3. Sophie #2
Caroline emerges from the bleachers, nearly bowling me over in her rush. She’s in pink athleisure, lip gloss bright as a stoplight, hair in a ponytail so tight it’s probably contributing to climate change. “Oh, good! You made it!”
I force a twitch of a smile. “Yeah. Trent’s not exactly thrilled to see me.”
She flicks her wrist dismissively, like whatever happened last night—and Trent’s mood—doesn’t really matter. “He’s a teenager.”
A whistle blares. For the first time, I notice the coach halfway up the sideline, clipboard in hand as he barks names.
There’s no point embarrassing Trent by hauling his bag across the field, so I wave to the coach instead.
He gives the world’s most distracted thumbs-up.
I jog it over, aware the whole time that Trent’s body language stiffens as I get closer.
I pretend to ignore his attitude as I drop the bag at the coach’s feet, wave, and then head back to the other parents watching on the sidelines.
By now, the bleachers are filling. A couple of parents huddle under blankets; another is setting up a folding chair with a tiny flag, but Caroline’s already claimed the best spot, so I collapse next to her.
For a while, we just watch. The kids split into scrimmage teams. Trent runs hard, but everything about him looks off—every pass too forceful, every collision just shy of reckless. I want to shout for him to take it easy. The urge to embarrass him is apparently hereditary, but I keep my mouth shut.
Caroline sips her coffee and launches into the usual gossip. “So, Mrs. Miller’s already emailing the PTA about fundraisers again…”
It all becomes background noise. My entire focus stays pinned to the field—on Trent’s hunched posture, the set of his jaw, the way he never once looks over.
Had it always been like this? Or did last night snap something clean in half?
Parents murmur around us. A few glance my way, then look away. I’m insulated, wrapped in guilt, nerves, and the endless hum of what if and what now.
The only time I break from watching is when Caroline nudges me, stage-whispering, “Those two are adorable together, aren’t they?”
I squint, following her finger. A girl with long braids and a bright pink headband jogs beside Trent. They aren’t talking, but their eyes meet now and then, their hands brushing.
My breath catches.
Trent and Rebecca. Rebecca—Caroline’s daughter—and Trent. My Trent.
Caroline beams. The world tilts. The field’s suddenly too bright, the grass too wet, the bench beneath me too cold.
My hands splay on the bleachers. “Rebecca and…Trent?” When did that happen?
She laughs, light and unbothered. “Who else would I mean?”
My jaw moves, but no sound comes out.
How did I not know? How did I miss it?
I cover with, “I guess I thought they were just friends.”
She grins. “Doesn’t surprise me he didn’t tell you. Boys get shy about that stuff. But Rebecca never shuts up about him. It’s sweet.”
Every cell in my body goes on high alert.
On the field, Trent passes the ball to Rebecca, then drops back, putting space between them. It’s textbook. Look at me not caring. I know that move. I invented it.
The rest of Caroline’s chatter slides past. Gossip. Complaints. Booster Club drama. All I can do is nod and concentrate on not passing out. I’m beyond exhausted.
How did Trent get a girlfriend and keep it from me? Had I turned so inward that I missed everything right in front of me?
The guilt hits instantly. So does the sadness.
Practice ends in a blur. I watch Trent the whole time, hoping he’ll look over. It’s no surprise that he doesn’t. When I glance down, my hands are shaking.
When the whistle blows, he lags behind, head down, sitting alone while the other boys joke and strip off their cleats.
I want to run out there, drag him to the car by his earlobe, force him to tell me everything—to confide in me the way he used to, before everything changed. Before Nantucket.
Instead, I grip the bleachers and stay put. Calm. Still. Enough.
When the field clears, I gather my things. Caroline waves, promises to text about getting the kids together, then disappears in a cloud of perfume and certainty.
Trent doesn’t look at me. He fiddles with his laces, gaze fixed on the ground. His whole body says, Leave me alone.
“Hey,” I call as he approaches.
He doesn’t slow until I step into his path.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” I aim for light.
Clearly, it doesn’t work, because he shoots me a look so cold it stings. “Why would you care?”
“Trent—”
He barrels past, bag slamming his hip.
I catch up, cut in front of him, and grab his arm just above the elbow. “Please. I was worried sick about you last night.”
He jerks free, spinning so fast I step back. His face looks older. Sharper. Almost unfamiliar. “For what?” he snaps, loud enough to draw stares. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to worry about me and then pretend nothing’s wrong.”
“I just wanted to know you were safe?—”
He laughs, harsh and mean. “You’re such a hypocrite. If you want to know everything, maybe start by telling the truth for once.”
I don’t point out that he, too, has kept a bit of a secret in the form of Rebecca. Instead, I try to be the mature one. “Trent?—”
“You don’t get to keep secrets and then demand I tell you everything.” He shoulders past me, making sure I feel it.
Oh, the irony of his secret and mine. If he only knew…
The field is nearly empty. A few parents shuffle by, eyes flicking away. I stand there, hands limp, throat tight, watching him walk off toward the street without looking back. The sun feels wrong now. The only sound left is the click of his cleats on the sidewalk.
I swallow. It doesn’t help.
All I wanted was to protect him.
Now I’m standing here alone, and all I’ve done is make it worse.