While Coach is running half the team around the field, the other half circling the Gatorade table, I pull out my phone and scroll through my messages until I find Ari.
Me: You can thank me now
I adjust the straps of my helmet, not expecting her to text back right away. So when my phone vibrates in my hand, a stupid thrill rushes through me.
Ari: Usually someone tells you what they should be thanking them for before they expect it—and then a truly confident (read: not cocky) person doesn’t expect thanks in the first place
A laugh barrels out of me. I type quickly. Me: I would never pretend to be anything but cocky (read: cocky around you). Do you want to know or not?
Ari: Yes
I smile. Me: Booster pa
rty this Friday, where I’ve arranged a convenient meet for our two favorite people
I don’t tell her I’ve left all the planning up to Gavin—that he’s the one putting the details together. I figure he’ll feel like a god at his own party, and that could work in Ari’s girl’s favor. But I don’t mind taking a little credit here.
Ari: Nice, Ryder. You work fast
Right. When there’s something I want…
Oh, the many responses to that pummel my head. I’m tempted, as my thumbs hover over the screen, to let them fly. But I reel it in. We’re not there yet. So I accept her small form of praise and write back: I aim to please
Then I immediately cringe. Knowing Ari, she’ll take that absolutely the wrong way. It’s like walking across a bed of hot coals with her sometimes, dancing in and out of the fire, trying to get burned as little as possible. She’s so…delicate. Physically as well as emotionally.
Ari: ;)
My eyebrows hike up my forehead. I’m already punching in my reply, asking her if that’s humor I sense in her response, when my name being called breaks through the cloud of bliss. I stop typing.
“Nash!”
I jerk my gaze away from my phone and look up. Coach is waving me over. Glancing once at my phone, I decide it’s probably better to leave it at that with Ari. I’ll end up botching things soon enough. I slip my phone into my pack near the bottom bleacher and then head over to Coach and some other man who’s standing near him.
“What’s up, Coach?” I say, then nod to the other guy. A faculty member, though I can’t recall his name. Not a professor, a counselor, I think.
Coach lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and lowers his head to talk over the wind. “You’ve received a phone call.”
My insides lock up. Tension forms between my shoulder blades. He didn’t call my cell—had to use a landline—so I already know. Glancing between coach and the counselor, I straighten my spine, feeling like I need to deflect the shame suddenly worming its way in. My father’s voice, telling me to man up, drifts to my ears on the next gust of wind, and I shake my head.
“You don’t have to…” Coach starts but trails off. He knows the hard facts, though he’s never pushed the subject too much with me.
“Yeah,” I say, already unsnapping my helmet. “I know I don’t have to take it. But if I don’t, he’ll just call my—” Shit damn. I clear my throat. “I’ll take the call,” I say to them.
On my way to his office, I inwardly curse the timing. But of course something like this happens now. It’s like an unseen force decided things were going too good for me—it needed to throw a wrench in; make things interesting.
Then I berate myself for being so self-centered. Thinking that everything revolves around me, and he somehow wanted to ruin my day. That’s about pathetic. But what I don’t want to happen is for him to upset her; that’s why I continue to accept the calls. Make the trips. Pay the money.
By the time we reach his office my hands are clenched so tightly, my knuckles throb. I forcefully flex my fingers, pumping my hands until some of the feeling comes back. Then I take a seat in a chair opposite the counselor’s. He’s new, I think. I’ve never been to his office before. Usually it’s Miss Rinehart’s office where I take the collect calls.
He picks up the black phone and hits a button, then hands it to me. “I’ll be just outside,” he assures.
I nod, placing the receiver to my ear. “This is Ryder Nash.” My voice comes out harsher then I intend, my words clipped.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice says, stern but polite. “Mr. Nash, I’ll need your TelCon account number in order for this collect call to be accepted.” I recite off the numbers I’ve had memorized since the very first time, and she connects me to Newfall Penitentiary.
Not the holding facility, I note. He’s already been transferred.
The line clicks a few times, my heart pulses in my ears, then, “Hey, bro.”