Page 166 of Scrimmage

“Well?” he asks.

“I’m…” I look around the room. Suddenly the space is too small. Too tight. “What are you doing?”

“Just got back from dinner." I hear some guys shouting at each other in the background.

I press the speaker button quickly and set the phone on the top of my desk then try to drag it by the legs.

“Ashland?” It sounds louder, clearer. “Why am I looking at your ceiling?”

Fuck. I look over at the phone, blowing the hair out of my face. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Koda’s sitting in a chair of what looks like a hotel lobby. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were in the middle of something.” I didn’t mean to video him, but he sounds kind of disappointed that I didn’t.

I take the phone and head for the bathroom to grab a hair clip. “I wasn’t. Now I am.”

“I can let you go,” he says slowly as I set the phone against the books on my shelf and twist my hair up into the claw.

“No, it’s fine.”

He’s definitely in a hotel lobby. Sage eyes dart away from the screen a few times, surveying whatever is happening in front of him. Koda is fidgety. His phone is set on some sort of coffee table, and he has ear buds in. He's leaning forward with his knee bobbing up and down. He’s dressed in varsity sweatpants and a sweatshirt. The bill of his hat is facing forward for once, his sandy blonde hair peeking out of the edges, and he has his hood pulled up over his head.

He seems to settle a little at my response, sinking back into the armchair. “Oh, alright. So what are you doing?”

I grab the edge of the desk and start to push. The stupid thing is so heavy that I’m already breaking a sweat as it screeches across the floor. “Moving shit.”

“Clearly," he huffs. “But it’s like…eleven PM there. Why are you redecorating so late?”

I shove my back against the desk, trying to use my legs for leverage. “Because I fucking want to.”

The desk doesn’t move an inch, and I collapse onto the floor, breathing way heavier than I should.

Koda laughs, but tries to quiet himself. “Just wait until I get back tomorrow afternoon. I’ll help you.”

I crawl over and grab the phone from the bookshelf, sitting against it, and examine his surroundings. “Back? Are you in a hotel or something?”

“Yeah. Our scrimmage was earlier.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Who was bottom?”

He rolls his eyes. “If that’s Ashland for ‘who lost’ then the answer is Napoleon.” I give him an empty stare. “The other team,” he clarifies.

“Right. Right, the other team. What were the goals or whatever it’s called?”

“That’s soccer,” he snorts.

“Uh, no, actually. It’s football.” I pick up the phone and head into the kitchen.

“What do you know about football?”

I open the fridge and grab one of his sports drinks. “Too fucking much. My ex was really into it.”

“Your ex?” he asks, leaning forward.

“What? You think I can’t have one?” I settle the phone against the coffee maker and crack open the lid.

“It’s not that,” he tries to recover. “You just never talk about it.”

“I don’t talk about much,” I point out.

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