Chapter 10 — Bleachers （Beck）
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I counted yard lines to keep my feet even on the concrete walkway, cleats ringing light after practice.
The cold got in my teeth on every breath. I liked the way the white lines cut clean across the green, five and five and five again, all the way down to the far fence where the wind shook the banners.
I had just walked off practice with my jaw aching from holding it shut. My helmet hair stuck damp to my forehead. Tape pulled at two fingers. Nora came jogging up behind me, breath white in the cold, ponytail bouncing, shoes slapping fast to catch me.
I slowed without thinking so she could close the gap. My shoulders dropped a fraction at the sound of her. My breath, which had been running too fast since the last rep, started to even out.
Then I heard him by the fence. Loud on purpose. That Kennel voice replaying the same tired smear from the bus about me needing my tutor to hold my hand through everything.
Two guys in pads stood near him, helmets in their hands, not laughing, not leaving yet. The distant whistle blew and died. The bleachers pinged under somebody's shoes in the wind.
Cut grass and cold metal filled my nose. The low sun striped the benches orange. Leaves skittered on aluminum and caught against the rails.
Nora stopped beside me, cheeks pink from running. Cinnamon came off her coat when the wind turned. She tipped her head toward the fence, eyebrows up, asking without words if I heard it too.
I nodded once. My jaw went tight again. Heat pushed up the back of my neck.
He looked right at her and grinned wider. “Hey, tutor girl. You giving extra credit now?” he said.
My throat went hot. My hands went cold around my chin strap. Nora froze half a step behind me, her sleeve brushing my arm.
I stepped between them before I thought it through. My shoulders squared. My shadow cut across his shoes. My pulse hammered so loud I felt it in my neck.
“Hey,” I said. “Talk to me.”
He held his phone a little higher, like the lens made him brave. “You want to be famous, Hale?” he said.
“Say it to me. Not — not about her. You're done with that.” I kept my voice low and did not move.
“Relax, Hale. It's just pod talk, man.” He laughed, but his eyes cut to the two guys like he wanted backup.
The wind hit the bleachers and made them hum. Cold air scraped my teeth. My left wrist buzzed where I wanted to tap, and I pressed two fingers hard against the navy cord instead.
“I don't care what you call it. Don't say her name again.” I watched his grin flicker at the edges, the way a cornerback's hips tip before he bails.
One of the guys in pads shifted his weight and looked at the ground. The other turned his helmet slow in his hands. Neither of them laughed.
“Come on,” I said. “You got something to say, say it to my face. Leave her out of it.”
“It's a joke,” he said. “Everybody jokes. You can't take campus talking about you?”
“Talk about me,” I said. “All day. I don't care. Not her. Ever.”
My hands had stopped feeling cold and started feeling too warm. My heart knocked against my ribs. I planted my feet wider and held his eyes.
He scoffed and dropped his phone to his side at last. “Fine. Fine, whatever. Can't take a joke, Hale,” he said.
He backed off with his hands up, still shaking his head. He kept walking along the fence till the corner blocked him from view.
The two guys in pads drifted after him, then split off toward the field house without a word. Cleats ticked on concrete. Quiet dropped hard behind them.
The whistle sounded far away again. A leaf skittered across aluminum and stopped against a shoe. My breath came out white and shaky.
Nora grabbed my wrist to check me. Her fingers closed warm around the cold skin above my glove line, and my pulse hammered under her thumb so fast I knew she felt all of it.
“Hey. Hey, you're shaking. Look at me a sec.” She tipped her head to catch my eyes.
I looked. Her freckles stood dark against pale cheeks. Her eyes searched mine, quick and warm, and my breath slowed a fraction without me telling it to.
“I'm okay,” I said. “He shouldn't — he shouldn't talk to you like that.”
“I know,” she said. “I heard. You didn't have to do that in front of everybody, though. That could cost you.”
“Yes,” I said. “I did. I don't — I don't like the math where I stay quiet and you pay.”
She huffed, half laugh, half something wetter. “God, Beck. You pick the worst moments to be brave,” she said.
“You pick the worst moments to run after me in the cold,” I said. “You're freezing. Your nose is red.”
“I'm fine,” she said, though her teeth almost clicked. “You're worse. Your lips're white.”
“Worth it,” I said. “Walk with me? Bleachers. Out of the wind a little.”
She nodded and fell in beside me. Our shoes hit the concrete in time without trying. Her arm bumped mine, then stayed close.
“You good?” she asked. “Really? Your hands're still shaking.”
“They'll stop,” I said. “Give them a minute. They always run hot after — after stuff like that.”
