Throwing Like A Girl

A cheese enchilada and too many chips and salsa later, my legs were stuck to the cracked vinyl of the booth and the dim lighting (combined with my full tummy) was making me sleepy, but I was having the best time off the field that I’d had since coming to Florin.

Jordan was being his usual friendly self to me, but Jesse and Mark were being unusually nice to me, too. It was rather off-putting, Jesse gesturing for me to squeeze in between him and Jordan in one of the two booths our party was taking up. Mark was more talkative than usual, although most of it was recounting the game and commenting on the ridiculousness of the Spanish soap opera playing on the TV by the bar, which was visible from our table.

Our team took up one long table with booth seating on both sides and a normal three or four person booth nearby. Coaches Hastings and Anwar were in the smaller booth, with Coach Anwar’s son, Austin, and his best friend, Clay Gorby. The rest of us piled into the long booth, squishing to make room. It seemed like the after-game dinner was only for players, because there weren’t any girls, or even family, with us while we ate.

When everyone had pretty much finished and the busboys had cleared all our plates and were starting to give us the evil eye, the guys started muttering to themselves and asking each other if they remembered how much their food was, pulling their wallets out of their back pockets and tossing bills onto the table. I slipped my twenty out of my pocket and tossed it onto the table, even though my enchilada had only been about ten bucks.

“Here, Bree,” Mark said, tossing a ten back in my direction. He’d been declared the money-man, which made sense, since he was at the top of my geometry class.

I handed it back to him. “It’s okay, it can go toward the tip,” I told him, feeling eyes from further down the table on me. Mark shrugged in a “whatever” sort of gesture, but I could still feel eyes on me. I dropped my eyes to where the chip basket had been a few minutes earlier, wishing they’d left it so I had something to do with my hands and mouth.

“Big tipper, huh?” Jesse asked, throwing a ten and a five at Mark.

I shrugged. “Wouldn’t you want big tips if you were working minimum wage?”

“True,” Carter conceded. “When my sister was working at Denny’s, she said she got horrible tips.”

“That’s not the only place she got tips from,” Shawn said, and the guys all ohh-ed as Carter punched his shoulder, not being able to come up with a come-back.

Mark went back to counting the money, yelling at Brent that he still hadn’t coughed up his share. Brent grumbled and tossed a crumpled five and some very wrinkled ones onto the table.

“Looks like Carter’s sister isn’t the only one getting tipped,” Damien said, ignoring Brent’s glares.

“You been workin’ that corner, Brenny-boy?” Emmett asked, laughing. That made us all laugh, and even Brent chuckled a little.

Finally, all the money was sorted out—everyone had gotten their change and there was a sizable tip left for the amicable waiter. I peeled myself off the vinyl and followed the guys back to the vans. Carter convinced Coach Hastings, who was driving our van, to let him take over the radio and he put on the local top 40 station. “Tik Tok,” the Ke$ha song, was playing. I suppressed a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Jesse asked me. He was sitting behind me in the third row and Jordan was to my left. I’d volunteered to take the seat nobody wanted, the end of the middle bench seat. Since nobody wore seat belts in these vans, the person who sat at the end of the middle bench was prone to falling off the seat and had to either break down and put on the seat belt or hang on to the seat for dear life. I chose to sit sideways and put my arm over the back of my seat, gripping it for dear life.

“This was one of our team songs,” I told him, bobbing my head to the beat. “It had to be blasted at full volume at least once every time we were in the vans. ‘Before I leave, brush my teeth with a bottle o’ Jack, cuz when I leave for the night, I ain’t comin’ back!’” I smiled, remembering all my girls dancing around in the dark on the way home from away games and making the van bounce at stoplights.

“I thought softball team songs were what you guys sang when people were up to bat and stuff,” Mark said from the first row of seats.

“Those are cheers,” I told him. “The team songs are just our thing, you know? Gotta fill long car rides with something.”

“That’s what iPods are for,” Coach said from the driver’s seat. “I can only take the crap you guys listen to for so long.”

Jordan leaned over. “He says that now, but he usually gives up halfway through the ride,” he whispered. I smiled in return, looking uncertainly toward Coach. I couldn’t see him giving up easily on anything.

When we got back to school, I had to go back to the locker room to get my bag before heading back to the dorms. I said bye to the boys and headed for the long-empty halls, trying to ignore the slapping of my flip flops echoing in the silence.

After tossing the contents of my locker into my athletic bag, I tossed it and my tote bag over my shoulders and headed out of the locker room. My athletic bag refused to stay on my shoulder, so I put my weight against the door to the locker room instead of gently opening it like I normally do, making sure I don’t hit anyone.

I managed to hit someone. Just my freaking luck.

“Ohmigod, are you okay?” I asked the guy sprawled out on the floor outside the locker rooms. I gave up on my bags and shrugged them off my arms, dropping to my knees next to the poor guy I’d nailed.

It was Jesse, clutching his forehead and trying to sit up, backpack lying a few feet away. “Damn, Bree. Could you push the door any harder?”

“Sorry!” I said, trying to gently pry his hand from his forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he told me, resisting my pulling.

“Let me see,” I told him and he finally dropped his hand. I pushed back the dark brown bangs that had fallen back into place to reveal a big pink bump starting to form. “Oh, God, Jesse! You need ice. I’m so sorry!” My hand hovered over his forehead, wanting to touch it to soothe the angry pink bump but not knowing whether I’d just make it worse.

“It’s cool,” he told me, waving off my hand and my concern. “Just another battle scar, right?”

“From a door?” I asked, not being able to keep back a smile.

Jesse smiled back. “Those doors can be brutal.”

“God, I really did get you,” I said more to myself as I pushed back his bangs again, this time laying my hand softly over the bump. My hands were cooler than his skin and, hopefully, helping ease the pain a little.

“Don’t worry about it, Bree,” he told me, putting down both hands to steady himself. He looked a little wobbly, even though he was only sitting.

I pursed my lips as I scrambled to my feet. “Here,” I said, putting out my hands to help him up. Jesse took them gratefully and I pulled him up. He was still a little wobbly on his feet, so I quickly picked up his backpack before he could go for it.

“Thanks,” he said, letting me put it in his hands.

“Welcome,” I replied, picking up my own bags and resuming the constant struggle of keeping them on my shoulders. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I already told you, Bree,” he said, slinging the backpack over his shoulder, “I’m fine. See?” Jesse started off down the hall, walking with one foot right in front of the other in a straight line with his arms out, like he was walking a tight rope.

I couldn’t help but chuckle a little; he looked ridiculous. “Okay, you’ve convinced me,” I said, and caught up to him, my athletic bag already drooping. “Promise you’ll ice it, though?”

We were outside now, where we had to split up to go to our separate dorms. I could barely see anything but his silhouette and the light reflecting off his eyes in the orangey-glow of the campus lamps.

Jesse nodded. “I promise. Let’s hope it doesn’t turn purple.”

I chuckled again and readjusted my bags. “Let’s hope,” I repeated. “See you at practice tomorrow.”