Page 27 of Keep Me Still
“Naw, just ready to get to the stadium and get this shit over with.” But I’m lying. Truth is, if I never see another chocolate shake again, it’ll be too soon. Because I don’t just see a milkshake. I see her.
Eyes closed, luscious lips curved into a satisfied grin, little pink tongue swiping that whipped cream from the corner of her mouth. And that smile. That damn dream-invading smile, the one that will probably haunt me for the rest of my life. The one that changed everything. That changed me.
I stay in the truck while the rest of them go in the diner, pretending I have pertinent shit to attend to on my phone. Once they’re out of sight, I lean my head back on the seat and close my eyes. I never even got to kiss her. If I’d known just how short our time together was going to be, I would’ve kissed her every day. Every hour.
The truck door opens and I sit up straight. “Dammit,” Skylar mumbles as he dribbles some of his shake down his team polo, snapping me out of my memories of the girl I shouldn’t be thinking about in the first place. Must’ve zoned out while they were in the diner.
“Nice,” Austin jeers, laughing and pointing. “In t-minus thirty minutes we’re going to be introduced to the whole freshman class and goalie here has cookies-n-cream shake splattered down the front of his shirt. Smooth, man.”
“Don’t spill that shit in my truck. I mean it,” I warn him. “Or you will pay for a full detail or detail it yourself, motherfucker.” Not that I’d really follow through on the threat. Because then I would lose it, her sweet scent. As much as it tortures me, it’s all I have left to remind me. Even though the memories sting, it’s a pain as familiar and unwelcome as the pain my father caused. Terrifying. But necessary. A heroin addiction would probably be healthier.
My phone buzzes in my console and I know it’s one of three people. Tuck, Danni, or my mom. Texting to see how it’s going, to check up on me or whatever. I don’t bother looking at it, though, because I’m distracted. A redhead and a girl with hair like Layla’s are walking into the stadium as I pull into the parking lot. I nearly slam into a concrete kiosk I’m so distracted.
“You been drinking?” Skylar asks, bracing his hand on the dash.
“Not today,” I tell him as I whip into an empty parking space. The lot’s pretty full. It’s going to be a hike to the stadium but I probably need the fresh air to clear my head anyhow. Because I might be hallucinating.
All eight of us head toward the stadium, searching for the gate number we’ve been told to enter.
“It’s B8, dumbfuck,” Michael argues with Dean, who swears it’s C8 we’re supposed to be looking for.
“Oh shit, I forgot about this,” Skylar says, tearing a flyer off the nearest kiosk. “You know we have to decorate a team float for Homecoming? Coach said the shit is mandatory.”
“No way,” Michael says, snatching the flyer to look it over. “Ah, there’s free pizza at least.”
“Wow, fatass. Way to find the silver lining,” Austin says, smacking Mike in the arm. The two wrestle around for a few minutes but I keep walking. Homecoming. Of all the time I spent with Layla Flaherty, Homecoming was the most fucked up night of all. Either that or Thanksgiving, but I’m pretty sure Homecoming wins.
If I’d known what she’d been through, known that she’d witnessed her parents being gunned down in a random mugging as a kid and was plagued by seizure-inducing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I would’ve ripped Brent Becker’s arms from his body before I let him punch that door. But I didn’t know. Not all the details anyways. Before I could blink, she was convulsing on the floor and I was screaming for someone to call 911.Freaky Flaherty,they called her. When I saw what caused them to nickname her this, I wanted to burn the gym down Carrie-style. Small town bastards.
But when I wrapped my arms around her and her seizing stopped, I felt like King of the damn world. Because I was stupid enough to think maybe someone needed me.
I lose sight of the girl with hair like Layla’s once we enter the stadium. It’s barely controlled chaos in here. We find the seats marked Soccer and sit while some official looking people in suits set up a podium and fool around with sound equipment.
Testing the limits of my neck, I glance up into the stands, hoping to find that girl again, and kind of hoping not to. Part of the deal is that I don’t make myself obvious. Scrolling through messages on my phone, I see a text from my mom. She just recently learned to text, and boy does she make use of this knowledge.
The cheerleaders are lining up next to our seats, and several guys lean around me to stare. Jesus. It’s like they’ve never seen women in skirts before or something. But yeah, I do a quick once-over just for the hell of it. And so no one calls me a fag. Not that I don’t love the Colonel’s favorite nickname for me, but after I left Georgia and moved back to Colorado, I took a lot of shit. Because I didn’t hook up with Danni—or anyone for that matter. Because I couldn’t get a blonde from Georgia out of my head. Or my heart.
And every time someone called me that, it reminded me of that piece of shit Becker and him calling me that just before he caused Layla’s seizure. And then I see her face, looking horrified in that hospital bed. Embarrassed, ashamed, and mostly like she can’t stand the sight of me. I’m terrified of seeing that look on her face again. Maybe she and the Colonel could start a club.
“Dude, you look like you’re thinking about murdering someone. Care to share?” Skylar asks, finally peeling his eyes from a busty brunette with pompoms standing next to us.
“Nah, I’m fine.” It’s a lie I’m used to telling.
They announce the football team first. Cocky pricks.
Skylar and Austin are arguing back and forth about who’s going to bang which cheerleader and punching each other over me when they disagree. I almost miss it when they call my name.
Standing quickly, I offer a small wave at the crowd and sit back down. But my neck is hot and I feel someone watching me, even after they move on to introducing the Lacrosse team. And Crew. And even the cheerleaders. Leaning back in my metal folding chair, I glance all around, scanning the stands for whoever’s stare is burning a hole into my back.
Random faces blur together and I’m unable to distinguish any one person concentrating on me specifically. Maybe I’m just tired. Or paranoid. It’s been a long damn week.
After all the athletes have been introduced, a few more people yammer on about what an exciting time this is, how the university is part of our family now, and they’re here for us if we need anything. Unless we get caught with booze or drugs. Then we’re the fuck outta here and they wash their hands of us. Yeah, sounds about like the concept of family I’m familiar with.
They’re wrapping up the speeches and we stand to sing the lame-ass alma mater. Like any of us know the words. A gentle vibration in my pocket tells me I have a new message and I pull out my phone.
Party tonite @ Blackburn’s. Bring beer. And girls.
It’s from Lucas Taite, and I glance around to see Skylar, Austin, and a few other guys glancing at their phones. First night—impressive. The ink’s probably still wet on the Collegiate Athlete Code of Conduct I signed in Coach’s office this morning.
