extending two fingers. “Two cupcakes, stay sweet,” he calls, and veers left.
In the distance, Sam’s waving a hand, surrounded by our teammates. I nudge Jace toward them. “Hey, y’all,” she sings as we approach and blend into their huddle.
A whistle blows and an athletic coordinator steps onto a platform, waving everyone in. The herd moves, forming a giant half moon around his position as he tucks his clipboard under his arm and raises a bullhorn. “Welcome to this month’s All-Athlete’s Teambuilding Event: Minute to Win It—Gladiator Games.” Applause fills the air, and I pan an anxious look over the mass of dri-FIT T-shirts and sweatpants, searching for Preston.
“We’ve got a fun lineup today, but before we get going, I have a few announcements.” He glances at his clipboard, then back to the gathered athletes. “Where is Miss Winslow? I believe she wanted a minute…” I raise my hand and walk forward as he introduces me. “Miss Winslow has launched a new charity initiative. She’s going to share with us how we can help.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping up. “It’s called the Shirt Off Our Backs, and I’m soliciting donations of gently used athletic wear—shirts, hats, shoes… Basically anything you have with a sports logo. Everything is given to Detroit kids to motivate participation in sports. If you have a donation, you can email me at Winslow11 on SEU mail or drop it at the field sports office.”
“Hey,” a deep voice shouts. “Can I get your number?”
I locate the source, and I’m about to spill my digits, but the cocky look on his face and a burst of snickering stop me. They call him Hatch—he’s one of the star hockey players at SEU, and we had a class together last spring. He’s big, with fire ant red hair that waves down to his shoulders, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or making a half-assed attempt at a joke. Maybe he just wants to embarrass me. Awkward, considering I’m pitching a charity program here.
He winks, holding his phone up as his buddies pull their phones out, too.
Uh, yeah. There’s no way I’m giving him my number. I contemplate my next move. I ought to use my sister Cate’s trick and give him her number—which is what she does to me when she doesn’t have enough balls to say no to a guy—but I dismiss the idea. Even though she’s number one, two, and three on my shit list right now, I’m not about to serve my little sister up to the unknown intentions of the goon squad.
“Ready when you are,” he says, lifting his phone and winking again.
Okay, one wink I can let slide, but two? No way. “Do you have something in your eye?” I ask, raising my ball cap a smidge.
“Just you,” he responds, smiling. The snickering erupts again, and someone whistles, eliciting another wink.
Three winks—that’s a record, and yet there’s something mildly redeeming about the way he’s smiling. I don’t think he gives a damn he’s scored a perfect ten on my lame-ass-meter or that the whole group knows his game.
A flash of golden-brown moves in the crowd, and my stomach tightens at the sight of Preston. He’s cross-armed, staring at the line of hockey players with a skeptical look. I turn back to Hatch and nine magical numbers appear in my brain.
“248-881-2013.”
I chirp the digits as if they’re my own. They’re not. Preston’s head snaps center, and he narrows in on me as half the crowd bows over their cells and types in his number.
Well, well. The phone just rang and we have Mr. Big Deal on the line. I wink at him, catching the faintest hint of a smile under the fingers he’s slanting over his mouth. I remember his number from his text—the first three digits are the same as our apartment address and the last four are the year I started at SEU. Mentally, I swirl a hand in the air and take a bow. I think my work here is done.
“Thanks. I appreciate your help, everybody.” I wave and hop off the platform, and they clear a path. I
In the distance, Sam’s waving a hand, surrounded by our teammates. I nudge Jace toward them. “Hey, y’all,” she sings as we approach and blend into their huddle.
A whistle blows and an athletic coordinator steps onto a platform, waving everyone in. The herd moves, forming a giant half moon around his position as he tucks his clipboard under his arm and raises a bullhorn. “Welcome to this month’s All-Athlete’s Teambuilding Event: Minute to Win It—Gladiator Games.” Applause fills the air, and I pan an anxious look over the mass of dri-FIT T-shirts and sweatpants, searching for Preston.
“We’ve got a fun lineup today, but before we get going, I have a few announcements.” He glances at his clipboard, then back to the gathered athletes. “Where is Miss Winslow? I believe she wanted a minute…” I raise my hand and walk forward as he introduces me. “Miss Winslow has launched a new charity initiative. She’s going to share with us how we can help.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping up. “It’s called the Shirt Off Our Backs, and I’m soliciting donations of gently used athletic wear—shirts, hats, shoes… Basically anything you have with a sports logo. Everything is given to Detroit kids to motivate participation in sports. If you have a donation, you can email me at Winslow11 on SEU mail or drop it at the field sports office.”
“Hey,” a deep voice shouts. “Can I get your number?”
I locate the source, and I’m about to spill my digits, but the cocky look on his face and a burst of snickering stop me. They call him Hatch—he’s one of the star hockey players at SEU, and we had a class together last spring. He’s big, with fire ant red hair that waves down to his shoulders, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or making a half-assed attempt at a joke. Maybe he just wants to embarrass me. Awkward, considering I’m pitching a charity program here.
He winks, holding his phone up as his buddies pull their phones out, too.
Uh, yeah. There’s no way I’m giving him my number. I contemplate my next move. I ought to use my sister Cate’s trick and give him her number—which is what she does to me when she doesn’t have enough balls to say no to a guy—but I dismiss the idea. Even though she’s number one, two, and three on my shit list right now, I’m not about to serve my little sister up to the unknown intentions of the goon squad.
“Ready when you are,” he says, lifting his phone and winking again.
Okay, one wink I can let slide, but two? No way. “Do you have something in your eye?” I ask, raising my ball cap a smidge.
“Just you,” he responds, smiling. The snickering erupts again, and someone whistles, eliciting another wink.
Three winks—that’s a record, and yet there’s something mildly redeeming about the way he’s smiling. I don’t think he gives a damn he’s scored a perfect ten on my lame-ass-meter or that the whole group knows his game.
A flash of golden-brown moves in the crowd, and my stomach tightens at the sight of Preston. He’s cross-armed, staring at the line of hockey players with a skeptical look. I turn back to Hatch and nine magical numbers appear in my brain.
“248-881-2013.”
I chirp the digits as if they’re my own. They’re not. Preston’s head snaps center, and he narrows in on me as half the crowd bows over their cells and types in his number.
Well, well. The phone just rang and we have Mr. Big Deal on the line. I wink at him, catching the faintest hint of a smile under the fingers he’s slanting over his mouth. I remember his number from his text—the first three digits are the same as our apartment address and the last four are the year I started at SEU. Mentally, I swirl a hand in the air and take a bow. I think my work here is done.
“Thanks. I appreciate your help, everybody.” I wave and hop off the platform, and they clear a path. I
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