Pepped Up and Ready (Pepper Jones #3) (11 page)

We drive in silence and it takes me a moment to realize we’re heading toward Shadow Lane instead of the dorms.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask.

He’s gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “I don’t know yet,” he says through a clenched jaw. “I don’t fucking like having shit thrown at me that I don’t even know about. What the hell was he talking about this time?”

This
time. Like maybe Gage is right and I
am
spending too much time in bathing suits with other guys.

“Ryan showed up at the pool while I was pool running today.” Before I can elaborate, Jace interrupts me.

“Pep, we talked about this. Did he know you were going? Did you invite him?”
Do you still have feelings for him?
is the question he’s really asking.

I shake my head rapidly. “No, no. I mean, he texted me and I told him I was going pool running but I didn’t invite him. Here, I’ll show you the text.” And I do at the next stop light. He reads them quickly before handing me back the phone, not showing any reaction.

“But most importantly I told Ryan to keep his distance and he left like two minutes after he got there. I think I actually hurt his feelings,” I say, hoping Jace will realize it wasn’t easy for me to do.

Jace remains silent until he pulls in front of my house. I’m disappointed. We haven’t spent much time together since my Monday night sleepover nearly a week ago. I don’t know what else to say. I try, “I’m sorry.”

He finally turns to look at me and I wait, hoping for a kiss, a smile, a shrug. Anything to indicate we’re good. “I’m just feeling a lot of anger right now, Pep,” he admits. “I think it’s mostly directed at Gage and maybe some at Ryan, but I don’t want to direct it at you and regret it later.” This mature Jace, who thinks through what he’s feeling and articulates his emotions, is still so very new to me. I’m impressed.

“I get it,” I say quietly. “But can I at least have a kiss?” I say with what I hope is a coy smile.

He doesn’t hesitate. His lips connect with mine for a wonderful minute before he pulls away gently. “I’m going to check in with my dad, okay? We’ll touch base later.”

Reluctantly, I head back inside. When someone who is nearly a complete stranger to both of us is determined to get between Jace and me, it seems like we’ll never catch a break. Will Jace Wilder always attract people who want to challenge him? If he remains on top, the answer is yes. And given that he’s been “a hermit” recently and still can’t avoid hordes of attention, I fear we will never be free from it. The only choice we have is to stay strong and fight it.

Burning pain sears along my shins as I surge ahead of Rollie and Omar on the second of four roughly one-mile intervals. It’s a workout we do every other Monday. The path is marked off by cones but most of us on varsity don’t need the direction, as we’ve done this workout so many times before. It starts out up a hill, takes a short loop in the woods and ends with a lap around the baseball field. The girls’ team, except for me, does it three times with four minutes’ rest between. I do the loop four times with the boys’ team.

I’m still able to run as fast as ever but the lightning bolts shooting along my left shin make it a very unpleasant experience. Apparently taking a week off to pool run did not fix the problem. When I surge around the baseball dugout I’m breathing like I’m winded, but it’s not because I’m at my threshold… at least not my endurance threshold. My pain threshold is definitely being tested though, and it’s not the kind of pain I can just push through like I normally would. My left shin has a life of its own and it’s making every step brutal.

Coach Tom approaches me when I finish the lap as I start my watch for the rest interval. “You need to call it quits for the day, Pepper.”

And it’s like he’s twisted a knife in my gut. Those are the words I have been dreading from him. The pain is almost as bad as my shins.
Almost
. Which is why I don’t protest. He’s right. I can’t keep this up. And Coach Tom wouldn’t let me anyway. He knows my running stride better than anyone, and he must be able to tell by watching me that I’m hurting.

I nod in acquiescence but I’m unable to speak through the lump in my throat.

“Head on over to the trainers for some ice. We’re going to get you in to see a doctor tomorrow.”

The knife twists again. Trainers. Ice. Doctors.
Call it quits
. I feel like I might be sick all over the grass as I walk away, refusing to make eye contact with my teammates.

The training room is full of sweaty bodies. I’ve only been in here once or twice before and it was just to grab some tape or a water bottle or something. A young woman spots me and introduces herself as Jessie. She seems to know who I am already as she sets me up at a table and begins touching my legs. When she presses gently on my left shin and asks if it’s tender to the touch, my eyes water with discomfort and I nod silently. She repeats the exercise on other parts of my lower leg and then the other leg, using only a brush of pressure to touch the muscles. But it still hurts.

