Libby putters around the kitchen, turning sizzling bacon and sausages, frying bread, chopping tomatoes, and opening a can of baked beans.
“You’re a brilliant cook, Libby,” David says, stuffing his mouth with omelets. “This is better than our cook at home.”
“It really is tremendously good,” says Flossie.
She blushes. “Thanks. I like cooking. It’s relaxing.”
“The only thing I make are reservations,” I say, wincing as everybody’s laughter triggers my headache. I look at Flossie. “How are you not hungover?”
“I only had two beers,” she says. “I didn’t want to be wrecked before the game today.”
Libby’s face tightens, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I pounded some ginseng before bed,” Alice says. “Although you know what also works? Beetroot juice.”
“Beetlejuice?” Tarquin says, laughing.
Libby piles a huge stack of pancakes in front of me. “I made them just for you: with strawberries and blueberries mixed in with the batter. I hope it makes you feel better.” She learned how to make pancakes from an American cooking show when we were home on break a couple of years ago. They’ve been one of my favorite things in the world ever since.
“Thanks.” I spear a huge stack and am about to take a giant bite when I remember that Edward is watching me. I take a smaller, socially acceptable bite. “God, these are delicious. What time did you wake up?”
She must have four things sizzling on different burners, but she looks as calm and composed as if she were a professional chef. “Probably six thirty. You know it’s hard for me to sleep in.” Libby has struggled with insomnia since we were kids.
“What I wouldn’t give for a lie-in,” I yawn, rubbing my eyes. “I hate waking up early for field hockey. After I graduate university, I’m never waking up before noon again.”
Edward laughs. “Noon? That’s a bit excessive, even for me.”
“Okay, then, ten a.m. But that’s the earliest I’ll do it.”
“Let’s hope your kids get the memo,” says Flossie, standing up to pour more coffee. Libby reaches over and refills her mug.
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sure if I want children. Ask me in fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years!” Libby exclaims, putting down her spatula and looking shocked. “Does Mum know that you don’t want kids?”
I’m so hungry that I finish all the pancakes on my plate in about five seconds flat. I’m too hungover to care anymore about table etiquette. “Probably not. She and I don’t exactly spend time talking about my future children. I’ve only been seventeen for about eight hours.”
“I know it’s kind of cheesy, but I want two—a girl and a boy,” Libby says.
“You want kids?” Edward asks her. “That surprises me.”
“Really? Why?” She wipes her hands on a tea towel.
“You’re so smart. And feminist. I guess I figured you’d go that career-gal path.”
“Career gal?” Libby snorts. She crumples up the tea towel and throws it at his face. “You sound like my grandmother. Let me know when you’ve time traveled back from the 1930s. These days, women can have kids and a career.”
He laughs good-naturedly, tossing the tea towel back to Libby. It slides off her head and lands on the floor.
“I don’t know,” Flossie says, looking doubtfully at my sister. “Libby’s literally barefoot in my kitchen cooking right now. I’d say she’s pretty maternal.”
“Maternal, a great chef, and smart: she saved my arse in history,” David says, shoveling eggs into his mouth. “You’re the perfect woman, Libs.”
She turns away, busying herself cracking more eggs, but not before I see the pleased expression on her face.
“What, so the perfect woman needs to cook? And be a mum? That’s pretty sexist,” I say, thoroughly annoyed. “Should she greet her husband with a foot rub every night after work, too?”
“Hear, hear,” Libby says, sliding more food onto my plate. “Feminism is all about choices.”
“Well,” I say, “I choose more coffee. And seconds of those pancakes.”
twelve
I bite my tongue as my shoulder slams into the ground, a metallic taste filling my mouth. I curl into a ball to protect my body.
The crowd gasps at my tumble. Above me, the player from Norfolk who bodychecked me laughs and runs down the field.
It’s been a rough game to cap a rough weekend. The group took cabs back to campus after breakfast, and I’ve been downing coffee ever since to sober up. It’s not working—I’m still exhausted and have missed goals and passes at every turn, stumbling over routine plays and fumbling with my stick as if I’m a rookie. It’s not normally so difficult for me to snap my head back into the game. Then again, I’ve never played hungover before.
My stomach churns. I feel like I might vomit.
“What’s with you?” Flossie hisses to me. She points the butt of her stick at me accusingly. “You’re a mess out there.”
I look at my stick doubtfully—as if it’s the problem, not me. “My head is killing me.”
“So?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Don’t. Snap out of it. You’re a disaster out there.” Flossie is wildly competitive.
“I know,” I say, irritated. “You don’t need to tell me.”
Wilkinson blows her whistle. “Weston!” she bellows.
As soon as I see the look on her face, I want to sink into the ground. I jog over to the sidelines.
“Are you hungover?” she demands.
“No.”
“One of the girls told me you got wasted last night.”
“Who said that?”
“So it’s true.”
“It’s not.”
“I can smell the booze on you. You’re a walking distillery.”
“Not sure why. I wasn’t drinking,” I lie.
She narrows her eyes, leaning in so close I can see the freckles on her weathered cheeks. “Look. I’m not your mommy. You and I both know you’re not allowed to drink, but I don’t care what you do in your spare time. You wanna get wasted on wine coolers and warm beer? Be my guest.”
I’m not in the mood for a lecture. I just want to get back out there and make this right.
“But I’ve got a problem when your after-hours shenanigans start affecting my game.” She leans closer. The crow’s-feet around her eyes make her look like a shriveled lemon. “I don’t wake up at five a.m. for fun. I’m out here with you day in and day out, and the least you could do is show some respect—for me and for yourself. You’ve missed four passes. You’ve cost us several points. You got in Corrie’s way when she was lining up that shot. Is this your idea of a good time?”
“No.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“No,” I say more loudly.
“You want to screw up things for yourself—go nuts. But when you put my team on the line, I get pissed.”
I sigh. “Okay, Coach.”
“I don’t like your attitude!” she yells.
“Okay. Sorry.”
She looks at me sourly. Finally, after a pause of several seconds, she nods curtly. “Get it together.”
I race back to the center of the field. Everybody is standing in a circle waiting for me.
“Coach wants to make me the team punching bag.”
I expect sympathetic looks, but everybody glares at me.