Chapter 4
DAVE
The smell of musk and sweat assaults my senses.
“Alright, we can do this! Three-peat on three,” Ravi says, putting his hand in the middle of the group.
“One… two… three-peat!” We cheer before breaking apart and taking our positions.
Three years ago, after a random late-night study session, Ravi saw a sign for the school gym Dodgeball tournament, and he convinced us to sign up.
Now, Ravi, Eric, Kyle, Chad, and I have an undefeated record, and this year marks our final year here.
We are determined to make it count and leave a lasting legacy in this tournament.
The noise from the opposing team is loud; they’re our biggest rivals… The Dental Dudes. Yeah, not the most creative bunch but who’s to judge, we named ourselves, The Breathing Bunch.
The sharp whistle from the referee signals the final game of the tournament.
It’s now or never. I lunge for the line of dodgeballs, managing to snag two before retreating.
I toss one towards Kyle, our center. For five guys bonded over the trauma of graduate school, we work as a well-oiled team.
Kyle is tall and well-built, with a killer throw.
An obvious choice to be our center. Ravi and Eric are smaller in stature but have sharp eyes, and seamlessly transition into our corner positions, catching incoming balls and reviving those who are out.
Chad and I fit perfectly in the middle, serving as the runners, the first to grab the balls and ensuring the rear is strong.
Fifteen minutes later, we secure the win.
“YES! I knew we could do it!” Ravi pumps his fist in the air.
Out of all of us, he’s always the most animated.
He takes this tournament very seriously.
I tried to sit this year out, but he sent me a PowerPoint explaining why the team needed me and why I needed them.
It was quite convincing, especially considering I’m standing here holding this plastic participation trophy.
“Never doubted us,” Kyle chimes in from behind me.
“Let’s hit the sauna,” Chad announces, as he makes his way toward the locker room.
“I’d rather take an ice bath,” I counter, feeling my joints start to stiffen.
“And maybe a few beers,” Eric interjects.
Ravi wraps his arm around my neck. “That’s a great plan. You in, Dave?”
“Probably not,” I shake my head, trying to think of a good excuse not to go out. If I told them I’m skipping out on guys’ night to pine over a girl, they would never let me live it down.
It’s been a week since Sara and I “talked,” and since then, I’ve been lurking in my front yard, hoping to catch her and strike up a casual conversation.
I caught a glimpse of her on her porch swing the other day.
I’m pretty sure our neighbor, Sue, thinks I’ve completely lost it—standing outside tending to my yard in the dead of winter.
I was surprised to see her outside in the cold, but I have to admit she looked cozy—adorable, even—all wrapped up in her little cocoon.
A small space heater hummed softly at her feet, a blanket draped over her lap.
She was wearing one of those oversized blanket hoodies my sister bought for my nephew to keep him warm around the house.
A book rested in her hands, and steam curled lazily from the mug beside her.
In my not-so-incognito staring, I recognized that mug—it was my mug.
I left it on top of her mailbox weeks ago when I was walking Eliana’s dog.
They were taking their first vacation with my nephew, and I had reluctantly agreed to dog-sit.
Which, in retrospect, was the most disastrous week of my life.
My sister had failed to mention that her dog, a Shiba Inu, was still in puppy mode and, at two years old, needed three walks a day.
During one of our walks, I got a phone call and between juggling a leash and a ball of excited fur, I didn’t want to drop the mug.
It was special. A Christmas gift from my nephew—something he picked out for me when he was in his weird mushroom obsession phase.
I remember the last delivery I made to Sara—she’d texted me with the funniest commentary about why Target organizes the store like it’s trying to test customers’ survival skills.
I’ve never had this much fun talking to a girl.
Usually, I’m a little reserved and awkward, but something about the way Sara carries herself in conversation makes her easy to talk to. I don’t second-guess my messages.
So yeah—I’m going to decline going out for drinks to go home and pretend to casually walk past her house and strike up a conversation.
Maybe today I’ll get lucky.