26. Solomon #2
“Well, obviously,” she snaps, still sounding pissed off. “Your grandpa is awesome and they clearly suck.”
I find myself smiling against her hair, something that never happens when I think about my parents.
But there’s just something so nice about the way she sounds so angry on my behalf.
She doesn’t even know my parents, minus a single interaction with my mother in which the woman didn’t even acknowledge her existence, and she still sounds like she’s ready to fight them both for me.
“Red is pretty awesome,” I agree. “And the whole point of not answering the phone was to not let my dad ruin my day. So let’s stop thinking about them, okay?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if she’s going to refuse to drop it. But then—
“Oof,” I mutter, as she wraps her arms around my middle and squeezes, tight.
“I really, really like you, Solomon Barnes.”
I blink a few times, overwhelmed and more than a little out of breath from the strength with which she’s clinging to me. “I really like you, too,” I finally manage, my throat tight.
It’s bullshit, obviously. I stopped liking Cecelia Ransome a long time ago. Whatever this is between us now is a hell of a lot more than like.
She lifts her head from my chest and glares at me.
“Also, I’m really smart and I have excellent taste. So anyone who disagrees with me about how awesome you are is obviously a loser and a dumbass, and not someone you should ever let bother you.”
Heat stings my eyes even as I laugh. It’s such a Cecelia thing to say, and it feels so damn good to hear.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her.
She nods once, still looking fierce. “See that you do.”
Just as we expected, the week kicks our ass.
I have to stay late at the library two nights in a row to finish my paper.
Coach Carla is clearly getting nervous about the stakes for the next two games because she keeps extending practices and adding game tape sessions.
Between the classwork, the longer practices, and Cecelia’s treatment, neither of us have much free time.
The girls win the first game on Wednesday. Cecelia scores and gets an assist, but I can tell she’s tired by the end of the game—favoring her left knee. She doesn’t even argue with me when I tell her I want her taped for the rest of the week.
The next match is at home on Saturday afternoon.
After I’ve dealt with getting Cecelia and my other assigned players ready, Devon sends me out to set up our supplies before the game.
I’m just getting to the sideline when someone calls my name from the stands.
I look up to see Cecelia’s parents waving at me.
They’re both wearing jerseys with her number and team hats.
It’s not doing much to disguise Cash, though, because he’s getting lots of attention from the people around him.
Figuring I should make more of an effort than waving from forty feet away, I jog over to the stands to say hello.
“Good to see you, Sol,” Cash says, leaning over the railing to pat my shoulder. “Is our girl ready for the game?”
“She’s always ready,” I say, and he laughs.
“How’s her knee?” Sam asks, frowning. “I thought she was limping after the last game.”
I’m not super comfortable discussing Cecelia’s injury without her here so I go with a basic, “we did lots of stretching and compression after the last game and she’s been good about icing it.”
Sam nods, looking a little relieved. “We’ll let you get back to work.
Just wanted to say hi.” She nods up into the stands and I see a bunch of the same people I met last weekend, including the bearded older brother who clearly doesn’t like me.
He’s watching us, a frown on his face. “We’ve got a whole crowd to cheer for her today. ”
“I’m sure she’ll love that.”
Sam grins. “She’ll probably pretend to be annoyed, but don’t be fooled. She loves having people cheer for her.”
I laugh. “Sounds about right.”
“We’re all getting dinner after,” Cash says easily. “You should join us.”
“Uh.” I clear my throat, caught off guard that he thought to invite me. I was pretty sure I hadn’t made the best first impression on these people the other night.
“Don’t put him on the spot," Sam chides, then smiles at me. “No pressure. But we’d love to see you.”
“Thanks,” I manage, still surprised.
Cash holds out a fist over the railing and I bump it automatically. “Take good care of our girl,” he says, then they both head up to join the rest of the family in the stands. I shake off my surprise that they were so welcoming to me and get back to preparing for the match.
