Page 70 of Blocked Score

“There’s no way Scarlett and that Chris guy could have anything in common.” Punch, punch, punch. “Did you see that mustache?”

Sebastian huffs an acerbic laugh. “Lame as hell.”

My shoulder is aching, but I keep slamming my fist into the bag. At least it’s making me forget the temptation to grab my phone and hound Scarlett, checking in all night like a nutjob.

I plant my feet and swivel my hips, going all-out, peppering the bag with lefts and rights until my chest burns.

Once I’m spent, I bite the Velcro straps of my gloves and pull them off with a tug of my mouth.

Sebastian and I plop down onto a bench, chugging our water bottles.

I wonder what Scarlett and herdateare doing right now.

“Let’s hit the bag some more.”

35

SCARLETT

Adistasteful expression scrunches onto my face as I bump the refrigerator door closed with my hip after grabbing a bottle of water.

An unpleasant pang expands behind my chest while I glance at Lane. He’s in the living room, sprawled out on the couch, moping. There’s something playing on the TV in front of him, but he’s not watching it. Not even looking at it. He’s just got his eyes fixed on a blank corner of the room, glazed over, gloominess radiating from him.

It’s no mystery why he’s in the mood he’s in. The Black Bears have had a pretty bad last couple games. There’s been a morose atmosphere pervading the whole house for the last two weeks, but no one’s more weighed down with it than Lane.

As team captain, I’ve come to realize how much he internalizes anything that goes wrong with the team. How much he foists every letdown and imperfection onto his shoulders and considers them his own personal responsibility. And that’s even if he’s blameless in the problems facing them.

So it doesn’t help that, yeah, Lane’s own performances during their last three games haven’t been up to his usual standard.

It’s Friday night, and everyone else is out doing something. Tonight is the least freezing it’s been since I moved here, so I bet downtown Cedar Shade is buzzing right now.

“Just gonna mope around all night?” I ask Lane, fed up with standing by and watching him wallow in this slump.

But he’s wallowing so hard he didn’t even hear me. His face is still blank, his sparkless eyes fixed on the empty wall.

I roll my eyes and round the couch to the other side of him, plopping down and making a point to engage my whole body weight to jostle him into awareness of his surroundings.

He gives a little start. Noticing that I’m looking at him expectantly, he grunts, “Huh?”

“Just gonna mope around all night?” I repeat, my words a bit more pointed this time.

His lips carve downward. “I’m not moping.”

“Oh, yeah,this,” I sprawl my limbs on the couch and do an over-dramatic imitation of his blank, depressed expression, “totally isn’t moping.”

A spark of satisfaction flickers inside me since my impersonation draws the slightest twitch to Lane’s lips. I’ll take any fraction of a smile I can get from him in this mood, even if it’s only about one-one-thousandths of one.

I push up from the couch and stand in front of the TV, blocking the view. His eyes follow me, one of his brows arching questioningly.

“You don’t even know what you’ve beenwatching,” I make quote signs with my hands around that word, “for the last ten minutes since I came down here.”

His forehead furrows in challenge. “Sure I do.”

And this is why I stood in front of the TV. I fold my arms. “Oh, yeah? What is it?”

“Uh … Seinfeld?”

I roll my eyes and step aside.

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