Page 90 of Overtime
Me
What
Strawberry
Wyatt, he’s taken, but I was this close to desperation
The noise that comes out of my mouth sounds like a cross between a snarl and a growl.
I could punch myself in the teeth. You’re telling me I acted such a fool that I basically threw an entire game in the trashcan because I saw her sitting with her guyfriend?
I put a hand on my head. Jealousy. That was the hot, blinding rage that made me miss pucks and throw punches at the millionth racist asshole I’ve encountered playing hockey. How am I only realizing that right now?
“Dude, what is wrong with you?”
I glue the screen of my phone to my chest and turn to Archie, who’s now sitting next to me. “Where did you come from?”
“My mom.” He eyes my phone. “Who you texting that has you kicking and squealing like a toddler?”
“I don’t squeal. What the hell?”
“Your version of it sounds like a wild wolf.”
“Go away, Archibald.”
Instead, he leans closer and whispers, “Who’s the girl?”
“It’s your mom,” I say in a deadpan.
“Tell her I don’t want to have a stepfather my age and that she could do better.”
I push him so hard he stumbles into the aisle. He recovers his balance quickly, and as he scoots back to the seat in front of me, he whispers, “Head in the game, Rodriguez. Not in the girl.”
“Eat shit.”
His chuckling abates as he sits back down, facing forward. But his words dance a jig in my head. I have to focus on tonight’s game. And then the next. And then it’s regionals. Four games to become the national champions. And then there’s no way a pro team won’t sign me. I don’t need distractions.
Then I check my phone again and find more texts.
Strawberry
I’ll give you a chance to change your mind
Going once
Going twice
Too late. You’re my plus-one now
The corner of my lips curves.
Good thing we established that Strawberry isn’tjusta distraction, huh?
Me
Don’t we need to coordinate now
What color is the dress