Twenty minutes into the first half and it’s clear that her family picked a good one to attend.
Cecelia scores twice in five minutes and the goals are sweet.
Like, highlight-reel type quality. Women’s college soccer isn’t usually shown all that much on ESPN, but I won’t be surprised if that second one makes it into a best of the day compilation, it was that impressive.
It takes all my control not to jump around like an idiot on the sideline—or to pull her into a huge hug when she finally leaves the field at the half, panting and sweaty but grinning like a maniac.
She begrudgingly lets me check her for swelling in the locker room between halves. “It feels good,” she insists.
“It looks pretty good,” I agree, gently pressing into the soft tissue around the joint. “Any tightness here?”
“Nope.”
I massage a little deeper. “You want Biofeeze?”
“Sol.” I look up from her knee and catch her gaze. Damn, she looks gorgeous. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright, filled with excitement and determination. “I’m good.”
I can’t help but grin up at her. “Yeah. You are.” I pat her knee once. “Go get ‘em, killer.”
She tilts her head back and laughs and it’s everything I can do not to press my lips against her exposed neck.
The second half gets a little rougher, the opposing team playing desperate. There are a couple questionable tackles that don’t get called, and Coach Carla is swearing more and more on the sidelines.
Cecelia, of course, is at the very center of all of it.
And she seems to be the only person who isn’t feeling the tension.
She’s playing about as well as I’ve ever seen her, confident and more than a little aggressive.
Not dirty, exactly, but right on the edge enough to drive the opposing players absolutely crazy.
She dictates the entire field like she owns it, barking for the ball, getting in the way, baiting defenders into bad challenges just so she can embarrass them a second later—and all with a little smirk on her face that I just know must be infuriating to her opponents.
And she’s fast today. Completely in control every time she has the ball, darting around everyone else on the field like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
I know there are other things I should be focusing on—hydration schedules and substitutions and whether that freshman defender is favoring her right foot again—but it’s hard to tear my attention away from my girl.
She’s in control out there, causing chaos and making plays. She looks strong and fearless and so fucking happy it makes my chest hurt.
I’m grinning at the way she completely outstrips the opposing team’s midfielder when it happens.
One second, she’s cutting inside to split two defenders, the next her planted leg seems to buckle awkwardly beneath her. Then she’s going down, crumpling hard enough to rip the breath out of the entire stadium.
I know before she even hits the ground that it isn’t a normal fall. Athletes go down all the time—this is different. The sharp twist, the way her hands fly immediately to her knee instead of bracing herself, the look on her face. It’s not pain, not at first, but panic. Pure panic.
Her foot was planted, I think, her panic becoming my own. Her foot was planted and she twisted before it buckled. That could be bad. Really fucking bad.
I watch, helpless, as she goes down, her body curling to the grass. There are gasps and shouts all around but above it all I can hear her. A little cry, sharp and unmistakably filled with fear.
“Barnes,” Devon says, and I belatedly feel the pressure of his hand wrapped around my bicep, holding me in place. That’s when I realize that I’m about to step onto the field, my instinct to go to her overcoming any rational thought. “We have to wait for the whistle.”
Luckily it comes right away, maybe because Coach Carla is screaming her head off, or maybe because the refs saw what I did—that this is bad.
When the whistle comes, I jog across the field, keeping pace with Devon even though all I want to do is sprint.
The girls surrounding Cecelia make room for us, and I vaguely take in the impression of pale faces and wide eyes.
They know this could be bad. I ignore them all and slide to my knees next to her, hands hovering.
“Hey. Cecelia, look at me. Where’s the pain? ”
She’s curled up, eyes squeezed shut, her shoulders shaking. She’s cradling her knee below the joint. Shit.
“Ransome,” Devon says, his voice commanding and clear. “I’m gonna need you to roll over onto your back so we can look. Try not to move your leg at all.”
I think I’m going to be sick.