Victor groans and replies in Spanish. Andreas shoots back, switching to English to add, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!”
Marcos has not glanced up once from his redrawn angle. I bet it would align precisely with a protractor. “Victor’s hated basketball ever since Andreas scored on him last summer,” he tells me. “It was truly David and Goliath.”
Apparently Andreas wins this round, too; he plops onto the floor at our feet and turns on the TV. “Savannah, how you doin’?” He offers me a large grin, all white teeth. “I invited all the boys. You’ll love ’em.”
“You know this isn’t your house, right?” Marcos says sternly.
Andreas waves his hand and settles in at a spot just under my knee. “Details.”
After ten seconds of microwave beeping, Victor plops down next to Marcos and the entire couch sinks. He eyes Marcos’s notebook over a steaming bowl of chili. “Looks boring,” he announces.
As the door opens, I smell the cologne. It reeks of inexperience and optimism, much like when Richard used to bathe in the stuff before heading out on a date. They arrive all at once and Andreas turns up the volume so that their greetings don’t drown out the game. Muscular guys dressed impeccably in tight T-shirts and jeans, short hair gelled into pointy tips. Are they juniors, seniors, or even from Ponquogue at all? I don’t know. Marcos stands up, embracing them with the weird manly half hug. Then they see me.
“This is Savannah,” Marcos says, dimples on display as he grins, and it makes my ears redden but not in a good way. Because there’s the suspension, the lull before one of them says, “How’s it going?” and gives Marcos a wink. The others nod at me and then look at each other, their heads moving together as they settle on the floor near Andreas. They mumble to each other, a steady thrum that goes beneath the cheering onscreen and Andreas’s enthusiastic shouts as he tries to remotely coach the players.
I’m used to being judged. Gymnastics will do that for you. You’re never good enough, and even in the rare times that you are, there’s no guarantee that you will be again. Couple that with Dad teaching at school, and I’ve accepted that the occasional side-eye and dropped voice is part of my life.
Tiny girl out of her comfort zone.
My fingers fumble for my phone to text Cassie. I’ll invite her here, ask for a ride home, anything. We’ll take the awkwardness side by side and she’ll charm them or whisk me away. Preferably both.
You wouldn’t be able to handle it.
Victor’s watching me out of the corner of his eye as he spoons bites of chili. Is this all a test to prove that I don’t belong here?
My phone chirps with an e-mail notification. Coach Jeffrey Barry.
Savannah!! Great to meet you!! Just wanted to confirm you received the links to all of the great academic opportunities Owego State has to offer!!
I’ll give it to the man; he’s got great timing. I spend an inordinate amount of time typing out my response– “I did, thanks!”–and hope that by the time I look up, something will have changed.
Nope. Marcos leans against the counter, in earnest conversation with one of the guys. When he switches to Spanish, his voice turns deeper, smoother, gliding up and down the syllables instead of skipping through them.
I’m about to text Cassie. Instead, I do something completely different. It might be the testosterone flowing as the boys make drumroll sounds on the floor when the player onscreen goes for the layup. Perhaps the mere thought of texting Cassie brings out the more spontaneous side of me. Either way, I open up a new draft.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Savannah Gregory–Return to Competition
Dear Coach Englehardt,
It was great meeting with you last season. I’ve recovered from ACL surgery and will be competing next month at the Golden Leaf Classic as an event specialist. If possible, I would love to speak with you about opportunities for next year on the Buccaneers gymnastics team.
Sincerely,
Savannah Gregory
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit Send and it whooshes off into oblivion.
My heart pounds like I’ve performed a floor routine for Coach Englehardt instead of sending him a peppy e-mail. Instead of waiting for a score, all I have to look forward to is when he inevitably writes back with, “We’ve filled our roster. Sorry.”
“Oh, come on!” a guy next to Andreas yells as the Heat’s center tumbles to the floor and the whistle blows. “What is this bullshit? The refs are fixing this.”
“I don’t know, he plowed right into that guy,” I say. “Looks like a flagrant foul to me.”
The quick hush again. Victor’s spoon dangles between his chili and his mouth. The guys on the floor stare at me, bewildered, but now I’m not sure if it’s Who brought this girl? or She’s talking basketball?
Andreas recovers first. “Damn right that was flagrant!” There’s no hesitation in his eyes as he squirms around to high-five me. I could hug the kid right now.
Luckily, someone else takes the spotlight. “Andreas Alvarez, what in the holy hell are you doing with your sneakers on the floor?”
Andreas hastily tugs off a shoe. “Sorry,” he mutters.
I didn’t even hear the door open.
Rena Garcia takes the open seat next to me, shaking her auburn curls vigorously. “You better be.” A curl whacks me in the face. “So sorry,” she says, her eyes crinkling as she smiles at me. “Oh, Savannah, hi! I love your dad. He’s the best teacher I’ve ever had.” From livid to buddies, just like that. It’s downright unnerving. “He’s so funny, too.”
She’s got the wrong guy.
“Andreas’s girlfriend,” Marcos whispers as he bends down behind the couch, and my mind starts replaying that kiss in the car and calculates how soon we can repeat it. “She’s a junior.”
“He hits on anything that moves,” I say.