gulps in fresh, cold air, then sees Moony limping toward her from the other side. “What’s up with the cane?” she demands.
“Security blanket. No big deal.”
She’s not sure what he means, but she helps Josh carry a duffel bag of soccer balls and a case of blue sports drinks to their field. Gold leaves from towering trees flutter to the ground as she stands on the sidelines while the team warms up. The game is thinly attended.
Moony talks to the coach, clipboard in hand. He likes clipboards.
The guys gather and at one point Josh glances over at Summer and says something. Everyone turns around. There’s laughter and Moony looks down sheepishly. Perturbed, she looks away.
The whistle blows and the game starts. Moony spreads a bright yellow rain poncho on the damp ground and he and Summer sit. It’s like they’re perched on a giant egg yolk.
As he adjusts his bad leg, his hair swings off his right ear. A clear plastic hearing aid nestles inside.
“What did Josh say that was so funny?” she asks, trying not to stare at his ear.
“Called you my girlfriend.”
“Poll results are in. He’s a jerk.”
“He thinks you’re hot.” He looks at her out from under his dark eyebrows in a way that she knows he thinks so, too. His brown irises have chlorophyll-like flecks of green.
“Dysfunctional way of showing it,” she says, but is surprised. She wishes she could just enjoy the new attention, but it’s hard to forget old defenses.
“He’s got good taste. Speaking of”—Moony pulls a package from his jacket pocket—“Gummy bear?”
“Thanks.” Summer takes a red and a white one. She should have brought her flask. Being with Moony is awesome, but these other people are annoying, ADD jocks on steroids.
Moony asks, “Know the game?”
“Yeah, I played until I was eleven.” And her friend Katie was a nationally ranked midfielder in tenth grade. Supposedly, Katie and her boyfriend Justin showed up as freshmen at Dartmouth in September.
“What position?” He pops gummy bears into his mouth.
“Defense mostly.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Um, just got sick of it. Might have had something to do with when I finally got my dad to a game. Playoffs. He made a scene,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“What happened?”
She picks at her jacket zipper again. “He was drinking from his ‘water bottle,’ um, actually full of white rum.”
Moony’s cheek twitches.
“I’d gotten the wind knocked out of me and was lying on the field. He wasn’t watching. The coach helped me off and sent in a replacement. Only now, my dad stands up in the bleachers and yells, ‘Get back out there, Summer!’” She doesn’t mention that he added, you pussy! because it makes him sound so awful, and he wasn’t. He was just loaded. She continues, determined to finish the story. “Then he yelled, ‘Never everr, everrrr back down’ and then he fell backwards into a row of parents.” She chuckles. “You see the irony, right?”
Moony looks horrified. “Uh.”
“Probably no one in your family drinks, since your dad is Muslim. Am I right?” she demands.
He shakes his head. “Dad drinks occasionally. Or used to. Mom, too. Her dad had some issues.”
“Happy to hear it. So you have a clue.”
“Yes.” He looks at her for a moment. “ I had issues. With painkillers. Last year.”
“Really? What kind of issues?”
He pulls at his collar. “Was taking too many.” His look says, obviously.
“Sounds like fun.” She grins.
Moony smiles in spite of himself. “No, it wasn’t.” He prompts, “Said he died, when you were twelve…”
“Yeah.”
“Alcohol?”
She knows it played a part—the ball bullets past them. Three players suddenly surround them. Six muscular legs, in shorts, high blue or white socks and shin guards are jumping and straining in front of her. One of the French team players has to throw the ball back in from where they’re sitting, in the way.
Summer stands up. Moony
“Security blanket. No big deal.”
She’s not sure what he means, but she helps Josh carry a duffel bag of soccer balls and a case of blue sports drinks to their field. Gold leaves from towering trees flutter to the ground as she stands on the sidelines while the team warms up. The game is thinly attended.
Moony talks to the coach, clipboard in hand. He likes clipboards.
The guys gather and at one point Josh glances over at Summer and says something. Everyone turns around. There’s laughter and Moony looks down sheepishly. Perturbed, she looks away.
The whistle blows and the game starts. Moony spreads a bright yellow rain poncho on the damp ground and he and Summer sit. It’s like they’re perched on a giant egg yolk.
As he adjusts his bad leg, his hair swings off his right ear. A clear plastic hearing aid nestles inside.
“What did Josh say that was so funny?” she asks, trying not to stare at his ear.
“Called you my girlfriend.”
“Poll results are in. He’s a jerk.”
“He thinks you’re hot.” He looks at her out from under his dark eyebrows in a way that she knows he thinks so, too. His brown irises have chlorophyll-like flecks of green.
“Dysfunctional way of showing it,” she says, but is surprised. She wishes she could just enjoy the new attention, but it’s hard to forget old defenses.
“He’s got good taste. Speaking of”—Moony pulls a package from his jacket pocket—“Gummy bear?”
“Thanks.” Summer takes a red and a white one. She should have brought her flask. Being with Moony is awesome, but these other people are annoying, ADD jocks on steroids.
Moony asks, “Know the game?”
“Yeah, I played until I was eleven.” And her friend Katie was a nationally ranked midfielder in tenth grade. Supposedly, Katie and her boyfriend Justin showed up as freshmen at Dartmouth in September.
“What position?” He pops gummy bears into his mouth.
“Defense mostly.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Um, just got sick of it. Might have had something to do with when I finally got my dad to a game. Playoffs. He made a scene,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“What happened?”
She picks at her jacket zipper again. “He was drinking from his ‘water bottle,’ um, actually full of white rum.”
Moony’s cheek twitches.
“I’d gotten the wind knocked out of me and was lying on the field. He wasn’t watching. The coach helped me off and sent in a replacement. Only now, my dad stands up in the bleachers and yells, ‘Get back out there, Summer!’” She doesn’t mention that he added, you pussy! because it makes him sound so awful, and he wasn’t. He was just loaded. She continues, determined to finish the story. “Then he yelled, ‘Never everr, everrrr back down’ and then he fell backwards into a row of parents.” She chuckles. “You see the irony, right?”
Moony looks horrified. “Uh.”
“Probably no one in your family drinks, since your dad is Muslim. Am I right?” she demands.
He shakes his head. “Dad drinks occasionally. Or used to. Mom, too. Her dad had some issues.”
“Happy to hear it. So you have a clue.”
“Yes.” He looks at her for a moment. “ I had issues. With painkillers. Last year.”
“Really? What kind of issues?”
He pulls at his collar. “Was taking too many.” His look says, obviously.
“Sounds like fun.” She grins.
Moony smiles in spite of himself. “No, it wasn’t.” He prompts, “Said he died, when you were twelve…”
“Yeah.”
“Alcohol?”
She knows it played a part—the ball bullets past them. Three players suddenly surround them. Six muscular legs, in shorts, high blue or white socks and shin guards are jumping and straining in front of her. One of the French team players has to throw the ball back in from where they’re sitting, in the way.
Summer stands up. Moony
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