inform him.
“Really?” His eyes dance over me, and I suddenly remember I have these crazy little braids all over my head.
“Are you going home?” I ask.
“Yep. Need a ride?”
“Yes, please.”
He gestures toward the car, and a minute later, I’m in the passenger seat, trying unsuccessfully to smooth out my hair, which has flown into a frenzy of static electricity. “Why are you still here, anyway?”
“I had to talk to Coach Rand after practice.”
I assess him. Oliver isn’t carrying himself in his usual jaunty, confident way. He’s drooping a little and looks forlorn, sitting behind the wheel. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” But I keep watching him and he doesn’t
look
okay. In fact, now that I think about it, he seemed subdued this morning, too. He realizes I’m looking at him. “Coach is pissed because I’m missing two practices next week.”
“You’re not allowed to miss
ever
?” It seems extreme.
“Not really. And definitely not at the beginning of the season. We’re supposed to be focused.”
“But it’s just a game.” The minute it comes out of my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said it.
“You sound like my dad.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes before I ask the question. “Why do you have to skip practices?”
“Oh, you’ll love this,” he says. “I’m hanging out at a bank with my uncle Alex. He’s supposed to teach me the joy of finances.”
“That’s
terrible.
” Again, I immediately wish I hadn’t said it, but this time, Oliver laughs.
“Thank you. It
is
terrible.” His smile drops away. “My parents aren’t even coming to the game on Friday. Dad has a dinner with the partners.”
“What about your mom?”
“She doesn’t miss Dad’s work dinners. They’re a team.”
I try to come up with something reassuring to say. “Next year, you won’t ever have to miss a practice if you don’t want to.”
Oliver shoots me a look. “No offense, but you really don’t know anything about football.” We come to a four-way stop and he trains his eyes on mine. “I’m high school good, June. I’m not college good.”
I make a
pfft
sound. “Please. I’m sure you can handle a ball.” I flush at my own unfortunate choice of words and hurry to cover. “A
foot
ball.”
Oliver smiles, but the smile is sad. “It’s cool. I’m not like you. Some people peak early.”
I stare at him, not sure how to respond. It’s the most openly painful thing I’ve heard him say, and it seems like I should say something open and honest in return.
But I’m not that brave.
A horn honks behind us and we both jump in our seats. “Oops,” says Oliver, and he steps on the gas.
The rest of our drive is silent. Oliver doesn’t start our playlist and I don’t ask him to. When we crunch over the gravel into my driveway, Cash’s truck is parked ahead of us and Cash himself is just trotting down the front steps. He waves an arm and I assume he’s saying hello, but then he does it again and I realize he wants us to come over. “Who’s that?” Oliver asks.
“My mom’s contractor and not-boyfriend.”
I introduce Cash and Oliver to each other, and Cash asks if Oliver can give him a hand with something. “I thought my guys would still be here, but they already took off for the weekend.” He jerks a thumb toward his truck. “It takes two people to unload a generator.”
“At least,” Oliver agrees, and follows him toward his truck, stripping off his jacket.
I recognize that in this scenario my role is to watch for loose gravel in their path and hold the front door open, but with that recognition comes realization: Oliver is going to get a firsthand sighting of my house’s messy, unfinished interior.
“Maybe you can just leave it on the porch,” I say.
“Nah, we’ll bring it in.” Cash climbs into the truck bed. He slides a big box to the edge before hopping out and bracing himself alongside Oliver. “Ready?”
“Ready,” says Oliver, and they lift.
I
“Really?” His eyes dance over me, and I suddenly remember I have these crazy little braids all over my head.
“Are you going home?” I ask.
“Yep. Need a ride?”
“Yes, please.”
He gestures toward the car, and a minute later, I’m in the passenger seat, trying unsuccessfully to smooth out my hair, which has flown into a frenzy of static electricity. “Why are you still here, anyway?”
“I had to talk to Coach Rand after practice.”
I assess him. Oliver isn’t carrying himself in his usual jaunty, confident way. He’s drooping a little and looks forlorn, sitting behind the wheel. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” But I keep watching him and he doesn’t
look
okay. In fact, now that I think about it, he seemed subdued this morning, too. He realizes I’m looking at him. “Coach is pissed because I’m missing two practices next week.”
“You’re not allowed to miss
ever
?” It seems extreme.
“Not really. And definitely not at the beginning of the season. We’re supposed to be focused.”
“But it’s just a game.” The minute it comes out of my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said it.
“You sound like my dad.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes before I ask the question. “Why do you have to skip practices?”
“Oh, you’ll love this,” he says. “I’m hanging out at a bank with my uncle Alex. He’s supposed to teach me the joy of finances.”
“That’s
terrible.
” Again, I immediately wish I hadn’t said it, but this time, Oliver laughs.
“Thank you. It
is
terrible.” His smile drops away. “My parents aren’t even coming to the game on Friday. Dad has a dinner with the partners.”
“What about your mom?”
“She doesn’t miss Dad’s work dinners. They’re a team.”
I try to come up with something reassuring to say. “Next year, you won’t ever have to miss a practice if you don’t want to.”
Oliver shoots me a look. “No offense, but you really don’t know anything about football.” We come to a four-way stop and he trains his eyes on mine. “I’m high school good, June. I’m not college good.”
I make a
pfft
sound. “Please. I’m sure you can handle a ball.” I flush at my own unfortunate choice of words and hurry to cover. “A
foot
ball.”
Oliver smiles, but the smile is sad. “It’s cool. I’m not like you. Some people peak early.”
I stare at him, not sure how to respond. It’s the most openly painful thing I’ve heard him say, and it seems like I should say something open and honest in return.
But I’m not that brave.
A horn honks behind us and we both jump in our seats. “Oops,” says Oliver, and he steps on the gas.
The rest of our drive is silent. Oliver doesn’t start our playlist and I don’t ask him to. When we crunch over the gravel into my driveway, Cash’s truck is parked ahead of us and Cash himself is just trotting down the front steps. He waves an arm and I assume he’s saying hello, but then he does it again and I realize he wants us to come over. “Who’s that?” Oliver asks.
“My mom’s contractor and not-boyfriend.”
I introduce Cash and Oliver to each other, and Cash asks if Oliver can give him a hand with something. “I thought my guys would still be here, but they already took off for the weekend.” He jerks a thumb toward his truck. “It takes two people to unload a generator.”
“At least,” Oliver agrees, and follows him toward his truck, stripping off his jacket.
I recognize that in this scenario my role is to watch for loose gravel in their path and hold the front door open, but with that recognition comes realization: Oliver is going to get a firsthand sighting of my house’s messy, unfinished interior.
“Maybe you can just leave it on the porch,” I say.
“Nah, we’ll bring it in.” Cash climbs into the truck bed. He slides a big box to the edge before hopping out and bracing himself alongside Oliver. “Ready?”
“Ready,” says Oliver, and they lift.
I
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