Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

“Isn’t this kind of a moot point now? We’re both well aware that no dating will be taking place.”

I sigh. “I wanted to go for a walk and explain things because I hoped we could still be friends.”

She disappears from the window. I wonder if she’s pacing or just tired of me when she says, “Seriously?”

“I know it sounds stupid. But I told you the truth on Friday night. I’m a transfer. I’m nonscholarship. I’m an outsider on the team, and at this school. I think you’re pretty great, and I’d hate to lose that because our situation is . . . complicated.”

She snorts. “Complicated. Right.”

I wish she would come back to the window so I could see her face.

“Is that a no?”

She doesn’t say anything, and it drives me crazy not being able to know what she’s thinking. Damn it, why don’t dorms have balconies?

“It’s an I don’t know .”

“Can I help you figure it out?”

“No. Not tonight. I’ll text you or something.”

She hangs up the phone, the blinds drop, and I have no choice but to drag myself home.

I DON’T SEE Dallas again that week, not even when I stick around the environmental science building trying to catch her before whatever class she has there. She sure as hell never comes back to practice, and even though I want to obsess over it, there’s no time.

On Wednesday, Coach tells me I’m traveling with the team, and the rest of the week speeds by, until I walk out on a football field in a Rusk University jersey for the first time. Mom and Dad are supposed to try to come since this away game is closer to home than Rusk, but Granny is sick again, so they don’t make it after all.

It’s just as well because as expected, I ride the bench the whole game, and now in the dark quiet of the charter bus on our way home, I finally have the space in my head to think about Dallas again. I sit and stare at the few texts we exchanged before everything went to shit, while the rest of my teammates are sleeping or listening to music. Most of them have a reason to be tired, though. They’ve actually worn themselves out playing, and I’m still keyed up with nowhere to burn that energy off. We managed a narrow victory for our first game of the season. The win wasn’t pretty, especially considering it should have been a fairly easy win for us, but it didn’t feel nearly as ugly as the feeling in my chest reading those damn texts.

Why can’t I stop thinking about her?

Why does the one night I had with this girl suddenly hold more weight in my mind than relationships that lasted months of my life?

When we get back to Rusk, we pile out—a long line of sleepy guys in sweatpants with duffel bags.

We all have Sunday off, and I know a few of the guys are going out tonight despite their sleepy appearances at the moment. They’ll want to celebrate the win while they don’t have to worry about enduring an early morning workout with a hangover.

I stop to drop off a few things in the locker room when I hear someone mention Firecracker. It’s the team’s nickname for Dallas.

“Heard she and the Asian chick might be at that party on ninth tonight. You gonna try again, Moore?”

I am so sick of hearing them talk about her that I have half a mind to anonymously tip the coach off about Firecracker . Let him hear their conversations and take care of it.

Instead, I grab my shit and head out without saying goodbye. And once I’m in my truck I text Dallas.

You going to a party tonight?

She hasn’t answered by the time I make the five-minute drive back to my apartment. I didn’t expect her to, not really. But the thought of one of them making a pass at her for some stupid bet sends my muscles into a fit of rage that could rival tetanus for tension.

I’m not asking you out, Daredevil. Just

answer the question.

No. I’m not. Why?

Good. Just . . . Don’t let Stella drag

you to another party tonight.

Why?

Nothing. Just stupid shit going down.

You don’t want to be around it.

It’s a mostly honest answer.

Oh. Thanks.

No problem.

I’m pretty sure that’s the end of it as I throw myself down on my couch and turn on the TV. But my phone buzzes with one more text.

Congrats on the win.

And there’s my subtle reminder of my position on the team and everything that means for us. Too tired to put up a fight or feign gratitude, I don’t answer her at all.

Why don’t you just tell your dad?” Stella asks.

I sigh and haul myself up onto one of the uncomfortable stools in front of a library computer. “Because we had another argument, and I’d have to apologize to get him to buy me a new computer, and I’m not there yet.”

“Oh, big deal. Say you’re sorry. You guys will fight again next week, and you can be mad at him all over again. With a new computer.”

“I’m tired of pretending we’re okay only to end up at each other’s throats again. It’s not healthy.”

“You really want to have a conversation about what’s not healthy ?” She leans on the high-top table next to me and mimics, “ Oh, Stella, he’s so sweet and so nice. And I think I really like him. OH . . . JK HE PLAYS FOOTBALL HE’S DEAD TO ME .”

“That’s not how it happened!”

It’s kind of how it happened.

“Oh, sweetheart. The denial is squeezing all the fun out of you.”

“Nothing is squeezing me. You know I’m not the romantic type.”

“All that denial is like a pair of Spanx around your heart. You’re not romantic because you don’t let yourself be.”

“That’s a lovely visual. So what? I’m the Grinch? My heart is three sizes too small?”

“Not three sizes too small. It’s just cranky. As anyone or anything would be after being corseted up for years on end.”

Stell’s an art major. And she’s always talking about my life in terms of metaphors, most of them depressing.

I ignore her and finish logging on, so that I can print my GCE assignment. Gender, culture, and ethnicity in dance. Surprisingly, with how weak my studio classes are, it has ended up being my favorite class, in part because the professor, Esther Sanchez, is the most legit dance professor on staff. I would have loved to have a studio class with her, but after an injury a few years back, she doesn’t teach them anymore. She’s in charge of all the theory, composition, and history courses.

“At least tell me that you’re gonna try to meet someone else, then? We could go out this weekend. One of the art history majors is having a party at his place.”

I ignore Stella in favor of plugging in my USB drive.

It’s been two weeks since the catastrophe with Carson, and he’s texted me twice since then to ask me if I was going to a party. Or more correctly, He’d told me not to go. Each time I’ve asked around the next day, trying to discern if any parties got busted or had major drama, and both times I’ve come up empty.

Other than that, he hasn’t texted me, and I haven’t contacted him. Despite saying I would.

A small part of me wonders if he tells me not to come because he’s going to be there, and then I get irrationally furious over a party I really had no desire to attend anyway. Especially considering he was the one throwing around the F-word like it was actually a possibility for us.

Stella straightens up beside me and grins in a way that cannot mean anything good. Before she can unleash whatever maniacal plan she’s formulating, I say, “There’s this guy in my English class who I’m kind of interested in.”