Chapter Six
Don’t Look
Rod
The image of Jordan walking away, towards the patio doors, is practically burned into my brain, and whether she realized it or not, the little glance, the cut of her eyes back at me replays over and over every time I catch sight of her with her group of campers on the other side of the field.
What the heck is going on with me? This enigma of a woman, whether I care to admit it or not, is suddenly taking up real estate in my head – no asking, no telling – and I can’t get her out.
When I’d reached for that gardening bag, the warmth of her body against the heat of mine, some instinct I thought I’d lost a long time ago came right back to life, hot-wired like a stolen car.
I don’t really care to admit Genny’s right about anything at all, but something about Jordan Gutierrez-Hawkins is already turning my peaceful summer into a mindfuck.
I watch as she practises the cradle technique with her campers, smiling in approval, and I wonder if her eyes are doing that slight crease of amusement behind her sunglasses. The defined muscles of her arms are fully visible owing to the rolled-up sleeves of her tie-dyed Whittaker Lax Camp T-shirt.
Back to it, Rod. It takes a pretty good amount of effort to return to the task at hand, but I turn back to my group of very theatrical campers, all of whom are spread-eagled in the grass with various brightly coloured water bottles.
I give them a sharp, short toot of my whistle. ‘C’mon, folks. Let’s get to work.’
‘Puh-leese, Coach Rod,’ Jacob lays on the drama, pretending to collapse with his arms over his eyes in mock agony. ‘We’re dying out here.’
I find this par for the course, considering this camp consists exclusively of kids who’ve already been playing club for the tri-town under-twelve team spanning Whittaker, Crosley and Joyce: the Bobcats.
Lacrosse players, from a young age, are great at putting on a show.
Jake is our number one. He’s been coming to camp since I started coaching, and he’s our main character.
He’s a natural ringleader, a troublemaker, a ball hog, but I remember being much the same when I was younger, save for the fact that Jake only ever brings the most explosive peanut-butter sandwiches to lunch at camp: peanut butter everywhere, hands, face, grass, you name it.
Give him a couple of years, and he’ll be a high-school team captain better than I ever was.
‘You know that scrimmage is Friday!’ I retort with a raised eyebrow. ‘Do you really want Coach Jordan’s team beating ours?’
‘Well—’
‘He means ‘no’.’ Lyla, Jake’s very level-headed older sister clambers to her feet and gives her brother an irritated huff as she picks up her stick.
Lyla is Jake’s polar opposite. When I first met their family, I struggled to remember that they were siblings, because Jake, ginger, green-eyed, and freckles, looks nothing like Lyla, who’s dark-haired and about a foot and a half taller than her brother.
She is also the biggest hater of Jake’s peanut-butter sandwiches.
‘We definitely do not want to be beaten.’
I’m relieved when some of the other kids start to catch the vibe and get up, though begrudgingly.
This is sort of a Whittaker camp tradition, a little healthy intra-camp rivalry to start off the summer.
With Benny strolling between the two groups, we have some extra coach manpower to hold the affair down, too, which can never hurt, considering last year’s camp scrimmage involved an unexpected stick check scheme and the throwing of numerous rubber chickens (don’t ask).
We drill on ground balls for the rest of our camp day, which is another half-hour or so, until Benny blows his whistle to dismiss the kids to go grab their stuff and head to their rides.
‘This’ll be a fun game on Friday,’ he chuckles as the campers thunder all up in the bleachers, tugging at duffel bags and shucking off cleats. ‘Jordan’s really good at what she does, I gotta say. My guy at the Reapers was right. She’s got stamina for days.’
I clear my throat awkwardly when I follow his line of sight to Jordan, who waves her campers off enthusiastically with reminders to bring eye black for Friday. ‘Eye black?’ I say aloud, and Benny snorts. ‘Man, maybe I should’ve taken this shit more seriously.’
‘Nah, don’t worry about the scrimmage.’ He cuts his eyes
my way with purpose, his eyebrows rising high enough that they threaten to go into hiding beneath his dark curls. ‘It’s the --
cross-camp game we should be thinking about. Declan’s camp just got a big-ass grant from the county. Boston’s going to obliterate us come July.’
‘Gross,’ I grumble. The cross-camp game is played annually versus our rivals, a very well-off Boston lacrosse summer programme, the kind where the kids go on to play for Holy Cross and Chapel Hill.
Both the best and worst part of the summer.
Best because we hold it the weekend of the Fourth, which means barbecue, a huge cheering section, and fireworks and beer – the only acceptable way to end the summer’s camp session.
Worst because I have to see Declan’s ugly mug for the duration of at least three hours.
