6. Solomon
SIX
SOLOMON
It’s Sunday evening, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to murder my best friend.
“You can stop huffing and muttering shit under your breath,” Jay says brightly. “We have plenty of time.”
I glare at him, which he doesn’t even see, too busy digging around in his backpack. “I asked you if you had everything you needed when you got in the car,” I remind him. “You promised me you did.”
“I thought I did.” He pulls two books out of his bag and hands them to me. Several pens and random pieces of crumpled paper spill out in their wake, littering the floor of my car. “Hold these a sec.”
“You’re making a mess,” I mutter. He just laughs. “And you’re going to make us late.”
Jay scoffs. “This is not an officially sanctioned event, Sol. We’re meeting up with my sister at a cafe. There’s no such thing as late.” He catches sight of my face and rolls his eyes because he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “It’s not going to kill you if we end up at a different table.”
It might not kill me, but it will certainly annoy me. And he knows that.
Jay, Emery and I have a Sunday tradition stretching back to freshman year. We meet up at The Daily Grind, a cafe off-campus, to eat dinner and study or do homework. Emery says it’s a good way to get the coming week off to a productive start.
It’s also a way for her to ensure her brother manages at least a few hours of homework a week, but she doesn’t tell him that.
Sunday evening isn’t the busiest time at the cafe, but the place is popular enough with the student body that at least half the chairs will be taken.
I prefer to sit in the back, where there’s actual tables, rather than the couches and armchairs most of the students seem to favor.
The only thing I hate more than trying to balance food in my lap while I eat is trying to study without a place to spread out my laptop, notes, and books.
“You don’t have to give me that face,” he says.
“And you don’t have to be such an annoying prick, but here we are.”
He completely ignores me—probably because he knows it drives me crazy—and goes back to rummaging in his bag. Just when I’m about ready to leave his ass in the car, he pulls a folded-up sheet of notebook paper out of his bag. “Found it!”
“Those are your Chem notes?” I hand his books over to be shoved back into the garbage dump that is his backpack.
“Sure are. Wouldn’t have gotten very far in my studying without these babies.”
“Remind me to buy you an actual notebook for your birthday.”
He takes his books from me and shoves them back into the bag. “You know I’d just end up losing it.”
I shake my head. “Sometimes it astonishes me that we’re members of the same species.”
He guffaws as he opens his door. “Buddy, I think that all the time.”
We finally make it inside and find the place more packed than usual. Jay winces when I glare at him. “I’m sure there’s still a table.” Then he catches sight of his sister waving from our usual spot in the back and lets out a relieved breath.
“Thank fuck you got here first,” he says, tossing his bag down next to the table. “Sol would have killed me for making him late if we couldn’t get a table.”
“Well that sounds like it would be fun to watch,” she says cheerily. “Next time I’ll make sure to run a little late myself.”
“Very funny.” I take my seat across from her. “Did you order yet?”
“Yup. I put in your grilled cheese, too.”
“What about me?” Jay asks.
“You can order your own food.”
He gapes at her in outrage. “But you ordered his!”
“Because Solomon gets the same thing every week. You can never make up your mind.”
“You suck,” he mutters before stalking off to the counter to place his order.
Em watches me as I take my laptop and a few books out of my bag. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“I haven’t seen you much since we went home last weekend. First week of classes go okay?”
I’m sure she’s thinking about how out of sorts I was last weekend and I feel a kernel of annoyance in my gut.
“You worry too much,” I tell her, managing to keep my voice light.
She snorts. “Oh, you’re one to talk, buddy.”
My smile gets more genuine. “Yeah, we’re a pretty uptight pair, aren’t we?”
She glances at the mess spilling out of Jay’s bag. “I’d say we could learn something from my brother, but I’m pretty sure mimicking him would send you into a coma.”
We chat about our first week of classes while we wait for our order.
Jay, predictably, has run into some friends so he’s off socializing on the other side of the cafe.
Em is clearly overwhelmed by her first week of grad school classes, and I feel bad for getting defensive earlier.
