I pressed to the side, like all the other good peasants did, but they’d already noticed me. It was like some attitude had been switched on – one moment they were laughing and joking with each other, the next I was at the full-front of their attention. I felt my skin, hair, outfit be torn apart by Bernadette, whose cutthroat gaze sliced me raw.
But then, I couldn’t help it.
Emmett’s face was blank. Clinical. And he studied me like I was some sort of object under a microscope. No hostility, no desire. Just...curious apathy.
It sent shivers down my spine.
My headache developed throughout the rest of the day, and by the time I’m at practice the pain is nearly unbearable. I try to stretch out my shoulders and neck, and while it helps, the throbbing comes back in full force.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to grimace.
“You okay, Lopez?” comes Granger’s voice.
I open my eyes. Coach Granger is looking down at me. The big black watch on his hands shows 3:33 pm. We’re waiting for the assistant to arrive.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to add some pep to my voice. “I’m great.”
“Come over here, Ophelia,” he says, gesturing me over to the stands. He climbs up to the second row and pats the metal beside him. “Sit, sit.”
I do as I’m asked, bouncing my toes a little. The pounding matches the beat in my head, and when I look at him, I’m surprised to find deep concern in Coach’s eyes.
“Look,” Coach starts off with a low voice. He clasps his hands between his knees. He always sports a ball-cap – either Nike or WJ prep – and it hides the graying sides of his head. “I know we haven’t known each other for a long time, but I think we both know that something is going on.”
I stay silent – what is he talking about? I don’t want to give anything away. If he knows something, he’ll have to be the first one to say it.
“And I don’t like the looks of my athletes getting hurt,” he says. “It’s not right, and it isn’t good for your performance.”
“If I’ve been slacking- ”
He holds up a gnarled hand to stop me. “You haven’t been slacking. You’ve been kicking ass. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the best athlete on this field. My concern is that this whole thing – whoever has hurt you, and whoever is probably giving you that migraine right now-”
“How do you know I have a-”
He smiles, his teeth a bit yellowed but straight. “Kid, I know a thing or two about migraines. And looking like you’re going to throw up is one of those things.”
“I’m hoping it’ll go away during practice.”
“My point is, kid, is that I want you to know that I’m here for you. I’m your coach. I’m here to support you.”
I nod, looking at my Nikes, hoping he doesn’t see just how touched I am by his comments. “Thanks, Granger,” I say. “That means a lot.”
He pauses, almost like he’s waiting for me to say something else, but when I don’t, he slap
s his hands on his thighs. “All righty then, Lopez,” he says. “Time to get on back out there. Short practice today.”
When Coach Granger says short practice, what he really means is that it’s your own tempo. The faster you can get through it, the faster you can go home.
* * *
The moment I see a darkened figure at my car is the moment I realize that Monday has twenty-four hours in it.
“Ophelia,” Emmett says, his grin spreading as his arms open up wide. He looks sinful, his lips pillowy and his cheekbones high. When he smiles like he means it, it sends a zip to my core. “How was practice?”
I check around us – my teammates are slowly driving away, their windows down and looking at us. But I don’t see any of the other Elites.
Emmett is alone.
Which is unusual.