Page 20 of Wild and Wrangled

Fifteen Years Ago

Cam,

Thanks for letting me borrow another piece of paper. You’ve turned me into a college-ruled snob. There’s so much more room to talk to you on this. I’ve been thinking about the answers to all of your questions. We have the same favorite color, which is kind of a big deal—could be a sign, I think. And you’ve got some weird favorite foods, but I kind of like it. I don’t know if I have a favorite food. My mom says I’m a bottomless pit, though.

Good luck at your soccer game today. I hope you kick all the ass.

Dusty

P.S. I’m still working on a nickname for you, but don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.

Itriple-checked my ponytail before I left the locker room. I did the same thing for every game—high ponytail, braided, so my curls wouldn’t show as much when I started to sweat, and a pre-wrap headband. I smoothed out the wrinkles in my crimson-and-white uniform for what felt like the ninth time.

Today was my first game as a Meadowlark Mustang. I wasn’t nervous about playing; I loved soccer, and I was good at it. I was nervous about playing here. I wanted to prove to my team that I was an essential part of it, that I had found my place at Meadowlark High. I was so used to caring about my parents’ expectations of me; it felt good to care about my own expectations for myself. But it was scary, too.

“Ready, Cam?” one of my teammates, Chloe, called. Most of the team had taken to calling me that. I liked it. I’d never had a nickname before. It made me feel like I was part of something.

“Yeah,” I said as I hoisted my duffel onto my shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

Walking out onto the field was incredible. There were so many people in the stands—or maybe the stands were just tiny. Either way, it felt electric and buzzing.

Chloe waved to someone in the stands, and I followed her gaze. “My parents,” she said. “Are yours here?”

I swallowed. “Not this time,” I said. Not ever. My parents never come to my games. They never would. They would much rather I row or play field hockey or even tennis or some other sport that was rich people coded. They definitely wouldn’t come for soccer.

They wouldn’t come for me.

My parents weren’t really the supportive kind—at least not in the being involved in the things I liked sort of way. They supportedme in other ways, though—the material ways. I’d never really wanted for anything that could be bought, which I was grateful for, but I wanted plenty for the stuff that couldn’t.

I scanned the stands and spotted a familiar mop of blond hair near the middle. Dusty. Did he usually come to soccer games? He was talking to a couple of cheerleaders. They didn’t have to dress in their uniforms for girls’ soccer because they weren’t cheering, but they still wore their glittery scrunchies in their ponytails and matching T-shirts.

One of the girls was gripping Dusty’s face by his chin, and it looked like she was…drawing on him?

A knot formed in my stomach at the sight of them, and I felt my brows knit together. I didn’t know what this feeling was, but I really didn’t like it.

So I did what I always do with my feelings: I ignored them and prepared to go out onto the field.

After the game, Chloe pulled me into a side hug as we walked off the field. “Hell of a game, Cam!” she said. I was awkward about it—didn’t quite know what to do, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Thanks, Chloe. You too!”

“But I didn’t score two goals,” she said with a smile. I felt my cheeks heat a little, and I tried not to smile. I did have a great game. Maybe it was because I was extra focused; I didn’t want to look over at Dusty and the cheerleaders.

Before I could respond to Chloe, a pair of arms wrapped around me, lifting me, and whipping me around. “Holy shit, Cam.” Dusty’s voice. Dusty’s arms. Dusty’s smell. “You were incredible out there!”

A surprised laugh escaped me as he spun me around one more time before lowering me to the ground. His gray eyes met mine. They were bright and excited—they matched his smile.

“You were like a machine,” he continued excitedly. “And when you knocked that girl down?” Dusty winked at me. “Hot.”

I blushed a deep red as I looked up at Dusty. His right cheek caught my eye. In black eyeliner, someone—the cheerleader, apparently—had written the number 33. My number.

“You have something on your face,” I said—not acknowledging the “hot” thing. No one had ever called me that before.

Dusty’s smile widened. “Like it?” he said, holding one of his hands under his cheek. “I did it for you.”

Chloe cleared her throat before I could respond. I forgot she was standing by me. When I looked over at her, she had a knowing smirk on her face. “You good?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good.”

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