“Isobel,” Coach said, stepping up behind her, “you stay. We’ve got to talk.” She brushed by and went to wind up the cord to the CD player while the boys folded up and stowed the practice mirrors. Isobel shut her eyes, keeping them that way for a full three seconds.
Could this day—could this year get any worse?
She released her gym bag and flopped onto the bleachers to watch everyone else file out the door. Nikki offered only a single backward glance before hurrying out after Alyssa. Isobel set her chin in her hands and focused on her tennis shoes, white with blue and yellow stripes.
She was more angry than upset. After crying at lunch that day, she’d had enough of being upset and letting other people see it. It was easier just to get mad.
Maybe she was losing her touch.
“What’s going on, missy? It’s time to talk,” said Coach, settling on the bleachers next to her. The wood and iron squeaked as it compressed beneath her weight.
“I just got distracted,” Isobel mumbled. She glanced toward the gym doors, which still stood vacant. She looked back down again at her hands, picking at the nonexistent dirt under her fingernails. Maybe she was just altogether losing it.
“Okay,” Coach said. She looped her thumb through the yellow lanyard around her neck, jostling her whistle. “So whatever it was that distracted you today, could it be the same thing that distracted you last Friday? That’s two falls in two weeks.” Coach held up two fingers as though Isobel needed the visual as a reminder. “For you, that’s not normal.”
“I know. It—it’s nothing,” Isobel insisted. “I just . . .” She trailed off. She just what? Saw something that wasn’t really there? Oh yeah, that wasn’t begging for a call home.
“Well,” Coach said, ending the stretch of silence, “I heard that you were upset at lunch today. Does that have anything to do with all this?”
Isobel felt her cheeks blossom into buds of fire, and she involuntarily braced a shielding hand at her brow. Did everyone know about the lunch saga?
“Listen, Isobel,” Coach started, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m just trying keep hold of my best flyer. That’s all.”
Isobel nodded at the floor. She appreciated the encouragement. It felt good to be recognized, but at the same time, she couldn’t think of any way to respond. She could say she’d do better. She could say anything. But with Coach, words never went as far as actions. She’d just have to do better next time. She’d have to put all the crap aside, forget about everything for a while, and just think up.
“Hey.” Coach nudged her.
Isobel lifted her head—and froze. Brad stood in the gym doorway, his letter jacket slung over one shoulder, his curly, thick hair wet and darkened from the showers.
Beside her, Coach stood, and the bleachers wobbled with a creak and a sigh. “Better let you go,” she said. “Looks like there’s someone here to see you.”
“Go away.”
Isobel forced herself to look straight at him as she said it. He’d followed her all the way from the gym to her locker, wearing that cocky grin, his lips curled up on one side, dimple displayed.
And that smirk combined with the way his wet hair hung in his face? So hot.
Isobel pivoted away from him, doing her best to remember her locker combination, but stopped when he reached out and began to turn the dial for her.
She swatted his hand aside and spun the rest of the numbers on her own, making a mental note to change the combination later.
When she tugged at the handle, the door stuck, and before she could stop him, Brad gave the bottom left corner a quick, rough kick. The door popped out.
“I said, go away!” she snarled.
First she got her binder, the one she’d left over the weekend, resolving to do her algebra tonight since she no longer had friends to go out with. Next she reached in to snag her cardigan, only to find that it had disappeared off the little hook inside. She blinked, then turned to find it draped by the collar off the tip of Brad’s finger.
“Stop!” She snatched the sweater away and pulled it on, juggling her binder from arm to arm in the process. He stood there, watching, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
Infuriated, she slammed her locker closed, shouldered her gym bag, and marched toward the front doors.
“Just so I have this straight,” he called after her, “you don’t want a ride home?”
“No.”
Isobel shoved open the push-bar door with her hip. A rush of cool, moist air blasted her in the face, whipping her hair into a frenzy as she slipped out to stand on the concrete steps.