‘I mean, we can’t speak so soon, right? Our kids got a shot. ’
‘I think we can speak so soon,’ Benny corrects me. ‘Think. The past four years? Like, I don’t know, ever since we started the cross-camp? Give me one instance where we beat them.’
I suck in a breath. He’s got me there. That one instance is about as nonexistent as my sister’s perception of personal space.
‘Yeah. Not so good. You’d better brief Jordan on it.
I haven’t told her how crazy it gets yet.
’ Benny winces. For our boss, he’s more like an equal partner in our camp-related stress.
Benny’s been working with me since I proposed the idea for a lacrosse camp focused on giving small-town kids a high-impact summer experience, and he jumped on it, back then eager to broaden his athletic training résumé.
Since then, he’s started working at Whittaker-Joyce High School as their trainer, but he’s come back for the past three summers as my camp manager.
‘That’s not even accounting for the tiny little big deal that’s on the line.
Didn’t want to scare her off. I’ll let you do that. I’m on her good side right now.’
‘You’re on her good side?’ I lean back incredulously. ‘Dude, you’re her boss.’
‘Bro, that woman is potentially the reason we could win the cross-camp this year, mark my words,’ says Benny with a wag of his finger.
He presses his hands together, all exaggerated in a gesture of prayer.
‘If she asks for a coffee, I’ll bring it in a fancy heated mug.
If she says she has a hamstring cramp, I’m showing up with a Theragun.
I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her here, is all I’m saying. ’
Around us, the buzz of the kids and parents has faded to a slow trickle, most of our campers on their way out. Jordan joins us, with a juice pop in hand and a smile not yet stained by the pop’s bright red dye. ‘What were y’all saying?’
‘Where’d you get that?’ Benny stares Jordan’s juice pop down all greedily. I can’t contest the reaction. The eighty-plus-degree weather demands a cold treat.
‘Someone’s mom brought me an extra.’ Jordan sticks the pop in her mouth, and I grit my teeth tight as inconspicuously as I can. Don’t look. Don’t look.
‘Man, how’re you winning them over?’ With a glance out of the corner of his eye at the retreating crowd of parents and kids in the parking lot, Benny huffs. ‘Took them a solid month to warm up to me when we started this thing.’
I try my level best to train my gaze anywhere but Jordan’s mouth, her full lips already turning red as she hums happily, sucking on her juice pop before removing it long enough for a one-word reply. ‘Dunno.’ Then, ‘But the perks sure are nice.’
Benny goes to investigate the juice pop situation. I take a beat of silence to decide which I want more: to eat a juice pop, or to be the juice pop.
Jordan tucks the colourful ice between her teeth before strolling towards the bleachers, where she starts throwing her stuff into her duffel bag, unlacing her cleats and kicking a foot back up towards her butt so she can tug the shoe off while standing.
And so naturally, right as I’m being an idiot and going all googly-eyed, her head snaps back, and she pulls the pop from her mouth. I do a really piss-poor job of looking away as quickly as possible.
‘What?’ she says. Her voice has a hint of laughter to it. I suddenly pray that I turn into said juice pop so I can melt right into the sidewalk. Damn it. My sister is right. It’s been a long while since I’ve gotten like this. On second thoughts, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten like this.
‘Nothing,’ I reply, all strangled and in a way that makes it clear ‘nothing’ is totally not true. Jordan raises an eyebrow. I groan. ‘Do you … do you always take your shoes off like that?’
She leans back and scoffs. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re accusing me of takin’ my shoes off the wrong way, Hot Rod Wilson. Does it matter? Is this a foot fetish thing?’
‘Not at all,’ I scramble. Wait, is she messing with me? She’s not being serious, right? There’s a shit-eating grin on her face that most likely isn’t serious, but I’m tripping over my own feet here.
‘Well,’ remarks Jordan with a dramatic sigh, ‘to think I was just about to share this juice pop with you.’
‘You’re—’
‘Deal’s up.’ She beams, hefting her bag up onto her shoulder as she clambers out from the stands, down the rickety metal steps. ‘I don’t love criticism,’ she calls behind her. Then, with the world’s most addictive smile, ‘I respond well to praise, hotshot.’
I kind of just stand there, slack-jawed. It is, as I’m learning, the only appropriate response to Jordan Gutierrez-Hawkins.
I can do whatever the hell I want to distract myself, but every little movement, every mannerism she has snatches my attention.
Even those dumb juice pop jokes. It’s not even resisting temptation at this point.
I’m giving in, and sure. Maybe I’m an idiot in awe of this woman from a totally different world, but I think back to the moment in the garden.
It definitely wasn’t just me. The magnetism I felt was on part of both of our bodies.
Maybe – on an off chance – she’s not just messing with me. Maybe, she feels that pull, too.