Page 1 of The Tomboy and the Captain

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laney price

I’m notsure if it’s the room I smell or me. It’s probably a combination of both, though I fear I may be causing the brunt of it. Patient zero. My armpits, back, and nether regions are soaked in sweat after more than twenty trips from my old third-floor apartment to my best friend Ivy’s pickup truck on the street.

“I know it’s August, but seriously . . . ninety-one? I hate Iowa sometimes.” Ivy kicks the front door open wide as she shuffles through with the last box.

“You say that in the winter, too, you know. I think you just have something against Iowa.” My arms are held down by the disheveled pile of clothes I scooped up from the floor of my old bedroom. Right where my ex left them. When he moved out a week ago. Correction, when he hadpeoplemove him and most of our things out.

“Not true. I love Iowa. In April. And a sliver of October.”

I snort out a laugh at her assessment. Ivy’s from Illinois, so Iowa—not that different.

“College students should be given at least three full credit hours for constantly moving. Bonus points for humidity.” I blow up at the hairs stuck to my forehead. They literally go nowhere.

Stretching my pinky finger out from my grip, I manage to hook the door handle and tug the door closed behind me. How I haven’t tumbled down the concrete stairs during one of these trips to Ivy’s pickup, I have no idea. I can’t see my feet which, being five-eleven, is rare for me. I canalwayssee my feet. I can see freaking everything.

“Remind me again, why did Cam decide to break the lease early and not just let you stay through the fall?”

Ivy knows why. She just wants me to bash on Cam some more because this move has been miserable. And she never liked him. Turns out, neither did I. Cam is what’s called a micromanager, and he wants a woman who likes to be managed. I could not be further from that type, if that even is a type.

“Because I said no to his grandmother’s ring,” I grunt out as I lean into the guardrail for a short break after the first flight of stairs. I adjust my hold on my clothing. Things are starting to slip, and the last thing I want to do in this hot afternoon sun is scatter garments on the pavement thirty feet below.

“That’s right. I forgot,” she says in a flat tone.

“I’m sure you did,” I punch out through a laugh, rolling my eyes as I pivot to take the next set of stairs.

Ivy warned me the proposal was coming, and thank God she did. She spotted the ring when she was snooping through Cam’s desk drawer one day while waiting for me to get dressed for our girls’ night out. The fact that I was working through the best way to end my relationship while Cam was plotting our future is proof of how far apart we were as a couple. Seems my failing to reciprocate those three little words never registered to him as a red flag.

Truth is, I shouldn’t be half of a couple with anyone. Not believing in love is sort of a dagger to the heart of a successful relationship. I certainly have no delusions about real fairytales. I was always upfront with Cam. Ilikedhim, well enough. Atleast, I liked the roommate arrangement we had going. But I would never be the perfect wife. He considered my volleyball playing a hobby. I consider it a career. I wasn’t going to follow him to Chicago for law school and give up my last year of sports eligibility.

I suppose we made sense on a certain level. Pre-law students in mostly the same classes. Only children from divorced parents. Of course, his parents were amicable, basically friends. My father hasn’t shown his face since my thirteenth birthday, but that doesn’t stop my mom from threatening to bash it in with a meat tenderizer anytime his name comes up. And it comes up more often than it should thanks to his empty promises via phone calls and letters.

I’ll pick you up for a birthday dinner.

I’ll see you on Christmas this year.

I’ll be at your big game. Save me a seat!

I don’t save seats anymore. And I don’t answer his phone calls. I read his letters, texts, and emails because I can’t stand the way the words taunt me when they go unread. I’m never surprised, though. I’m also no longer let down.

I guess I should be grateful that I fell in love with volleyball before my dad had a chance to ruin it too. Bobby Price walked away from his family in Pittsburgh to live the beach life and make the pro tour out in California before his knees got too old. He’s got his own brand of sunblock now, and those checks paid for a lot of travel team play for me. Funding my passion was the least he could do since he couldn’t be bothered to show up or volunteer to coach like so many of the other volleyball-playing parents on my teams.

When I went down with a shoulder injury last season, a small part of me expected him to finally step up, or at least swoop in with some motivational speech or advice. A shoulder injury is what took him out of the game in college. He got his secondchance thanks to the beach tour, so I suppose his comeback dulled his ability to feel empathy. Clearly, being of his own flesh and blood doesn’t matter.

I give the garments weighing down my arms one final heave into the back of Ivy’s truck as she slides the last box into place and flips up the tailgate.

“I can’t believe we have to do this all again, only in reverse.” She chuckles while heading to the driver’s side.

“At least it’s the first floor at your place. I mean, unless you want to give me your master suite.” I shoot my friend a grin as I climb in the passenger side.

“You’ll prefer the first floor. Right by the laundry. Better water pressure.”

I stare at her profile while she starts the engine and eventually she meets my gaze.

“You made that last part up,” I challenge.

“Yeah. There’s no way I’m giving up that bedroom. Even for you.” She reaches over and pats my thigh, then shifts into drive to take me and my life’s belongings to my new address, right across from the laundry room.

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