I had run scout team all afternoon with my ribs aching from a twist I did not tell anybody about. My throws had been clean, but the coaches only nodded at the starter, and I told myself that was fine because it was true.
“Rough practice?” she asked. “You look wrung out.”
“Same as always,” I said. “Run their plays. Make them look good. Stand on the sideline with my helmet on. I'm good at standing.”
“You're good at a lot more than standing,” she said, fierce and quick. “Don't do that thing where you shrink.”
“Okay,” I said. “No shrinking. Noted. Filed.”
“Good,” she said. “Because that pod stuff? It's garbage. Anybody with ears knows it.”
My chest loosened a notch at the way she said it, flat and sure. Midterms were behind us both, and the tired felt different now, less sharp, more like wet sand in my shoes.
“You looked scary,” she said. “Like, hot-scary. Is that weird to say? Don't answer. It's weird.”
“Say it again,” I said, and she snorted, that little snort she hates, and my chest ached in the best way.
“Shut up,” she said, bumping me harder. “You know what I mean. You went all still. Like stone.”
“I felt loud inside,” I said. “Like the field hum after a hit. But I saw him clear.”
We cut across the track edge where the rubber gave soft under my cleats. The field lights had not kicked on yet, and everything looked thin and bright, shadows long across the turf.
“You didn't tap,” she said. “Back there. I saw you want to, and you didn't.”
“Pressed my fingers on the band instead,” I said. “Same circuit. Less obvious. Coaches hate obvious.”
“Smart,” she said. “Still. That cost you something. I could tell.”
“Worth paying,” I said. “Every time.”
We crossed to the visitor bleachers on the east side. Empty rows striped orange in the low sun. The metal pinged under our shoes, cold ringing up through my soles.
I lined my boots square on the bleacher step before I sat, toes even, heels even. The small rightness of it let air back into my chest.
Nora climbed up and sat close, knees almost touching mine. She rubbed her hands fast, then reached for my left wrist again, lighter this time.
“Can I —? Give me your wrist. It'll only take a minute.” She held her hand out, palm up.
I held it out. The navy paracord looked dark against my skin, frayed a little at the edge where I picked at it during film.
She tugged at her own sleeve cuff, where a loose green thread stuck out from the seam. She pulled it free with her teeth, long enough to wrap twice, and held it up between us.
“It's green,” she whispered. “Can I?”
“What'll it do?” I asked.
“Make it ours,” she said. “If you want. It'll only take a minute, I swear.”
“I want,” I said. “Tie it.”
Her fingers were clumsy with cold and shook on the first loop. She bit her lip and started over, tongue caught between her teeth, breath puffing white over my hand.
“It's cold. Your hands're cold. Let me — hold still? I am. I'm still.” I went very still for her and watched.
I watched her knot the green thread around the navy cord, once, twice, tight. The little bow sat crooked and perfect against my pulse.
She smoothed it with her thumb, twice, like she could press it into place forever. “There,” she breathed. “There. Now it's got some color.”
“I like it,” I said. My throat felt thick. “It looks — it looks right. Like it was missing it.”
“Yeah?” she said, eyes bright. “Yeah. Me too. Don't lose it, okay?”
“Never,” I said. “It's staying. I don't take this one off anyway.”
Heat climbed up my throat. Noise from the field went soft at the edges. All I could hear was her breathing and the faint ping of the bench cooling under us.
“Nora,” I said. “You're cold. Scoot closer?”
“That's your big move?” she said, but she laughed again and leaned till her shoulder pressed my arm. “Scoot closer?”
“It's got a high success rate,” I said. “Statistically. In my head.”
“You're such a dork,” she said, and leaned harder. “Your dork. Ugh. I mean — you know what I mean.”
“I know,” I said. “Stay there. You're warm. You smell like cinnamon.”
“It's my lip balm,” she said. “Cheap stuff. You're such a weirdo for liking it.”
“I'm your weirdo,” I said before I could stop it, and her breath caught.
I felt the pattern click into place, the way routes click when I see them from above. Her one step closer. My hand finding the bench behind her. The sun striping her hair copper.
The wind cut across the top row and I shifted to block it with my shoulder. She tucked her chin and let me. Trust sat warm between us like a lamp.
I said it low, meant as vow, looking straight at her mouth then her eyes. “You're mine to walk home. That's what this is.”
She stared. Her lips parted. Color rushed up her neck into her cheeks, and her fingers curled into my jacket sleeve.
“Beck, I — oh. Oh, okay. Yes. Please —” she whispered, eyes shiny.
“Please what?” I asked. My voice came out rough. “Tell me. Use words. I need — I need the words.”
“Kiss me,” she whispered. “God. Please kiss me before I chicken out.”