Damage - A. M. Jenkins [10]
Curtis is the only player who isn’t looking at her now. Even Dobie has noticed. He stands stock-still, bent over the duffel bag, staring slack jawed down the bleachers at Heather as if he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to be doing.
“Keep up the good work,” says Coach, holding out his hand, palm down. Everybody gathers around him in a circle, piling hands onto his. “Panthers…Go!” everybody shouts, and the huddle breaks up. Short and sweet.
Heather stands up.
Brett Stargill perks up as she steps out onto the field. “Watching practice?” he asks, strolling toward her.
“Not really,” she says, not missing a beat as she passes him by and comes straight to you. “Hi, Austin.”
Her eyes are locked onto yours. Your clothes are soaked, your face streaming with sweat. You know you smell to high heaven.
“Melissa had to leave early today, and I don’t have a ride. I was hoping you could give me one?”
Automatically, you flash her a grin. “Sure, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes. I kinda need to get cleaned up.”
“You look fine to me.” Her eyes flick up and down your sweat-soaked, grass-and-dirt-stained practice uniform; it reminds you of the way your mother used to check out the stance of a horse she wanted to buy. “Just fine. I really do appreciate this.”
“Give me a couple minutes, and I’ll be right out,” you tell her easily—after all, this is Austin Reid’s home territory.
“I’ll just wait by your truck,” she says, and gives you a smile before she turns away.
You watch her walk for a few moments, until you realize you’re admiring the way her rear end sways and swings, the way her hair switches back and forth like a palomino’s tail. And suddenly you feel like laughing, just when you thought you were completely shriveled up inside.
You turn around and go straight to the field house to get cleaned up, quick as you can.
“You’re really thinking about asking her out, aren’t you?” Curtis’s voice is muffled by the T-shirt he’s pulling on. “Even though she’s got a heart about the size of a pea.”
His head reappears out of the neck hole; he pulls the shirt all the way down and reaches for the belt hanging in his locker. He doesn’t know that his words are like shotgun pellets trying to puncture you. And you hadn’t understood exactly how light you were feeling, till he said that.
You shake out a slightly used sock, the one you wore to school, and start pulling it over your foot. “She’s not that bad,” you say in a low voice. “You don’t really know her.”
“Neither do you.” Curtis threads his belt through the loops of his jeans.
“Nobody does,” says Dobie from the other end of the lockers. He scoops up one damp towel from the floor and reaches for another. “Nobody under the age of eighteen, anyway. She only likes them college boys.”
“I know her enough,” Curtis says. “Every year she gets more and more picky about who she smiles at and who she speaks to. Except the week before the Homecoming Court gets elected. Then all of a sudden she’s Miss Congeniality.”
It’s true, Heather’s not real outgoing. True, too, that she can really turn it on when she wants something.
Today, it looks like she wants you.
“I’m not saying she doesn’t look good,” Curtis continues. “If you want to try to lay her, that’s your choice. All I’m saying is, don’t get all wrapped up in it.”
Silence. Dobie reaches for another towel.
“Do I ever get wrapped up in it?” you hear yourself say, feel that grin flash across your face.
“No,” says Curtis, his tone neither approving nor disapproving. “Look out, Dobe,” he adds drily. “Here comes notch number twenty-seven.”
“More like three hundred thirty-three,” you kid, bending to tie your shoe. Actually it’s more like number four—or five, depending on how you count.
“Notch?” Dobie asks.
“On his belt,” Curtis explains. “He’s exaggerating.”
“Not by much,” you say, and turn around and walk out to meet Heather.
“Don’t worry, it’ll cool down in here pretty soon,” you tell her as you’re easing the pickup out of the parking lot. “This old truck may not look like much, but it’s got a good air conditioner.”