Less than an hour after he leaves, after I’ve showered and am ready to hit the bed, I get a text from him saying that it’s all set and that his friend William Blackstone will show me the apartment as soon as I’m ready.
Me: Thank you, amazing T-Rex!!!!!!
Him: Don’t make plans next Friday afternoon. You’re coming to my game.
GAME
I missed the game, and I am haunted by it. The same day of Tahoe’s lacrosse match, Martha needed me to cover for one of my coworkers. I’m so mad about that. Because the reality is that he is always there for me. And I want to be there for him. So half a week after the missed game, I lie in bed, sleepless, and glance at my “missed calls” screen, where his name is written next to a (2). I decide to stop avoiding the issue, put on my big girl panties and call him.
“I can’t sleep,” I say immediately after he answers.
There’s a long silence, as if he’s taken aback by my call. At this hour.
“Why can’t you sleep?” His voice is raspy, as if I caught him sleeping, or maybe even having sex.
“I want to go to your next game.”
Another silence. “You’re messing with me.” His voice sounds completely disbelieving.
“No! Why? What? I’m not invited anymore?” I prod.
“I’m not in the city,” I hear a squeak as if he gets out of bed, a soft moaning protest, and then a door shut, and silence, “but I’ll be there for this weekend’s game.”
“Cool.” I grin happily.
“I’ll text you the time. On one condition.” There’s a warning in his voice.
I groan in dread.
“You’ve got to paint my number on your cheek,” he says next.
“Um, no?” I say.
“Well then, it was nice saying hi.”
My heart stops when I realize he’s about to hang up. “Fine! What is it? Sixty-nine?” I ask with mock boredom.
“Double zero.”
“Fitting, ’cause you’re a whole lot of nothing,” I say drolly.
“You’re a mean girl, Regina.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Now sleep.”
“I’ll sleep when you do.” I hang up, smiling down at the phone.
I’m still thinking about him when I finally turn off the lights. I’m still thinking about him in the middle of the night when I wonder where he is and who he’s with. Some girl he thinks he’s good enough for, even when he thinks he’s not good enough for me.
Well she’s welcome to him, really. I have Trent, who makes me happy, and who I’m good enough for. Trent only needs me, not a battalion of women like Tahoe does.
I’m sitting in the second row of bleachers at the large lacrosse field of Tahoe’s men’s league when the players shuffle out onto the field. I spot him instantly. Double zero. One of the tallest, largest forms out there. He wears a white jersey with red numbers. Cleats, shorts, shoulder pads, thick white gloves, elbow pads, and a helmet streaked in red and white. He’s wearing a helmet with a facemask—all the players are. But Tahoe also wears a visor underneath the facemask. It’s a swirl of colors, starting with red at the center, fanning out to orange to yellow to blue. I can’t see his eyes; but I can feel his stare as he looks up at the stands.
He looks as intimidating as shit as he heads straight to the middle of the field. He faces off against his opponent, hunches forward. They’re nearly nose to nose, their lacrosse sticks down on the ground.
He glances in my direction. My heart flips in my chest. Nervousness fills me for him, for the game or for some other reason, I don’t know, but I squirm a little in my seat.
“About to face off,” a voice through the speakers says.
I’m holding my breath by the time the whistle sounds.
It all happens so fast. Lacrosse is so quick, it’s hard to keep up as a spectator, hard to understand without prior knowledge. Muscled guys in uniforms run around the field, swinging their sticks. But I actually googled the game before so I know a little bit about what’s happening now.
The men hold their lacrosse sticks; they call them shafts or handles as well. They’re alloy metal or titanium, with a pocket that holds the ball. This ball is their ultimate possession. This ball is what Tahoe just scooped up, and the announcer yells, “Possession Red! Pinch and sweep, and he’s off!”
He moved so fast, the opponent fell, face flat to the ground.
He holds the stick low to his chest as he charges forward at full speed. Defense moves in; he stutter-steps and then split-dodges to the left, fooling the defense, and then throws over his head.
“Score Red!” the voice calls.