24. Kate
Steven’s words ring in my ears as we spend the next hour setting up for the scrimmage. I glance around every few minutes, looking for Malcolm, but he’s nowhere to be found. He’s probably pacing the locker room in his surly, nobody-talk-to-me, pre-game mode.
Refusing to get distracted.
Not wondering where I am.
Why does that even matter, Kate?
People start to arrive twenty minutes before the game starts, filling the bleacher seats one by one. The place is almost packed when we add the finishing touches to the medical tent. Steven has changed into bright-blue scrubs, and Emma and I sport matching t-shirts that say Medic Team. We are less than qualified for the position, but my athletic background is enough to assist with passing out water and taping up twists and sprains. Emma busies herself with organizing the medical supplies and repositioning the A-frame sign a thousand different times before deciding it looks fine in the original spot Steven put it.
“Have they had a lot of injuries at any of these things?” Steven asks, placing a piece of paper on the exam table lining the tent wall.
“A couple.” I glance out of the tent entrance—again. “A few concussions, the occasional broken bone. Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.” I give him finger guns, my eyes still searching the entrance, bleachers, and field for any sign of Malcolm.
“Let’s hope for none of that today!” Emma chirps. “Safety first!” The woman is a beacon of hazard prevention. She once forced my classes to wear tinted glasses during a Big Bang Theory presentation. She was convinced the bright flashing of light could cause optic nerve injuries—from the tiny three-foot box television with a permanent black circle in one corner. “Who did their safety debriefing?” Emma joins me under the tent opening, the area of shade around us disappearing as the noon sun starts to come out.
“Uh, I don’t know.” Still no sign of Malcolm. “Maybe the coaches.” I stand on my toes and see the first group of players making their way toward the field.
“Hello! Earth to Stanley!” Emma waves her hands in my face, the yellow sun hat she’s wearing is folded up in the front, resembling a sunflower.
I blink back to her, slightly distracted by the beam of yellow surrounding her head. “Hmm?”
“Tell me what is going on in that curly head”—she trickles her fingers through the air between us—“of yours.”
“I’m just ready for the scrimmage to start.” My eyes dart between her and the field, still searching. The second team starts to file onto the turf with the coaches following close behind.
“Kate…” Emma eyes me warily. Her patience has always been calming, that motherly patience I missed out on. “Talk to me.” Her voice is tranquil and almost hypnotizing as she waits for me to respond—another motherly tactic she has mastered.
I focus on her and the horrendous hat. “I just…ugh…” I gnaw on my thumbnail and speak around my hand. “I need to talk to Malcolm. I need to clear things up.”
“I agree. You should. But you can’t do that anytime soon. He has to focus on the team, and you do too.” She hands me a sideline duffel bag full of tape, Band-Aids, and other essentials. “That’s why you’re here.” She turns me to face the field and bleachers, my group of girls lining the front rail that overlooks the guys, sporting team shirts and cheering on their counterparts. My heart swells at the team spirit. “Worry about the game right now. You have time to talk to Malcolm. He’s not going anywhere.”
Her reassurance powers my steps as I head to the field, duffel and enormous water bottle in tow. I find the group of coaches for the first team with Coach Lawson giving his usual pep talk. The players and younger coaches listen so intently a missile strike wouldn’t distract them. Eric waves at me from the field, stretching as he prepares to play. Nausea burns my throat at the weirdness between us. The friendly dinner I had hoped for, the closure I needed, gone in the blink of an eye—all because he had a surge of testosterone after a couple glasses of wine.
I spot Coach Daniels across the field, standing with a few coaches I don’t recognize. I peer over them, looking for the one I do, with no luck.
“Hello, Ms. Stanley,” Daniels greets me behind his orange framed sunglasses.
“Daniels, hi! Where’s Malcolm?” There is no way I don’t look like a lunatic with how fast my head whips back and forth as I look around for him.
