Page 3 of Sweet Girl
Chapter Two
Van
Lyndsay is cheating on me.
I think.
No proof or evidence has surfaced to justify this claim, but something was off with her last weekend. I felt it during my visit. It was our first visit in over a month and only the second since the start of the school year.
Call it gut instinct or whatever, but something’s definitely going on with her.
It could be just the strain and readjustment of getting back into the academic school year. We’re both on the basketball teams at our respective schools, and team practices have just begun in preparation for the upcoming season. Lyndsay is also still grieving the loss of her dad, who died suddenly last May, right in the middle of finals.
We grieved together over the summer, in between basketball training camps and our summer jobs. She originally wasn’t planning on coming home to Tucson, but after her dad’s death, she came home to be with her mom and younger siblings. I was selfishly glad she did. I needed to be with her; spend time with her; remind her how good we are together.
But that didn’t last long. Now that she’s back in Albuquerque, she doesn’t have time for me anymore. Or more like make the time for me. The vibe I got when I visited her is that I was a nuisance. She acts like it’s a chore to hang out with me around her friends, her dorm – her life.
When I pressed her on the subject, asking what was going on with her, she brushed it off, scoffing at me like I was stupid to think there’s something wrong between us. Or with her. Nothing has changed with me. I’m still the same. I’m still in love with her. But it hurts to know she may not feel the same way about me anymore.
My friends call me pussy whipped; I suppose I am. But Lyndsay is my best friend. We’ve been together for a long time. She knows everything there is to know about me. She’s practically part of my family, and understands what things are like living with my older brother, Dougie.
My thoughts are interrupted when a basketball flies into my chest. Hard.
I rub at the spot, blinking through the pain as I watch the ball bounce off the court.
“Ow...what du fuck, man?”
My teammate, Christian Lancaster, a center power forward, gives me a mocking laugh.
“Dude, if you were paying attention to what’s going on here, you wouldn’t be whining like a pansy-ass.” He struts over and stands facing me. “What is your deal today? What bug crawled up your ass?”
My eyebrows raise in question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, bruh.”
Another scoffing grunt and he jogs to the sideline to pick up the discarded ball, quickly handing it off to me as he returns to my side.
“Van, your head is so fucking far in the clouds, even Jesus and his angels can’t reach ya.”
What a dope. Maybe I am a little out of it today, though. I haven’t slept well the last few nights. Got lots on my mind.
Specifically, I’ve been thinking about two girls. One that’s possibly fucking around on me. And the other, quite honestly, that’s fucking up my head.
Kylah Griffin.
My guilt over how I feel about her right now is so high that they should cuff me and charge me with indecent thoughts.
Nothing has happened between us – at all. And it wouldn’t. I’ve been completely faithful to Lyndsay during my entire college career. I’ve never once touched or kissed another girl – even though I’ve had ample opportunity.
I met Kylah, Cade’s younger sister, at the end of last week. She’s home on fall break from her California college and has been spending time at Cade’s apartment day-and-night. The same place I’ve been hanging around to keep my mind off what’s going on with Lyndsay.
For whatever reason, Kylah and I have just clicked as friends. She’s a sweet girl. Smart. Shy. Beautiful in the girl-next-door vibe. We’ve bonded over our interest in Game of Thrones and Marvel super-hero movies. Kylah is a bit of a geek-girl, which I find fascinating. And she’s a great listener. Not that I’ve told her much about my personal life, because that would be a lot to digest, but she’s been a great distraction for me. If I didn’t have her around, I think I’d have lost my mind. The guys’ have no clue what’s going on in my life and there’s no way I can tell them. They’d only make more fun of me for being such a love-sick pussy. Obviously I am, since I can’t concentrate on a damn thing in practice.
“Sorry, man.”
I dribble the ball down the court, weaving in and out of the red shirts we’re working with on drills today. “I do have a lot on my mind.”
At six-foot-ten, Christian pivots in front and blocks me as I take a shot from the three-point line. The ball leaves my hand, arcing up and then down, hitting the rim of the basket before ricocheting off, getting picked off by the red shirt team. Fuck. I’ve been working on my three-pointers over the summer, but apparently my technique is also off today along with everything else.
Lancaster and I run down the length of the court, posting up in our man-to-man defense. We do this for another twenty minutes – up and down the court – dribbling, passing, blocking, screening, shooting. Finally, the assistant coach blows the whistle and we head into the locker room to shower and change.
