Sidelined
by Kendra C. Highley
Copyright © 2013 by Kendra C. Highley. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Jake calls at ten the next morning. “So how bad was it?”
I smile. He called instead of texting. He must be worried about me. No wonder—Mom was in rare form last night, yelling at me before his truck even left the driveway. “I failed to mention I was on a date because she gets weird about those kind of things, and now I’m grounded until after the tournament’s over.”
“That sucks. I was hoping you could go for another drive with me today.”
His tone makes me tremble and I curl up tighter in bed. I don’t want to pass up an opportunity to see him again—no matter what my mom says. “I have a better idea. My parents are going out to this fancy fund-raiser at the university tonight. Want to come over?”
“We shouldn’t get you into more trouble.”
“Maybe I don’t care about trouble,” I say, and I really don’t. “So, are you coming over, or what?”
He laughs. “Hell, yes, I want to come over. What time?”
“We better say seven-thirty to be safe. We won’t have much time, but at least I’ll get to see you.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hear footsteps on the stairs. “Gotta go.”
I hang up just before my bedroom door swings open. Mom looks at my messy room, with me still in bed, and holds out a hand. “Phone.”
I quickly delete Jake’s incoming call, then crawl out of bed to hand it to her.
“Your dad is looking for you out back,” Mom says.
Oh, right, lawn crew. Part of my punishment for daring to go out on a date. Joy. “For my own good, huh?”
She turns to go. “There are a lot of leaves on the ground. Dad could use help raking.”
I stifle a groan. “Fine, whatever.”
When I head outside, Dad looks up from the flower bed he’s weeding. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I pick up the rake and balance it on my hand. “Besides, I’ll leave for college soon. This is only temporary.”
Dad winces. “Yes, but I’ll miss you.”
I stare at the leaf-covered ground, a small rush of regret making my chest ache. Leaving Dad was always going to be the worst part of leaving home. “I’ll miss you, too.”
The afternoon passes too fast. I scramble to finish raking all the leaves so I can shower and change before Jake arrives, but I’m still adding to the compost pile when Mom comes to check my progress. When I get a good look at her, I drop my rake.
She has on this red wraparound dress I’ve never seen before, and she’s also showing quite a bit of leg. For someone who didn’t want to go to a fund-raiser, the makeover is astonishing.
“Dad and I are leaving. We’ll be home no later than ten,” she calls from the very edge of the patio, probably to keep her stilettos from getting dirty.
Arranging my face in an expression of total boredom, I say, “I’m almost done here.”
Mom nods and click-clacks back inside.
Once the garage door slams shut, I run to the fence and watch the car back down the driveway until they’re safely out of sight, then rush upstairs to take a shower. I’ve barely thrown on my jeans and a tank when the doorbell rings. I smile as I run down the stairs. After all the shit Mom put me through the last few days, I’ve earned a little fun.
Jake’s grinning when I open the door, not even hiding it when he checks me out from head to toe. He’s gorgeous in a tight heather-gray T-shirt that shows off his shoulders and arms. I stare at him, too.
“Are you going to let me in?” he asks, all suggestive growl. His eyes roam again, and I fight against a wave of the goose bumps.
“Oh, you want to come inside? How demanding.”
Before he can say anything, I grab his hand and pull him into the entry. When I shut the door, he tugs me against him and we land on the stairs, me straddling his hips. Our kiss is electric. He digs his fingers into my hair, his mouth soft against mine. It’s a slow, languid kiss, like we have all night long, and he lets one hand drop to the small of my back, pushing the fabric of my shirt out of his way until skin meets skin. Lost, I don’t want to stop, but a cool breeze drifts across my neck and I suddenly feel exposed.
I pull away. “My mom said they’d be back no later than ten, but maybe we should move somewhere more private.”
“I understand,” he whispers. “To be safe, I parked at the end of the street and walked up. If they come home early, you can always hide me under your bed and no one would ever know.”
