Page 47 of Save the Game

“All right,” Lawson replies, though he sounds unsure. I point toward my building as we pull into the parking lot of the complex and unclick my seatbelt. He does the same, sliding out of the car and shutting the door before I can call him back. “Do you have your keys?”

I sigh. “No. I just fucking walked out, I guess. Door is unlocked.”

Embarrassed, I cup a hand over the back of my neck and rub at the fine hairs there. Lawson, completely unperturbed by my earlier insanity, merely smiles and gestures for me to lead the way. He trails me as we walk up the steps; holding the apartment door open for him, I click on the entry light and watch as he performs a quick visual inspection of the main room, as if he’s checking for burglars.

Stepping into my bedroom, I find my phone right where I left it on my desk and bring it back out to him. No messages from Luke, but I know it was too much to hope that there might have been. You asked for space and he’s giving it to you, don’t be a hypocrite. I hand the unlocked phone to Lawson, silently.

He goes to my contacts first, typing in his name as well as the title of #1 Goalie before adding his number; the ache in my sternum eases, just slightly. After finishing with his own, he goes to find Coach Mackenzie’s and updates the address. Handing the phone back, he looks around again, obviously uncertain about leaving me here alone.

“Do you need anything?” He asks.

“No, thank you.”

“But if you did,” he points to my phone, “you can call Nico or I.”

“Right,” I nod, trying to show my willingness to do so. He doesn’t look appeased. “I’ll be all right. Like I said, I’m just going to sleep. Maybe take a shower.”

“All right,” he says, taking a step toward the front door. “Make sure you lock this behind me. And?—."

“Call you if I need anything,” I finish, and he grins. “Thank you, again, for everything. For dinner and… everything. For driving me home. I really appreciate it, and I’m sorry for hijacking your evening.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” He steps out the front door and points back at the handle. “Lock that.”

I watch him go as he jogs back down the stairs, waiting until I see the cut of his headlights through the dark before I close and lock the front door. True to my word, I immediately strip down and leave my clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor; cranking up the heat, I step under the stream, close my eyes and lean my head against the cool tile, letting the water beat down my back and unknot my muscles. I stand there until the water runs cold.

Putting on my SpongeBob pajama pants—and trying not to think of Luke as I do it—I crawl into bed and curl up on my side. I see what Luke means now, about needing a body pillow to trick himself into thinking another person is in the bed with him; already, in the few short weeks we’ve been doing it, I’ve come to rely on the steady weight of him beside me at night.

It takes me hours to fall asleep. When I do, I’m unsettled—waking up and falling back asleep in fits, pajama pants rucked up on my legs like I was restless. It’s a relief when the morning comes and I can get out of bed. My body feels heavy and exhausted, and I wish I hadn’t tried to sleep at all. No sleep would have been preferable to the variety I got last night.

I check my phone as I make myself a pot of coffee. There is a text from Marcos, and none from Luke. Locking the screen, I tip my head back and close my eyes.

Fuck.

13

Luke

It’s been a week since I’ve seen or spoken to Max, and I’ve come to appreciate what people mean when they say they are crawling out of their skin. I can’t help but constantly replay the conversation, dissecting each word I said and didn’t say, trying to put them back together in a way that might have salvaged the situation. Dozens of times I’ve picked up my phone to text him—putting things into a careful, well-thought-out form, absent of the heightened emotions and shouting we’d devolved to before. But I don’t, because maybe I’ll only make things worse. Maybe he’s done with me, and by the simple expedient of ignoring my existence, he’s telling me so.

I’d wondered, during the first practice this week, whether Marcos would confront me. He hadn’t, which had both relieved and pissed me off. Getting punched in the face would have been a nice, painful little reprieve from the clusterfuck of my emotions. Instead, he’d surprised me by acting as though nothing had changed; we were teammates, friendly to each other on the field, but barely even acquaintances beyond that. Max and baseball were the only things tethering us together, and one of those connections was already fractured. He pretended not to notice, or care, and so I followed suit and did the same.

Margot, unfortunately, seemed to be taking the opposite approach. Daily, I received text messages and phone calls about how she’s just checking in and perhaps you’d like to check in with Max, Luke? I’ve tried to explain to her that I’m giving him space, and that he would reach out to me if he wanted to talk; this has been met with a stony-faced proclamation of how idiotic boys are, and that all my problems would be solved if I only stopped moping around and talked to him.

My phone buzzes on the desk beside me, and I throw up a little prayer to any god that might be listening: please let that be Max. It’s not—of course it’s not—and I try not to feel disappointed at the sight of Margot’s name on the display.

Want to go out tonight? We could see a movie.

I’ve got homework.

It’s Friday, do it tomorrow!

Rain-check, Go. But thanks for offering.

Laying the phone back down, screen facing toward the desk top, I prop my forehead in my hand and look down at the economics textbook I’ve been trying to read for the last hour. Margot has been inviting me out regularly this week, and I recognize her efforts at trying to distract and cheer me up, even though I’ve been refusing them. I don’t want to be cheered up, unless it comes in the form of Max.

A knock at my bedroom door is the next distraction, and it’s one I choose to ignore. My roommates take hints a lot better than Margot does.

“Luke,” Bryce calls, rapping against the door again.

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