Playing The Field

16. Kate

“Do we really have to wear these?” Sarah groans as she ruffles her grass skirt for the tenth time. We pile into the elevator with the rest of the girls and head down to the lobby.

“Yes! It’s on theme!” Claire points then puckers her lips at her reflection on the door before adjusting the flower crown tied across her forehead. The girls decided to skip their afternoon conference to craft their luau outfits. Grass skirts and wristlets, assorted flower clips and crowns, and a few multicolored clay earrings that are apparently too easy to make.

I was so impressed by their craft skills that I forgot to lecture them about skipping their meetings. Now, two hours later, I think it’s a little too late to reprimand them.

Sarah huffs as she pulls at the skirt one more time. The others give themselves a final onceover—smacks of lips, tosses of hair, and other adjustments are done before the elevator doors open.

“Wow.” Sarah and I gawk as we walk into a completely different hotel lobby than what we saw this morning.

It’s been transformed into a tropical oasis. Bulb lights cover every inch of the ceiling and drape down the walls. The staff members are dressed in traditional luau attire, handing out flower leis and umbrella drinks, and a group of hula dancers stand near the front doors, waving and swaying along to the music playing overhead.

“It’s like a real vacation now!” Sarah’s smile stretches across her face as we make our way down the sand path that now leads to the front doors. The rest of the team is all squeals and giggles as they rush out toward the party.

We file behind a line of athletes and coaches all standing in line to get their leis before entering the party. Lit tiki torches line the path leading to the entrance. Electric island music gets louder and livelier the closer we get, the beat pulsing through my veins. The last party I was at—a real party, anyway—was Halloween. Emma’s parties are always a blast, but this last year was full of so much drama and tension that I found myself cowering in the corner with Malcolm until it was all over. It did, however, end in a literal pumpkin smashing, which seemed very cathartic from afar. Maybe that’s the key to a successful party—smashing something.

“Hello, ladies,” Garrett Connors says as he joins us in line, blocking my view of the expensive tiki face at the front of the line. His knee is wrapped in an Ace bandage underneath his bright-pink shorts. He’s paired them with a banana-yellow button-up shirt and bright-orange Crocs. The kid glows like a neon sign underneath the lights, and he certainly has no qualms about it.

“Nice getup, Connors!” I wave at his attire, my voice muffled by the loud music.

“Just wait until you see the rest!” he yells over the music, wiggling his eyebrows.

Sarah and Garrett link arms as they receive their leis and make their way into the party. I take mine from the receptionist and compliment her outfit, even though she probably can’t hear me over the music. It’s the thought that counts. Clutching the flowers to my chest, I weave through the crowd, being careful not to step on feet or my own grass skirt the girls made for me.

I finally find my kids, but no Malcolm.

“Where’s Coach Geer?” I ask Devon. He shrugs in response, sipping out of a red cup with an umbrella. “No alcohol, correct?” I eye the cup suspiciously. He salutes me and points to the All Drinks Are Non-Alcoholic sign hanging over the bar.

He must notice the sigh of relief I have when he says, “Chill, Coach. We all respect you too much to drink under your watch.” Hearing him say this stings my eyes, because for some reason, at this moment, they were words I needed to hear.

I nod at him in thanks, then continue scanning the party for a familiar set of blue eyes. After a few minutes of searching, I give up and sit with the kids on the pillows neatly placed around a small cinderblock table nestled in a pit of sand. The party continues around us, with coaches and athletes from other schools approaching our group, making pleasantries, and giving introductions. As time passes incredibly slowly, the lonely pit in my stomach starts to move up into my throat at the possibility of Malcolm skipping this thing.

Parties aren’t his forte.

And themed parties? We’ve had better luck dressing Benny’s cat, Frankie, up as a penguin and teaching her how to swim.

An annoyingly familiar blonde waitress approaches our table, her face mirroring mine at the realization that Malcolm is not with us. She forces a smile to take our orders.

“Did you get the, uh…thing handled?” Travis asks the waitress. His face is uncomfortable and cautious as she gives him a nod.

“Are you sure?” Charlie snips at her, equally on edge.

“Yes.” She scowls at both of them. “It is being handled right now.” She rolls her eyes and looks at me, clearly exasperated at the teenagers. I shrug, a twinge of comradery building between us as she takes the rest of our orders.

