Trying to find parking is an absolute nightmare. Usually, KPA has a decent amount, but I quickly realized that on game nights, that goes out the window.
To start, the main lot is full. Something I’d learned my lesson about from the very first game, so I don’t even bother driving by. I try the overflow lot, but that’s full too, so I drive around to the over-overflow section trying to find a spot.
By overflow, I mean nothing more than an extra field used for outdoor practices.
My shoes carry a nice, cakey, brown layer of mud on the bottom as I step into the building. Even in the leftover lot, appearances must be met. The grass watered. Sprinklers used to make it a nice unhealthy shade of green despite being halfway through fall.
“Oh good, you made it.”
Some kid mentions before shoving over half a dozen water bottles in my hands.
“Fill em’ up and bring them back when you’re done.”
“I think you’re looking for someone else,” I say, setting them down. Instantly regretting coming to the side of the building closest to the locker rooms.
The guy picks them up and, on a peeved sigh—unnecessary, by the way—rams the crate back into my chest. “Rory, right?”
“…Yes?”
“Nope, you’re in the right spot. You signed up to help volunteer.”
I set them down for a second time. This time with more force. This guy, who I’ve never seen, let alone know, is mistaken or confused at the very least. I didn’t sign up for anything.
His attitude is also not helping the situation.
“Look, buddy, I didn’t volunteer,” I grit out.
“Well, someone signed you up to help me get stuff ready for the players before the games.” He flicks a thumb over his shoulder at the fountain. “So, get on and help.”
His bluntness is starting to grate on my nerves. Kidding, we are way past starting because he’s already here.
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, it’s easy.” Picking one up and demonstrating by unscrewing the cap and filling it. Showing me like I’m an idiot.
That’s not what I meant, and we both know it.
“You have the wrong person.”
He latches on to the bridge of his nose like he should be the one that’s frustrated. Did I say he’s grating on my nerves? Because he’s full on smashed those. This kid is riding the fine line of my sanity.
“It’s not a science.”
My jaw goes slack. “I can see how someone like you would think that, but I’m not doing this.”
“Then explain to me why your name is up on the registry?”
I snatch the clipboard from his smug grasp. The color drains from my face only to reappear like a hot fire that’s exploded.
Shoving it back into his chest, I push through the swinging door, uncaring of anyone else in the boys’ locker room.
My limbs tingle, I’m so mad.
Vaguely I hear a mix of catcalls, whistles, and a few shocked gasps. I overlook it all. I’m on a one-track blind tunnel of fury to find the soon-to-be-dead jerk whose name rhymes with troll.
When I do find him, I don’t hesitate, slapping him across the face. The sound ruptures like hot explosions around my wrist.
“How dare you!” I blaze furious.