I choke on a laugh. “Aren’t you confident, thinking you’re getting into my bedroom on the second date?”
“I’m an optimist.” He brushes his lips against my neck. “And here I was, trying to behave like you told me.”
Sure he was. “It’s hard to learn new habits.”
I lead him up to my room, glad that Mom forced me to clean up earlier. Jake walks over to my bookcase and picks up one of my trophies.
“MVP, Imogen Sawyer Pierce.” He raises an eyebrow. “This is from ninth grade. You were playing varsity then?”
“Um, yeah, but only because the other forward got hurt,” I say, thinking I need to justify myself somehow.
“Huh.” He looks my bookcase up and down. “A row of books, a row of trophies, another row of books, another row of trophies. It’s like this the whole way up…an even split.”
I shrugged. “My dad’s an English Lit professor and my mom is a success-monger. I guess they both had some influence.”
He replaces the trophy and grabs my battered copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. “Is this why your middle name is Sawyer?”
My face grows warm. “Yeah. I kind of hate it.”
Jake sets the book on my desk. His eyes don’t leave mine as he crosses the room to put his arms around my waist. “Why?”
He thinks I can actually talk when he’s standing so close to me? He really is an optimist.
I clear my throat. “My dad named me after fictional characters…and one of them is a boy. It’s weird.”
“I don’t think it’s weird,” Jake whispers in my ear. Sparks flash behind my eyes. “By the way, Imogen means ‘beloved child.’ So it fits.”
I laugh. “Now that’s a pickup line I’ve never heard before.”
He kisses the corner of my jaw, on that sensitive spot below my ear. “I still like your name, though.”
After a long hug, he leads me to the bed. He kicks his shoes off and we curl up together under my quilt. Everything’s still—the house, the street, even the wind—except my heart, which beats a crazy rhythm inside my chest. His lips catch mine and the world disappears.
Jake traces lines down my arms with his fingertips, to clasp my hand in his. I pull his T-shirt over his head, then blush. Probably not the reaction he’s used to, but the flat, hard muscles of his stomach make me light-headed.
It seems like we’ve kissed forever before he reaches for the hem of my tank top. He slides my shirt up my belly with excruciating slowness, his fingers light as snowflakes as they brush the sensitive skin there. I sigh and he pulls me closer, reaching for my bra strap…
Just as the garage door slams shut downstairs.
“Shit!” I squeal, pushing Jake off my bed.
In a display of exceptional balance, he lands on his feet and stands up. His jeans are riding low on his hips and there’s a small tattoo of a compass-like thing on his left pec. Mesmerized, I’m about to ask him what the symbol means, when my Dad yells, “I know something’s going on!”
My heart seizes up. “Oh, God…you’re half-naked!”
Jake glances down at his chest. “This could get awkward, huh?”
“Start looking for your clothes,” I whisper.
Raised voices echo in the walls as we hunt for his missing shirt. He finally finds it hanging off the side of my desk.
“Hurry…in my closet.” I fling the door open and clean laundry spills across the floor, stuff I was supposed to fold earlier and never did. “Crap.”
He helps me toss the laundry on my bed and scrambles into the closet. The door barely closes with him inside. I pull my hair back into a ponytail with shaking fingers and start folding the pile of clean clothes on my bed.
Laughter floats from the closet. Well, I’m glad one of us finds this amusing.
“You were imagining things,” Mom snaps.
“Was I? It doesn’t seem like it!”
Wait…is this about me, or something else? I creep from my room and sink down behind the banister rimming the balcony at the top of the stairs. My parents are facing off in the hallway.
“Nothing was going on.” Mom lifts her chin and stares him down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”
She strides out of the entry, taking all the air with her. Dad sags against the front door, takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. I hold my breath until he heads through the dining room to his office.
Still shaking from my close call, I sneak back into my room to tell Jake the coast is clear. He slips out of my closet, looking sympathetic.