“What is going on?” I direct my suspicions to Travis because he is usually the center of any and all trouble at parties. He refuses to meet my eyes, taking a sip of his drink before whispering to Devon. I push my curls away from my face, frustrated at the thought of them trying to pull some prank or spike the punch at the party. Summoning my intimidating-teacher voice, I say, “Someone better tell me what’s going on. Now.”

A whirl of whispers, hesitant responses, and wandering eyes ripple across the table. Feeling outnumbered and unmotivated to discipline these kids, I pull my phone out. Maybe it’s the music or the fact that I haven’t eaten anything, but I start to feel grouchy as I start typing a text message:

I didn’t think wearing a Hawaiian shirt was such a big deal. You could’ve worn whatever you wanted, you know!! But to not come to the party at all?? Super low, dude.

I type and erase the word dude five times before committing to it and pressing send. I look back at the group, irritation clear on my face as they sit silently. “Please don’t make me end this party early,” I grumble out the words.

The idea of threatening my kids has never been my favorite tactic. Helping them choose the right decision with positive reinforcement has always been my route. It seems too gentle to some, but these kids trust me—or so I thought before they all decided to rally together and whisper around the table right now. But still. I value their trust more than their fear.

No one caves under my death stare, and we all sit in awkward silence for another thirty seconds—I know because I count one, two, three ten times in my head.

“Hey, dudes,” Malcolm’s deep voice swirls around me, extra emphasis on dude.

He towers over me, dressed in his over-the-top bright-blue tropical shirt that accentuates the hue of his eyes, tacky boat shorts with palm trees on them, and a necklace of orchid flowers draped around his neck. There’s a playful annoyance in his eyes as he takes the empty seat next to me.

“Did you get it—”

“Yes, Connors. It’s handled.” He winks at the guys, and with that, the tension around the table dissipates, a relaxed flow of laughs and conversations make their way through the group.

“Dude,” he whispers in my ear, mocking me. The word is the bane of his existence. “Are you mad at me, dude?” His question is a mixed bag of sincere sarcasm. I can see it physically pains him to say the word.

Elbowing him, I say, “I almost was, duuuuuude.”

He laughs at me before snatching and taking a sip of my drink. “I’m sorry. I had to handle something in the kitchen.”

“What happened in the kitchen?” I snatch my drink back from him and sip on it, hints of coffee and mint hitting my tongue from where his lips just were. Finding it oddly addicting, I keep the edge of the cup at the tip of my mouth until the taste fades.

“Here are those appetizers!” The perky waitress returns, her eyes lighting up like fireworks at seeing Malcolm. Our mutual comradery is obliterated in an instant.

“It’s nothing, just some accommodations that needed to be addressed,” he whispers to me then glances up at the waitress and says, “I’ll have the vegetarian plate, please.” He gives a quick, cordial nod before turning back to me.

“I’ve told you, you don’t have to do that,” I say, lightly swatting at his arm. He dodges and proceeds to poke me in my arm. I rest my chin in my hand and soak up the crisp blue that sparkles at me. “You can eat meat around me.”

Shrugging, he sneaks a sip of my drink again. I pretend to be annoyed at this, but the taste of his lips lingering on my cup beckons me as I take a drink quickly after him. After a few moments, I look at the table and realize there are only vegetarian plates on our table.

No meat anywhere.

“What is happening?” I ask as everyone digs into their food, sans animal products.

I’m ignored, either intentionally by refusal to respond or unintentionally because the food is really that good, and they can’t stop shoveling it into their mouths. I suspect the latter when I take a bite of the grilled pineapple rice and am transported to another planet, piloted by my tastebuds. I moan and groan in delight as I shovel food in, all my childhood table etiquette lessons thrown out the window.

Sorry, Mom.

Actually, no, not sorry. Call me back, and maybe I’ll care a little more.

“Do you and that dish need some privacy?” Malcolm’s voice is almost a growl as his hot breath hits my cheek.

I blush at the sight he must see—my cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk’s—before slowing down and maintaining my composure with a light thump of my chest.

“Please…don’t stop.” His words stop me dead in my tracks. They’re like a seductive whisper, sending a wave of heat down my body.