Yes, she always worries about me too much, but she also has a lot on her plate at the moment.
And I know better than anyone how feeling overwhelmed can spill into all the areas of your life.
When our number is called, I tell Em I’ll get it and head up to the counter. Once I have our tray, I turn to head back and nearly walk right into a group of girls.
“Sorry!” the one in front says. But she doesn’t step back to give me space. And from the way she’s batting her eyelashes and smiling at me, I’m not sure our proximity is actually an accident.
“No worries,” I mutter, moving to step around her. That’s when I notice the dark hair and big blue eyes at the edge of the group and I nearly trip over my own two feet.
Cecelia Ransom.
She’s talking to the girl next to her, not paying the slightest bit of attention to me.
I can’t keep my gaze from lingering on her, even though I know I should already be walking away.
She’s dressed in leggings and a tank top, her hair piled up on top of her head.
From the clothes and the flush on her cheeks, I get the impression she’s just come from working out.
She’s so damn beautiful.
Then she looks up and our eyes meet. Her expression immediately flattens out and my stomach drops. She couldn’t look less impressed by me if she tried.
I drop my gaze back to my tray and step around the group of girls, ignoring the giggle from the one I’d almost bumped into.
“He’s so hot,” she says to the others, not bothering to keep her voice down. Cecelia, unsurprisingly, doesn’t respond.
“Thanks,” Emery says when I return with our food, and I’m relieved to see she’s too distracted by whatever’s on her laptop screen to notice my expression.
Jay returns a few minutes later with his own dinner. “Ah, sugar, my beloved mistress,” he says happily, bringing his whipped-cream-covered mocha monstrosity to his face and taking a deep inhale.
“You should just order a milkshake,” Em points out. “It would be more honest.”
He takes a sip then smiles up at us with a whipped cream mustache. “You’re just jealous of my amazing taste in coffee-based beverages.”
While I eat with the Miller siblings, I do my best to forget about the interaction with Cecelia—if you could even call it that—but I’m not very successful.
I’m hyper aware of her group, even though they’re sitting on the other side of the cafe.
I want to punch myself when I realize I’m straining to hear her voice or her laugh over the sound of the other patrons.
And it’s hard not to replay that stupid party over and over in my mind. Why did I have to melt down right then? Why did I have to make myself look like such an asshole to the most beautiful girl on campus?
Luckily Jason doesn’t seem to notice that she’s over there, otherwise I’m sure I’d never hear the end of it.
Em does pick up on my lack of productivity, pointing out that I don’t seem to be getting much work done.
I only grunt in reply. Even after I see the girls leave, I struggle to get a handle on my focus.
Which is why I’m idling by checking my email instead of reading right at the time the message from my advisor comes through.
I sit up straight in my chair, heart rate picking up.
“Sol?” Emery asks, clearly noticing my reaction.
“Higgins emailed,” I say, mouth suddenly dry. “I think it’s the clinicals assignment.”
“Awesome!” Jay says, leaning over to see the screen. “Well? Aren’t you going to open it? Don’t you want to see who you’ll be working with for the rest of the semester?”
I do and I don’t. I’ve been looking forward to my clinicals since I was a freshman. It’s the basis of our entire program, a chance to get real world experience doing the thing I hope to do for a living.
But that doesn’t change the undercurrent of discomfort I feel about the project. We’ve done practical work throughout the entire program, but this is the first time we’ll be stepping away from books and papers so thoroughly.
I’m not exactly great with change.
I just need to get through the awkward first steps. Meeting new people. Trying to develop a rapport with strangers. Readjusting my schedule to work around their practices and competitions.
I’ll be fine once I get through all that. I hope.
Maybe she senses that I need a moment, because Em draws my attention away from the unopened email. “Remind me what teams you put in for?” she asks.
“First choice was swimming, yeah?” Jay asks. “I bet that’s where they’ll put you.”
“That’s the hope,” I mutter, eyes darting back to the message sitting in my inbox. “They usually manage to assign everyone to their first or second choice.”
“What was your second?”
“Men’s soccer.”