“He’s letting me—”
Coach Lawson blows the whistle, cutting off Daniels, as four players take the field, each wearing a band wrapped around their biceps with the letter C stitched on it. Team captains. The sun bakes us, and I shade my face with the giant water bottle, my gaze distorted from the rays of light as I watch the coin flip. The sun makes it hard to tell who from our team is out there until my eyes land on a familiar set of forearms and farmer’s tan. The red-tinged, pale skin and light-colored hair that trickles up the chiseled arms is hard to mistake. He turns around, adjusting his helmet strap as he makes his way back to the sidelines. Bright-blue eyes meet mine, and my jaw feels like it could dislocate from how hard it drops.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” I bellow at Malcolm as he joins the pre-play huddle. He smiles at me, ignoring my question. Oh, heck no. I stomp across the sidelines, shoving my way into the huddle. A few familiar faces smile at me, and a few stare at me like the mad woman I am. “Malcolm, what are you doing? You can’t—”
They clap once, the huddle breaking up, and they take the field. Malcolm attempts to follow, but I grab him by the collar of his jersey and drag him backward a few steps.
“Whoa, ma’am! What was that for?” He readjusts his shoulder pads, rolling his neck and arms.
“What are you thinking? You can’t go out there!” I gape at him.
“It’s just one game, Stanley.” He squeezes my elbow.
I grab his wrist. “What if you get hurt?” I’m too concerned for Malcolm. I don”t even try to hide the whimper in my voice.
He stops mid-step to turn back to me and grips my shoulders, leveling his gaze with mine. His eyes soften as his smile stretches across his face, a thousand unspoken words passing through the thick air between us. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“You know that’s impossible for me.”
He belts out a boisterous laugh as he tilts his face up to the sky. The sound would be contagious, causing me to laugh with him, if I wasn’t on pins and needles. He pulls his helmet up to the top of his head, and sweat glistens on the edges of his face and tip of his beard. “It’s not even a full game, Kate.”
My eyes sting, either from sweat or the sheer idea of my friend getting plowed over by some teenagers. As if he can sense the worry boiling inside me, Malcolm cups my jaw with both hands and squeezes my cheeks. From afar, the motion would look silly, but something about the slow way his callused thumbs graze down my face makes all the air leave my body. “Everything will be fine.”
I blink back the moisture swelling in my eyes. “You promise?”
“I promise.” His smile falters for a moment before he forces it into a wide grin and heads back out to the field, like he, too, can sense the conversation coming, the boundaries we have to set. He’s telling me, and himself, that everything will be fine.
“He’ll be fine,” Daniels reassures me when I join him on the sidelines. “I’ve heard the guy is a tank out there.”
Tankis an understatement.
Malcolm is a powerhouse on the field when he needs to be. Just last summer, he outran half the team for a forty-yard touchdown just to prove to them they weren’t trying hard enough—or to show off.
Only he knows.
But it was fun to see the kids grovel at his feet like he was God when they realized how athletic he still is. It was odd to watch him strip off his work boots and socks like he was unwinding after a hard day. Malcolm stood in the center of the field, grounding himself with bare feet on the turf, sizing up the competition. The kids never stood a chance.
I size up his competition this time, noting the older players right off. One of them is Coach Foust, who is a fossil in human form. I don’t think I’ve seen someone so old attempt to crouch down to the starting position. It’s very possible I heard his hips pop all the way from here. Another coach, Coach Taylor, weighs about three hundred pounds and towers over everyone. His breathing is so labored he looks like he could collapse at any moment. Yet, he makes it onto the field and into the starting position as well.
Malcolm takes his position on the far left of the line, closest to me. My eyes widen when he glances over, giving me a wink. This kind of thing would usually send me crawling on my hands and knees to a man—tight pants accentuating curves, arms flexing as they grip the turf, then adding in a wink just for me… But the stress of watching Malcolm take the position of tight end, one he rarely plays, sends the nausea from earlier crawling back up my throat, leaving the taste of acid in my mouth.
“Red Team, are you ready?” The defense nods at the referee’s question. “Blue Team?” he asks us, the offense. They nod, settling into their starting positions with fervor.
“Red and blue team?” I ask Daniels, recalling that they’re allowed to come up with their own names. Daniels gives me a shrug like what’re ya gonna do? “That’s…original.”