I can’t look away from him, the sensuality in his eyes and playful twitch of his lips pulling me in like a magnet. And as if he feels it too, his body heat starts to hit me as he leans in closer, our thighs resting against each other. I can’t tell if I’ve fallen into a food coma and am now hallucinating, or if this is really happening, but he leans in so close that we’re breathing the same air, planting his hand on the ground directly behind me. His other hand slides slowly across the table toward me, and I feel myself wanting him to wrap it around me and pull me against him. What am I thinking? My heart beats sporadically in my chest, and my breath hitches as his body gets closer, everything around us slowing to a stop. Even the music. All I see is Malcolm, and for a tiny moment, he’s all I want to see. I involuntarily close my eyes in preparation for something, anything. Whatever he’s going to do, my body wants it.

A crowd behind us erupts, ripping me away from the moment. Malcolm’s eyes beam at me, and before I know it, he snatches a big piece of charred pineapple from my plate and retreats back to his seat to eat it.

“How dare you!” My attempt at snatching the piece back is thwarted by the shielding of his massive arm. “Get your own,” I whine in defeat and scoot my plate farther away from his grabby hands.

His big, strong, grabby hands.

The grabby hands I was just wishing were all over me.

If I don’t stop, I’ll keep envisioning my best friend”s hands as little playthings all over my body. I can’t go there.

This might not be the best solution, but if I want to maintain my friendship with Malcolm, I need to get out there and go on some dates. I need to accept a few of these matches. Surely, then the confusing thoughts about Malcolm will fade with time. If not, these daydreams will manifest themselves, and I’ll lose all control.

I can’t lose control. Not with him.

The only way I can avoid ruining my friendship with Malcolm is if I find other grabby hands. But not too grabby. No creepy clingers around these parts. No.

“What is going on in that curious brain of yours?” Malcolm asks as he eats the last of my pineapple.

“Oh, just everything. You know me.” I chuckle uncomfortably, taking another bite of rice.

“I do.” He says it like he’s proud, like knowing me is such a great thing. I instinctively roll my eyes at his tone, internally guffawing at the wonder that is me. “It brings me great joy knowing you, Katherine Stanley.” His eyes are honest as he says this, and I have to look away. He’s the most kind and honest man I know—sometimes painfully honest—and I wish I could believe him when he says kind things to me. I just…can’t.

Maybe there’s a root cause to this self-doubt.

My mind quickly detours down a path that is my mom, and I shove the thoughts deep inside a box and lock it up tight. Letting Malcolm’s words replay like a symphony in my head—great joy—I let it play as I stuff the locked box in the corner of my mind.

“One of these days,” he says around a mouthful of rice, “you’ll believe the compliments I give you.”

“Quit reading my mind.”

“Never.” He smiles.

The group of hula dancers make their way to the center of the party, going through their routine effortlessly. The party erupts in applause as they finish and saunter off toward the kitchen. Hoots and hollers follow as the staff carries out a limbo stick, corralling groups of people to start the line. Garrett and Claire are the first from our table to join.

We laugh at the many failed attempts by coaches to break their backs then applaud at the ease of the athletes as the stick lowers inch by inch. An array of colors flows like a chain of dominos as each person makes it closer and closer to the ground. I chuckle as we’re waved at by Jess and Chloe. The ludicrous idea of either of us partaking in such an activity is downright hilarious. I decline the chance to embarrass myself in front of everyone—until Malcolm’s thick hand is taking mine and dragging me toward the line.

“What are you doing?” I squeal, giggling when he mimes the technique he plans to use. “You’re going to ruin your back.” I can’t help but laugh at the determination in his eyes as we approach the front of the line. He waves me forward, like the gentleman he is, and I bend backward with ease, barely missing the bottom of the pole with my hair, which is starting to frizz at the edges from the sticky humidity.

“He’s going to kill himself,” Garrett laughs as he joins me to watch Malcolm attempt to conquer this gauntlet.

Malcolm stretches side to side, twisting at the waist and rolling his neck. He squats a few times, pausing for a moment to evaluate the height, then straightens and stretches his hips and legs, for good measure. I cover my mouth to hide the smile stinging my cheeks at the scene—this beast of a man going to battle with a stick. And then, as if the man has turned into the infamous Flubber from the 1997 Robin Williams’ movie, he does it. He contorts himself into a shape resembling a beanbag chair and practically glides underneath the stick with ease.

The crowd goes wild, erupting into applause as Malcolm stands up straight, saluting the limbo stick and giving a gracious bow in all directions. He does all of this with the same serious, surly look that has a permanent residence on his face. But a slight twitch of his eyebrow tells me he’s delighted with himself.