Crap, he heard the fight. My parents had made an awful impression this weekend—would that scare him off? Honestly, I’d run if I were him, but I hoped he wouldn’t.
We sneak down the stairs, out the front door, and around to the side of the house. I gesture for Jake to follow me into shadows. “Sorry about all that. I don’t know what’s going on with them.”
He pulls me close. “Don’t be sorry. We avoided getting busted, so it’s all good.”
I nod and my pulse finally slows down. “What’s the tattoo about?”
“Ah, so you were staring at my chest earlier.”
I snort. “I’m not blind, idiot. What girl wouldn’t stare? And what about you trying to behave? You sure didn’t try to stop me when I ripped your shirt off.”
“Point taken.” His voice softens. “To answer your first question, the tat’s a star compass. Sailors used to wear them for good luck, but now they stand for focus, guidance, and direction. I thought having a little more focus couldn’t hurt.”
I reach up under his shirt and run my fingers over the tattoo. He shivers a little. My hands are cold, but I’m not sure that’s the reason. “I like it. Maybe I should get one.”
“I like you the way you are,” he says, burying his face in my hair. “Don’t mark yourself up on my account.”
I close my eyes, breathing in the smell of his skin, soap and spice and something undoubtedly guythat wakes up my senses and makes me hate to say goodnight. “I’ve thought about getting a tattoo before. I could use a little guidance, too.”
I look back at my house. Especially now.
…
The rest of the week passes in a haze of stolen kisses with Jake between classes, alternating pep talks and lectures from Mom, and a fever pitch of excitement around school. The tourney is finally here.
On Friday, I lie flat on my back on the practice gym floor, stretching my hamstrings after a midmorning warm-up before we catch the buses to Oklahoma City. During our quick kiss before first period, Jake promised to be at the game, cheering me on.
“All right, gang, time to roll,” Coach calls.
I stand and walk over to Rowan. “You ready for this?”
Her face is stone cold. “You bet your ass. I’m planning to knock Idabel’s center into next year.”
I give her a fist bump. Scary Amazon Ro is my favorite Ro of all.
The bus ride takes a little over an hour. We’re playing in the Chesapeake Energy Arena downtown, where the Thunder plays. It’s amazing that I’m actually going to play on the same court the pros do.
“I think I’m gonna hurl,” Carolyn whispers, looking out her window as we pull up beside the arena.
I swallow against the sick in my own throat, knowing I can’t show fear. “It’s going to be fine.”
But my palms are sweating. Scouts from A&M, Nebraska, and O State are going to be here tonight. The phrase “game of my life” is starting to take on a whole new meaning.
Coach leads us into the arena and checks in with the coordinator, who offers to take us down to the court for a quick tour. As she guides the team into the tunnels beneath the stands, I lag behind, wanting to get a feel for the court. I’ve seen movies where a warrior picks up a handful of dirt before battle, tuning in to the place where he’ll fight. Me? I walk the floor. Nothing tells a story like hardwoods under your feet. Does it have quirks? Squeaky boards? Is it abnormally slick in spots? Does the wood pick up a lot of glare? These are things I need to know.
I follow the sidelines all the way around, staring at the upper deck. My stomach cramps. Will I be able to perform with all those eyes watching?
A hand squeezes my shoulder. “The court’s still regulation, no matter how big the rest of it is.”
Coach winks, then walks up the tunnel to the locker room. I stand under the goal and eyeball it. Ten feet. Even if my perspective is off because of the rest of the arena, the court is exactly the same.
…
We come out to practice thirty minutes before game time. I scan the crowd to see if my parents are here yet and catch someone waving from a seat right next to the rail over the tunnel. My heart stutters a little. Jake’s here.
I jog over, smiling. “You’re early.”
“My dad checked me out of school,” he says. “You ready?”
I look at the empty seats yawning over me in every direction. “I hope so.”
“It’ll be fine.” He grins down at me. “And no matter how it goes, I’m still taking you out Sunday. We’ll go back to the lake. I know some good, secluded spots out there.”