Jay nods. “That wouldn’t be bad either.”
They’re both sports I have a lot of familiarity with.
I swam competitively when I was younger and did soccer as well as baseball in high school.
Honestly, baseball would probably be my preference but that’s a spring sport.
Swimming has been my main form of exercise since I started college, so I spent the summer designing multiple variations of a strength and recovery program I’ve used myself in anticipation of the clinicals.
I rub my forehead. “I’m just hoping they don’t stick me in like, gymnastics or something. That would be a disaster.”
Next to me, Jay shrugs. “You’d figure it out.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “I know nothing about—”
“Yeah, but you’d figure it out.” His expression is suddenly much more serious than I’m used to seeing on him.
“It might be hard. You might struggle. But you’d get out your books and you’d do a lot of research, and you’d put together a training regimen that kicks ass.
” He leans forward a little, our gazes locking.
“That’s what you do, Sol. You figure it out. ”
I sit back, a little stunned, and adjust my glasses. “Uh…” I clear my throat. “Thanks, man.”
He shrugs it off like it’s nothing.
But his comment gives me the confidence to click on the email.
My eyes scan the text—reminders about what the program entails, what’s expected of us, the code of conduct we must adhere to in working with the student athletes.
Halfway down the page is a bolded section and I direct my attention there.
NAME: Solomon Barnes
STUDENT ID: SB-4765465
GRADE: Senior/5 Year Master’s Program
ASSIGNMENT: Women’s Soccer
CONTACT: Devon Hughes
“Huh,” I mutter sitting back in my chair.
“What is it?” Em asks as Jay again tries to lean over my shoulder to see the screen.
“Women’s soccer. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“You didn’t have that as one of your choices,” Jay says, frowning.
“No, I didn’t.” I’m not sure how I feel.
It’s not that I’m upset about the idea of working with the women’s team.
Soccer is soccer. The only reason I specified men is because I’d been a soccer player myself, so I have several training programs already written.
But that doesn’t matter much. A big part of this job is adapting existing programs to an individual athlete.
Still, there’s a weird tingle at the back of my neck as I continue to scan the information.
My email dings with an incoming message and I click back to my inbox. There’s a second email from my advisor, and I click on it immediately, assuming there will be more information.
Mr. Barnes,
I’m writing to give you some more details about your clinicals assignment. First, I understand that the women’s soccer team was not one of your top requests. I’m hopeful that you won’t be too disappointed by this decision, particularly in light of the information I have to share with you.
After much discussion, the program administrators decided you were the best choice for this specific situation.
There’s a particular, top tier athlete on this team whose training requires a good deal of attention.
This player suffered a near career ending injury last season.
She’s doing well, but her training protocol needs to be carefully monitored.
We have every confidence that you’ll be the perfect student trainer for the job—working closely with the training staff, of course.
This athlete has the potential to continue to play professionally after college, possibly even make the national team one day, so the department is committed to doing everything we can to help ensure a healthy season of play.
Jay and Emery must have seen something on my face, because they’ve both come to crowd around me and read the screen.
“Wow,” Em murmurs. “That’s a pretty big compliment, right? A national team caliber athlete? And it sounds like they chose you specifically to work with her.”
Jay slaps my back. “What’d I tell you, man?”
But there’s more to the email.
Before I share any personal information about the athlete in question, I need to remind you of the department’s policy regarding confidentiality.
This athlete comes from a high-profile family and will likely receive a good amount of attention from both local and national press.
It’s of the upmost importance that everyone working in the department is committed to fostering privacy for the athlete.
Specifically, no information is to be shared with any press source at any level.
All requests for information are to be sent to the team’s coaching staff.
Medical information is to be kept in strict confidence.
“Shit,” Jay says, looking at me with wide eyes. “National press? Who the hell is this person?”
But the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me that I already know. A national team level athlete. A high-profile family.
Feeling numb, I scroll down the email until I see the highlighted athlete profile. Jay sucks in a sharp breath beside me but I barely hear him. I’m too busy staring at Cecelia Ransome’s name on the screen.