Page 50 of Stealing for Keeps
“There you are,” he says, tipping his chin up at me. “I thought you left already.”
“Got lost,” I joke.
“His grandparents own the paper mill in the town over,” Blake says. “You should see the pool in the backyard.”
It’s cool out tonight, rained on and off all day, but by unspoken agreement, we head outside anyway.
“Do all these people go to our school?” I mutter, more or less to myself, though the guys chuckle.
The pool, as promised, is impressive. It’s lit up with multicolored lights along the edge, and the water sparkles under the moonlight. Everyone in Arizona had a pool in their backyard, but this is a spectacle. It has two lanes roped off for lap swimming, a diving board, and a swim-up bar.
No one is braving the pool tonight, but a few girls are sitting on the edge, letting their toes dangle under the surface. In warmer weather, I can see how this pool gets a lot of action. Not that Frost Lake gets a lot of warm weather, a month or two tops. Seems like a waste of money, but something tells me these people aren’t worried about saving a few hundred grand.
All around the giant pool, people stand in groups,drinking and talking. Off to the side of the pool is a grassy area with a firepit and chairs gathered around. It looks like they’re playing some sort of game, because shots are being knocked back by several as the others laugh and cheer.
But the main attraction in the backyard filled with my classmates (and then some) is the hot tub. It’s built next to the pool, and steam rises from it. Girls are stripped down to their bras and panties, and guys are in their boxers. I can practically see the pheromones in the air.
“I love high school,” Rowan says, clapping me on the shoulder and heading that direction.
“That hot tub for sure has bodily fluid in it of some kind.” Blake grimaces.
“Definitely,” Vaughn says.
I recognize more people than I don’t after a quick appraisal. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the size of Frost Lake. And still, everyone seems to know everyone.
“Yo, Keller.”
I turn at the sound of my name, and some guy from my English class tosses me a beer. I catch the lob pass and tip my head to him in thanks.
Blake is next to me with an already open beer and another in his free hand. “You want this?” I ask him.
“You don’t?”
“Nah, man. I’m driving.”
“Stack me up.” He holds out the hand with the closed beer, and I put the other on top. “Fuck it. You know what?” he asks no one in particular. “What’s a little bodily fluid gonna hurt? The hot water probably kills anything too gnarly.”
“Don’t get pregnant!” Vaughn calls after him. He shakeshis head, then glances back at me and Hunter. “You guys want to kick the ball around?”
“Where?” I ask.
One side of his mouth lifts. “You’ll see.”
* * *
In a side yard that’s nearly as big as the backyard is a small soccer field. Goals with nets and all.
“Why does he have this?” I walk onto the field in amazement. There are even lights around the perimeter, like the designer considered after-dark games.
“He was on the soccer team freshman year,” Hunter answers. “We used to come over here on the weekends and play until all hours of the night.”
“I’d never leave if I had something like this.” I’m still amazed. My parents put up with me kicking the ball and using laundry baskets or whatever else I can find as a makeshift goal and only complain when I’m too noisy (kicking the ball against the side of the house) or break something (a window or two or three).
Vaughn and Hunter peel off their button-down shirts, and the three of us kick the ball around, warming up, taking shots at the goal to get used to it. It’s obvious that they’ve played here as much as they said, because they move around the smaller space with an ease that takes me a few minutes to achieve.
Before long, we’ve attracted three others, and we’ve got a game of three-on-three and a crowd forming to watch.
It feels good to play, even like this, with guys who love the game as much as I do. We’re competitive, and there’s no taking it easy on one another, but we laugh and chirp, and it’s just fun.