I’m sure I have cartoon hearts shining in my eyes. “Can’t wait.”
Coach’s whistle shatters the air. “Pierce, if you’re done flirting, we’re going to practice now.”
I cover my face and groan. So humiliating. “I better go.”
Jake couches down and stretches his hand through the bars, reaching for me. Standing on tiptoe, I brush my fingertips against his.
“You’ll do great,” he says.
Blushing, I nod, then run to rejoin the team. I feel like I’m walking on air, but a cold shot of nerves quickly kills that.
The scoreboard clock reads “26:23.”
And it’s counting down to game time.
…
Ten minutes before tip-off, I settle down on the bench, put my headphones in, and pull a towel over my head so it blocks out the crowd, the team, Coach…everything. Then, it’s just me and AC/DC.
The song builds and my blood cells pound along with the beat. A tingling starts in my fingers and toes, spreading through the rest of my body. I can feel my mouth moving—Jake was right. I lip-synch along with the music.
Someone taps my shoulder. “Thunderstruck” is ending and I let myself come partway back to earth. Ro stands over me.
I pull out my headphones. “Time?”
She nods. “The ‘Banner’ is starting.”
We stand to listen to a seven-year-old girl sing the national anthem mostly on key, then Coach shouts some last-minute instructions. Rowan and I slide in our mouth guards. She gives me a red-mouthed scowl and I take a deep breath.
With that, it’s game time.
We line up around the circle. The dragonish forward from Idabel—her name’s McGee, I think—pops her mouth guard out and gives me a leer most humans would probably find scary. All I do is whisper, “You’re mine.” She pops the mouth guard back in, turning her smile a faded, ugly blue.
I sink down into a half crouch. Ro checks my position before getting set. The crowd noise disappears into a tunnel. All that exists is the orange ball balanced on the referee’s hand.
He blows a sharp tweet and the ball sails into the air. Rowan goes up. Idabel’s enormous center goes up. The giants clash in the air, and Rowan gets her fingers on the ball.
I launch upward as the ball comes my way. Someone throws an elbow. I duck just in time, swivel around, and drive toward our goal. Rowan arrives under the basket two steps ahead of me, so I pass to her. She bullies Idabel’s center out of the way and lays the ball up. It goes in.
Our side of the arena erupts in cheers.
They inbound the ball, and I cover dragon-girl. McGee bumps me hard, shouldering my left breast. Since we’re away from the play, the ref never even notices. Annoyed, I throw an elbow at her kidneys. Her oof of surprise is good payback for the bruised chest.
It’s a physical game. Rowan’s being pinged around between jostling bodies for every rebound. As the small forward, I fight in the paint, too, taking hard blocks because that’s what I’m supposed to do—draw fouls.
Coach calls a time-out with two minutes to go in the first quarter. “All right, we’re up by two.” She takes a good look at us and stops talking. Ashley has a burgeoning bruise on her cheek from an elbow to the face, I have scratches on my hands where McGee raked me with her nails while trying to steal the ball, and Rowan’s hair looks like something out of The Bride of Frankenstein.
“Good grief,” Coach says. “We got ourselves a brawl.”
I laugh, aching all over. “They aren’t going gently into that good night.”
Rowan nods. “Seriously, I think that center of theirs is a man.”
“Yeah,” Ashley says, “the mustache is a dead giveaway.”
Coach holds up a hand. “While I’m glad you’re able to joke around, I need you to listen up.”
She outlines the next few plays, and we get back to business.
The timekeeper signals to the ref and we run back onto the court. McGee shoves against me as the play starts. My foot’s planted, so when I twist from the jolt, I tweak my ankle.
I glare at her. “Watch it, princess.”
She gives me a smug smile, then darts out from behind me, driving low to avoid a foul, just as the guard passes her the ball. Pissed, I reach in, getting a hand on the ball and tipping it up. We both jump for it, and I come down with the ball hugged in my arms. I lunge away from her with a quick dribble and run down the court, McGee chasing behind. Everyone else scrambles to follow, but they’re too late. I pause at the top of the key and shoot.