The boys high-five him and each other as their coach proves, yet again, he is full of surprises.

“That was impressive.” The joy I felt watching the victory is suddenly gone as my ex appears with a drink in each hand, a wave of awkwardness following him. “I don’t remember him being so…” Eric pauses, and I reluctantly look at him, feeling immediately defensive as I wait for him to finish his statement. “Happy.”

I let out a singular laugh. “That’s because you never got to know him.”

“Maybe not.” He takes a sip from his fruity concoction and offers me the other cup, and because my parents didn’t raise me to be rude, I accept. “He’s really made something out of the team, hasn’t he?”

“He really has.” The pride that swells in me manifests itself across my face as I watch Malcolm fight the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Even if he denies it.”

“He always was a humble guy.” Eric’s words are earnest, and for a moment, I’m grateful he’s speaking. It’s nice to agree on something with him when we never could before. “Are you still up for coffee?”

Freaking heck. I almost forgot.

Coffee. With my ex.

Using the cup to shield the nervous gnawing of my lip, I reluctantly agree with a nod. Why, why, why? Why is he so insistent? I don’t want to get coffee with him, do I? I keep my eyes on Malcolm, the pillar of peace in this detrimental storm of emotions I’m feeling. When his eyes meet mine, they go stormy, like what he’s seeing is enough to send him into a rage. Guilt whirls in my gut like acid as he approaches us.

“Coach Geer,” Eric greets him with a genuine smile and an outstretched hand.

“Sanders,” Malcolm’s voice clips out the word. Anyone with a brain cell can gather he doesn’t mean it when he says, “Nice to see you.”

“You’ve still got it in you.” Eric nods at the limbo stick now sticking upright out of the ground like a symbolic victory flag stabbed into the dirt on the battlefield.

Malcolm’s jaw clenches as he forces a smile in response. His eyes are cold and laser-focused on Eric.

Then, Eric leans in closer to me and says, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Eric leaves us, the silence palpable as Malcolm tries not to impose. He’s always been that way, never forcing a conversation with anyone, no matter how bad he wants to. Last year, when Benny knew months in advance that we were hiring Ellie, he didn’t tell Malcolm anything, and Malcolm refused to ask on the sheer principle of “if he wants to tell us, he will.” But that didn’t suppress the fact that the idea of Malcolm working with someone without any prior knowledge of who they were, where they came from, what their reason for taking the job was, drove him bonkers. I had to take him out for a steak dinner just to get him to quit moping around about it.

“You can ask me, you know.” I gnaw on my thumbnail and slosh the fruity drink around in the other hand.

“You don’t have to tell me.” He rakes both of his hands through his hair, and a small piece falls forward, calling attention to itself. He lets out a weak, defeated sigh. “If you don’t want to.”

“We’re just getting coffee. I don’t know why he wants to. I just…couldn’t say no.”

Another singular laugh escapes Malcolm as he throws his head back. The thickness of his neck and bob of his Adam’s apple would be hypnotic if the situation wasn’t what it currently is. Awkward. He shoves his hands in his pockets, irritated, and walks over to the bar. Leaning over to the bartender, he asks for two of something. I watch as he waits for his drinks, moving his weight from one leg to the other, kicking sand off his shoe, raking a hand through his hair again, then proceeding to take one of the extra drink umbrellas and break it.

Is Malcolm throwing a…temper tantrum?

Approaching him like he’s a baby deer, I slide into the barstool next to him. “Are you mad?”

“Yes.” He breaks another umbrella.

Sliding the supply of drink decor out of his reach, I rest my hand on top of his. My voice is a wavering whisper when I ask, “Are you mad at me?”

His head hangs for a moment before he wraps an arm around me. “No.” He kisses the top of my head, some of my curly hair getting entangled in the scruff of his beard, and whispers into my hair, “Just the situation. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

I wrap my arms around him. His muscles flex at my touch, and it takes everything in my power not to hyperfixate on the feel of him as I rub soothing circles on his back. But I can’t blame what my hands want to do when Malcolm’s muscles have their own magnetic force. The taut ridges on each side pull together, forming some kind of road map to a small divot above his waistband. My fingers tremble as he lets out a long, gravely sigh against me.

Focus, Kate.

Shaking myself out of the trance of his body is near impossible, but I overcome. Retreating my hands back to my sides, I weakly clear my throat. “I’ll be alright.”