid all over my lap and cup-holders, which I soon realize is my mother-loving iced chai.

Everywhere. On my jeans, my boots, the driver’s seat.

‘Holy shit!’ I squeak, my arms held gingerly above the hot (technically cold) mess, my throbbing elbow the least of my concerns, because I’m sitting in an island of chai and ice cubes.

My sunglasses askew, I adjust them, still cursing, still glaring at the truck in my rear-view as he rolls his eyes and continues to show me the bird.

I’ve already been on edge the entire drive here.

A livid tailgater was the last thing I needed to send me into hysterics.

‘Exit, c’mon …’ I mutter as I scout out the signs, hoping there’s a decent gas station nearby so I can mop up this explosion.

I check the GPS. The next exit takes me out to Whittaker itself: my destination.

This really doesn’t need to be much harder than I’m making it.

Jordan, you had one job. Just the one. Technically, two.

One, get to Whittaker in a single piece, and two, to work my ass off this summer.

I picked up the position on recommendation from the team manager of the Rhode Island Reapers – my manager – and I should probably do my best to keep all my ducks in a row to prove to her that I’m competent, not to mention worthy of captaincy next year. It’s a great big pony show.

As I squint at the green and white sign coming into my view, the dashboard display lights up with an incoming phone call. Oh, God. With an insistent jab of the ‘Accept’, I manage a ‘What’s up?’

‘You sound out of breath,’ May says, stating the obvious, of course. ‘Are you good?’

‘Perfectly fine.’ I pretend my hands aren’t covered in chai as I manoeuvre the steering with one hand and gingerly fish a plastic water bottle from the cup-holders with the other, unscrewing the cap. ‘I’m late.’

‘When aren’t you?’ my best friend snorts. ‘Showing up to games in street clothes. Old habits die hard, huh?’

Naturally, she’d know. Not only did May Velasco and I play lacrosse together since grade school, parting ways recently after college, but we were also inseparable in all other aspects: school clubs, showing cattle, rodeo, causing problems for all the adults by hosting kegs on our respective ranches.

Unfortunately, one of us grew out of being the walking cyclone constantly creating chaos, and the other one definitely didn’t.

‘Oh, shut up.’ I take a swig of water before shoving the bottle back into the cup-holder and reaching towards the glove box, rooting around blind.

No napkins? Seriously? ‘I really am late. I spent forever packing shit in this car, and some idiot has been riding my ass the last thirty minutes, and now there’s chai everywhere. ’

‘Well. Miss Thing, it was a, what, two-hour drive,’ May points out unhelpfully. ‘Little early to be falling apart.’

‘I’m aware of that, Einstein.’

‘You can go back to Warwick whenever you want. Oh,’ she pauses, ‘I forgot. You’re the pack rat to end all pack rats.’

I scoff and pull the Civic into the next exit ramp while trying to comb a melting ice cube out of my dark hair. ‘That is so mean. I hope you know.’

She’s not wrong. I’m the kind of person who travels with her entire arsenal, or not at all.

I pack everything I even remotely think I’ll need (just in case).

I think there’s a plug-in panini-maker somewhere in this mess.

Plus, hell if I’m returning to Rhode Island and wasting all that gas.

As long as I’m in the off-season, I’ll be staying out here, and even if that means panini-maker in tow, I’m not budging once I’m all settled down in Massachusetts.

‘I know. Trust me. And, while I’m here …’ Sheer snark enters May’s voice with her next question. ‘I know damn well why you’re nervous.’

The teasing in my best friend’s tone makes me want to bury my head in my steering wheel so hard that I lean on the horn and scare the poor driver of the sedan in front of me out of their wits.

‘How’s it gonna feel working with Rodney … sorry, Hot Rod Wilson?’

‘Stop it,’ I chide her. She’s not going to drop the topic, but a girl can hope. I’m fighting about forty different battles as I turn into the parking lot of the dinkiest gas station I’ve ever seen, and the Rod Wilson battle is totally the least of my concerns.

‘You’re driving nervous,’ May pushes. ‘You’re not a nervous driver. You’re that bitch who guns it on the four-wheeler. Admit it.’

‘Admitting nothing.’

‘Admit it!’ she repeats more insistently. I’m usually the one who manages the crash-outs in this friendship. May, for the record, tends to cause them. And I’m about an inch shy of one right now.

‘I’m going to be his co-coach, May,’ I say, even as my fingers twitch on the steering. ‘No crush included.’

‘But,’ May counters, ‘you’ve met him. Doesn’t that make it more real?’

That’s the silly thing about crushes, actually.

It’s one thing to recite every Rodney Wilson/New Haven Woodchucks career-best stat from memory.

It’s another thing to see him, really see him, back in Oklahoma.

May’s boyfriend, Colt, is a big-time professional lacrosse captain for the New Haven Woodchucks, and when he visited home last spring, Rod, his best friend and teammate, came along to drop by a practice.