The snap happens. The ball is pitched back to Coach Stent from South. Malcolm blocks, allowing Stent to cover almost thirty yards in the first play. Devon, Ethan, and Travis yelp in celebration from the sidelines in their makeshift coaching attire. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and glare at Malcolm’s backside as they huddle up around Daniels. Knowing Malcolm, he’s being humble and letting Daniels call the shots for the game, staying in his lane as a player and not letting the duty of coach bleed over into his role as a teammate. He’s always been skilled at keeping things separate, whether it’s his work and home life balance, or simply maintaining a neutral position for the sake of peace.
Another play happens, and I bite my thumbnail the entire time. Coach Taylor goes down like a tree, needing extra hands to help him limp off the field. Our team scores a touchdown in the first few minutes of the quarter, and the crowd goes wild. They’re riding the high when they race to the sidelines, and the defensive line swaps out.
Malcolm sits on the bench next to me, his dampened hair shining in the sun like gold. He pants slightly and gazes up at me with a cocky grin. “See, it’s going to be fine.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to believe that until the final second on the clock ticks off. These kids are ruthless, and I wouldn’t put it past them to try to pummel the strongest coach on that field.
“Are you mad?” He squirts his water bottle in his face and wipes the wetness with his palm. It feels obscene almost, like it should be happening behind closed doors, him stretching and raking his hands fully through his hair and shaking it out. I feel myself staring—no, gawking. Gah, what is so irresistible about this man now? Has he always been this attractive? Stupid question, Kate. Yes, he has. But why am I feeling attracted to his attractiveness all of a sudden?
I blame the slew of poor dates recently, getting dolled up in hopes of a connection, only to be left sitting on my couch at the end of the night, alone, with the pit of yearning deepening more and more. It’s almost a bottomless pit at this point. That and the tubs of ice cream that come with the couch sitting.
Maybe that’s what’s wrong.
Not the ice cream, but that I’m so ready to find someone that my hormonal instincts are drawn to the closest option I have, which is absolutely absurd and pathetic. If I let myself yearn over something I can’t have, then who’s to say I will keep my standards when I go on the next date when we get back?
The first half of the game goes by quicker than Coach Foust’s ankles being swept from underneath him. It was a sneaky move on our part, but the trick juke made Foust collide with the turf with a force you only see in the movies. The crowd gasped, the teams stopped, and Foust screamed like a toddler—like Emma’s twins when they weren’t allowed to eat a second cupcake at Henry’s birthday. He bounced back up quickly but tumbled again, giving in to the pain and benching himself.
Steven is delighted when I help wheel Foust into the tent during halftime, going full doctor mode while Emma questions his understanding of the safety briefing and if he had signed a waiver.
Clouds have started to cover the sky, making it more humid than hot but less scorching overall. I wince as I rub sunscreen on my neck and arms, cooling the sting of my darkened skin.
“Hold still,” Steven instructs Foust as he whimpers and flinches away from Steven’s touch. A double sprain is all he has, but you’d think he just received a terminal diagnosis based on the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Heading back out!” I call over my shoulder as I head back to the field. The second half starts in a few minutes, and I didn’t get a chance to check if Malcolm was feeling alright before they barreled off the field.
I make it to my post as the Red Team makes their way out, Eric bringing up the rear with their head coach for the game. He spots me and jogs over, my entire body going rigid in response, like he’s a bear and all I know to do is get into the fetal position.
Before I can get to the ground, he’s at my feet, winded and sweating. “Man, your guys are good!” he exclaims. “Johnson is fast for his size.”
“He’s worked really hard to get to this point. You won’t be disappointed when he’s with you next term.” I keep my eyes on the field to avoid Eric’s heavy gaze.
“For sure, for sure. And that Malcolm…” His words stall when my head whips to him, and Eric’s lip twitch up in a devilish grin. “He’s—”
“He’s what?” I snip, my thumb tingling at my side with the urge to be gnawed on. Clearing my throat, I adjust my tone to a more well-mannered one. “He’s what?”
“A strong athlete…” Eric pauses to evaluate my face, infuriating me more. I force it into a line, a nonchalant, I-couldn’t-care-less-what-you-have-to-say-about-my-best-friend line. “Is there something going on with you two?” His eyes light up with gleeful anticipation.
“There’s nothing going on with us,” I groan, throwing my head back, the overcast sky still bright enough to temporarily blind me.