The ball rolls from my fingers, sails to the basket, and swishes through the net just before the buzzer, putting us up by four. Relieved, electrified, I throw my head back and let out a wild cry. The Weatherford North crowd screams along with me.
My blood’s still singing when we head to the bench. Coach looks weary as she calls for us to settle down. “Good quarter, ladies. They’re playing hard, so keep your heads on straight and don’t let them get easy shots.” She checks her watch. “Give them hell.”
The crowd greets us with cheers, and Rowan prances around, waving her arms to stir them up more, but it’s immediately clear Idabel’s come out to play. As soon as the whistle blows, they’re all over us, getting an easy shot right away. McGee jabs an elbow into my ribs while we wait for the inbound.
She wants to get ugly? Then let’s get ugly.
Rowan is being beaten half-senseless trying to clear me a path, and Carolyn and Ashley are fighting to hold the other players back. I shove past McGee, who’s on me like Velcro, when Taylor launches the ball. Her throw is high, so I jump for it.
McGee jumps, too, giving me a hard bump while I’m up. It throws my balance, and I come down wrong. I know it as soon as my right shoe touches the ground.
I try to pivot, but she lands on my foot, so when I turn, my shoe sticks to the court. We’re moving hard and fast—there’s no give.
My right ankle goes one way.
My knee goes the other.
There’s this audible snap and pain bursts through my leg. I go down screaming, banging the back of my head on the court when I land. The world goes awash in purple floating clowns before the pain whisks me back to the present.
My leg, oh God, oh God. My screams turn to choked sobs. I want to roll over, curl up, but my right leg won’t move. It hurts, it hurts, sweet Jesus, it hurts.
McGee yells frantically for help and Rowan comes running. I get a flash of her face as she bends to check on me, then she turns green and rushes away with her hand cupped over her mouth. Somehow that makes it all so much worse. I kick the floor with my left foot and I’ve got my fists clenched so hard, my nails tear the skin on my palms.
As I writhe around, I catch sight of the damage. My kneecap is swollen and a lump sticks out in my calf. I’m already bruising from my ankle to the bottom of my knee. I fall back, trying to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, hoping I won’t puke. McGee kneels next to me, crying her eyes out, saying, “I didn’t mean it! Oh, please, I’m so, so sorry!”
Coach Marczek drops to my side, shoving McGee out of the way. Her face is stark white as she waves someone over. In a clatter of gear, two paramedics arrive.
Tears run down the sides of my face, into my ears, but Coach won’t let go of my hands so I can wipe them away. The paramedics say something about stabilizing me. One holds my shoulders still while the other wraps a brace around my neck.
“Take it off,” I croak. “It’s choking me. Please take it off.”
“We can’t take the chance,” one mutters. “That fall was bad enough to jar your spine.”
Jar my spine. It just sounds funny. Jar my spine…like a pickle. I start laughing. It hurts so bad, but I can’t stop. The laughs become sobs again when the paramedics brace my leg so they can load me onto a stretcher.
I thought I was already in enough pain. With Coach’s help, the paramedics hold my leg stable, then carefully pick me up and set me on the stretcher. This takes my breath away, and dark spots dance across my eyes. Air whistles through my teeth. “N-not gonna make it.”
“Yes, you are.” Coach’s voice is soft as she runs a hand through my hair. “You are.”
Jake comes flying across the court from the other side of the stands and skids to a halt, held back by Idabel’s coach. I try to reach for him, but pain sears my leg at the slightest movement, so I let my arm drop.
My parents show up and lean in over Coach’s shoulder. Mom’s wailing, “No! No! Not now! Not now!” In the bleak quiet of the arena, her voice rings out.
Dad stands behind her, and his eyes catch mine. “Hold on, baby,” he says. “Just hold on.”
I lose consciousness.
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