It’s fun to have a celebrity crush. It makes for great conversation fodder when you’re shooting the shit with your team, or sipping iced tea with your friends.

It’s just that meeting him in person was a whole lot different than the golden-haloed, all-American boy in the media.

He’s gotten this dumb nickname from the commentators and the media pundits, ‘Mr Charisma’, but he was calmer in person.

Quieter. Patient enough to sit through our entire practice, not a peep from him, just watching.

Kind enough to help us pick up all the cones after Coach blew the final whistle.

That was a year ago, of course, but I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t recall every second of it.

And now, forget meeting him. I’ll be interacting with him every damn day.

I wish there was an instruction manual for that.

‘He seems sweet, but listen, there will be nothing of that sort.’

‘He’s cute,’ she hums. ‘It’s summer. No pressure, no strings …’

‘And that’s my cue to hang up.’ I put the car in park, turn it off, and clamber out, chai drip-drip-dripping down my arms. The call switches to speaker, from which May yelps a very disconcerted ‘Hey!’

‘Later, ma’am.’ I stab the button to hang up with my only clean thumb, and blow a strand of hair from my face.

Stationary, I admire the crime scene in my precious car.

Madonna’s interior looks like someone dropped a pipe bomb in a cup of chai.

It’s all over the ceiling somehow, and my prized Stanley tumbler lies on the passenger seat, disgraced, in a puddle of caffeine that’s quickly sinking into the black fabric.

‘Oh, Donna.’ I grab one of the towels from the side door and start patting my arms dry. My skin is already getting sticky. I’ll need to head in and properly wash as much as I can. A back-alley semi-shower in a random New England gas station. Just what the doctor ordered.

I nudge my way through the glass door to the little convenience store, and bells jingle overhead, already way more obvious than I’d like this top-ten ‘worst moments’ experience to be.

The cashier up front, thankfully, seems uninterested enough that she doesn’t look up when I beeline for the bathroom, a ponytail holder in my mouth, my hands raking my hair into a hasty topknot.

I spare a quick glance at my watch. Shit.

I’m supposed to meet my new boss in exactly thirty minutes, and I’m trying to peel my chaos-child ass off the ground in a gas station bathroom.

Well, it could be worse, actually. It could be Rodney Wilson I’m meeting, rather than my boss.

‘Jordan, what the hell,’ I groan as I crank the faucet up, scrubbing my arms with literal hand soap while I dab chai stains from my jeans and T-shirt.

It’ll be a prayer if I have time to get a change of clothes before lunch with Benny.

I’m hoping to make a good impression on the head honcho, but it’ll be a little tough to do that if I’m covered in chai.

Once I’ve obtained a state of ‘good enough’, chai stickiness mostly gone from my skin, stains as doused in water as they can get, I paper-towel off my wet hands and charge out the door of the bathroom, barrelling straight towards my car.

‘… meetings all day because of the dumb funding cut. I mean, you get it, with Deacon on the team. We need all the money we can get to keep the programme running.’

Oh, joy. A witness to my hour of struggle. The new voice conversing with the previously disengaged cashier quickens my speed-walk to the main door. I shove through it with extra conviction.

The freakin’ jingle bells above it make the loudest ruckus possible.

Both voices at the counter stop. The person talking to the cashier peeks around a tower of sparkly pink name keychains emblazoned with a cursive Whittaker, MA.

Rodney Wilson’s dark eyebrows knit together in recognition, the scar running through the right one creasing.

His deep brown eyes widen, and his mouth falls slightly ajar, whether in surprise at the fact that I’m here or my dishevelled appearance, I’m not sure.

A strong hand reaches up to scratch his stubbled cheek, hovering at his jaw before falling with a confused, ‘Jordan?’

Yep. My newest co-worker, Rodney Wilson.

American lacrosse legend, and perhaps more importantly, my big fat crush, Rodney Wilson.

Oh, hell. Now I’ve done it.

I could be cordial. Muster a ‘hi’. Instead, my eyes go nine-ball wide, I do a prompt about-face, and I push the glass door open until I’m outside, under bright blue skies and relentless sun.

‘What was that?’ I mutter under my breath as I unlock my car and slap another towel down onto the driver’s seat, so I don’t have to sit on the brand-new lake I’ve formed on the fabric. ‘What was that?’

Is it possible he doesn’t know I’m working with him?

I’d assumed he’d vetted me; he’s been at this summer camp for years, and I’m just coming in, totally green.

More likely, it must have been the fact that – even with the chai stains neutralized – there’s water all over the front of me. Not really the best way to lay low.

I crank up the volume on my sledgehammer country playlist and burn rubber on my way out of the parking lot with a groan. There are a lot of problems you can run away from, but my brand-new lacrosse camp co-coach sure as hell isn’t one of them.