“Alright, alright.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Just asking.”
Pressing my palm into the center of my head, I blink the sun out of my eyes and look at him. “It’s fine. It’s just…” My words linger in the air, like my thoughts, itching to get out in the open. Eric waits expectantly. “I don’t know what’s going on with Malcolm. He’s wonderful and my best friend. I would honestly die if I lost him, which is why I am currently trying to decide how to tell him we need better boundaries. Ya know, friend boundaries. Lately, things have gotten out of hand, like so out of hand I don’t even know how to go back to normal. I think about him all the time and wonder if he’s thinking about me. I wake up missing him. And I’m not sure when these feelings started, really.” I throw my arms out, my voice picking up at the relief of getting everything out. “I started dating again, about a month ago, right?” Eric’s face doesn’t change as he continues to listen. “I’d sworn off men for a while, didn’t want to deal with their nonsense. I mean, who does, right? But then Benny and Ellie got engaged and started planning their wedding, and everything was perfect. Except for me. I was lonely, I guess. I’m no spring chicken anymore—
“Kate, you’re only thir—”
“Old enough,” I cut him off, “to start evaluating my life and figure out what I want. I have the best job, the best friends. Really, everything in my life is perfect. But I still feel myself searching for something. Searching for a missing piece. A piece that I think was missing well before you even left. I figured why not start by putting myself out there again and seeing if the missing piece was just finding my person. Instead, I’ve gone on about eight horrendous dates. Like, so bad I need Dr. Phil to psychoanalyze some of these dudes. And all I’m left with is this feeling that I might never find what I’m missing.” Eric gapes at me as I suck in a breath, and embarrassment stings my cheeks at the word-vomit I just unleashed. “I don’t know why I told you all of that.”
“That was a lot of info.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable and at a loss for words, which is rare for the chatterbox.
We stand there in silence for a beat as his team runs through their warm-up when the Blue Team starts to file out of the locker room. Daniels and Malcolm walk out together, hunched over a clipboard. Malcolm nods enthusiastically, patting Daniels on the back before jogging after the other players. His pace falters a few steps when he sees me and Eric standing side by side, but he quickly corrects himself and sends a timid wave in our direction.
“I will say this…” Eric puts his helmet on, gripping the mouthguard attached to the face mask. “Malcolm is a good guy who clearly cares about you. And aside from your occasional bouts of verbal diarrhea”—he chuckles at his own joke—“you, Kate Stanley, deserve a good guy.” He gives me a soft and accepting smile before he walks over to his side of the field.
Malcolm makes himself busy with pretend stretches, circling his arms around like Lola does in Jazzercise, waiting until Eric is a good distance away before he trots over to me, a mix of emotions marking his face. He moves his helmet to the top of his head, revealing his golden locks plastered to his forehead and red marks on his temples from the pressure of his helmet. He uses his tongue to push his blue mouthguard out of his mouth. Teeth, tongue, lips. He makes a slight smacking noise as he pulls the rest of the piece from his lips, licking the extra moisture away with a slow swipe.
It’s a dangerous sight.
“Are you just stringing ole Sanders along, Stanley?” He gives another wink, and I feel it in my bones.
“Uh, no,” I defend. “He keeps coming up to me!” I press my hand against my chest dramatically.
“Oh yeah?” He reaches back to grab his ankle and stretches his quad. The line of his leg muscle presses against the tight sheen fabric of his pants, threatening to burst free. “Want me to beat him up?” he jokes, stretching the other leg. I gulp audibly at the smoothness of his movements.
“Calm down, Rocky.”
“Kidnapping?”
“Stop it.” I laugh and try to give him a playful shove in the arm, but he catches my wrist and rubs the inside with his thumb.
He lets out a slow breath, staring at my arm and the movement of his thumb. “Look, I want to—”
“Geer, huddle up!” Devon calls out from center field.
“Dang it,” he mutters to himself then asks, “can we talk later?” He slides his mouthguard back into place and walks backward onto the field.
I nod. “After?”
“Yeah, after the next game!” His words and smile are so distorted from his mouthguard that I almost miss the information that was tossed at me.
“Alright—wait, what?” I”m confused. “Next game?”