Eventually she hooks me into something she calls E-stim – electrical muscle stimulation. The name of the machine alone almost sends me into a panic attack. It sends a strange tingling feeling through my lower legs. The sensation is like ants crawling around in my muscles. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but it’s a distraction, I guess.

I keep my eyes glued to the television. It’s on ESPN but I’m not really processing anything. I’m well aware that the noise level decreased significantly when people noticed I was in here with… gulp… an
injury
. Along with Clayton Dennison, Ryan Harding and Jace Wilder, I’m one of the most decorated Brockton Public athletes. I’m the only girl to win Nationals in any sport, and with Ryan winning for the boys in the very same year, we attracted a lot of attention to Brockton Public. A news station even came and filmed us at school one time. Out of the corner of my eye I see someone typing on their phone, and I have a feeling news that I’m here and hooked into an E-stim machine will spread quickly.

Jessie is huddled with a more senior trainer – Bob, I think his name is. They glance at me, ignoring the dozen other athletes who might need their attention, and I can’t help the weary sigh that escapes.

After what feels like days, Coach Tom shows up, nods at the trainers, and settles himself on the stool next to the table I’m perched on.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asks.

I point at the wires on my shins. “They hurt.”

“I see that. How long?”

“A while,” I admit.

“Pepper, how long have your shins hurt?” he asks again.

“Probably August.” It’s October now. “Before school started.” It’s bad. Saying it aloud, I feel like a total idiot. Why did I ignore this for not days, not weeks, but months?

The two trainers join us. Bob forgoes any pleasantries, announcing, “Looks like you’ve done a number on those shins of yours, Ms. Jones. You may have a stress fracture in the left one. We can’t know for sure without x-rays, but it sure sounds like it.”

Twist that knife again, Bob, pull it out, stab it back in. I must be white as a sheet because Coach puts his hand on my forehead. “Grab us a cold washcloth, Bob, will you?”

“What does that mean? When can I run again?” I ask, letting Jessie place the cold towel on my forehead.

“You’ll need to go in for x-rays first thing tomorrow. Dr. Kennedy is an orthopedic specialist who frequently works with our athletes, but I don’t think you’ve seen her before.” Bob’s voice vibrates in my ear, but I know he’s not speaking very loudly.

A stress fracture. In October of my senior year. I may not get a scholarship to UC after all. What happens if I don’t get a scholarship? I’ll have to go somewhere that gives me one, and it won’t be in Brockton. October won’t leave me enough time to recover and compete in the qualifying meets for Nationals. I’ll have to take weeks, maybe even months off.

“Calm down, Pepper,” Coach Tom says and it sounds like he’s far away, though I know he’s right next to me. “It’s going to be okay. This is a common running injury that we can work through and bounce back from. You’re going to be right back at it before you know it.”

But, it’s my senior cross season, Coach,
I want to yell. I’m supposed to win Nationals, and instead, I’ll be hobbling around, unable to run at all.

I nod at their questions about booking me a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning. They will get me out of class somehow. It doesn’t feel real as I hobble back to Zoe’s bike, which I’ve decided to keep until she pries it out of my hands. I’ve never had my own car and I love the freedom of being able to get around town without one. Especially now that I can’t just run everywhere I want. But there’s a familiar Escalade waiting in the nearly-empty parking lot, and Wesley Jamison hops down from the driver’s seat.

“Need a ride?” he calls.

“What are you doing here?”

He catches up to me and takes my bike once I’ve unlocked it from the rack. I let him roll it to his car.

“Word spreads fast when Pepper Jones splits in the middle of a workout to go to the trainers,” he says as an answer.

“Okaaay.” I’ll never get used to the minor-celebrity status my running accomplishments have elevated me to in Brockton. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here,” I remind him.

“Jace heard, couldn’t come because he was still at practice, and got in touch with me. He thought you might try riding home on Zoe’s bike,” Wes says pointedly as he hauls her bike into his trunk.

I roll my eyes. “I can still ride a bike.”

“Whatever, Pep, you know you’d rather ride with me.”

His help into the passenger seat is appreciated, as it’s dawning on me just how much of an invalid I have become. Beating the boys in the first two laps at practice today sent me over the edge. I simply cannot deny that I’m injured. Somehow, though, I’m keeping a safe distance from the reality of it, maintaining the fuzzy haze of shock I experienced in the training room. It’s like I’m partially in a dream, living in someone else’s body. That’s Wes right there, turning up the radio, but I’m detached from really being in this car with him.

He takes me back to the apartment and talks to Gran in the kitchen while I shower. When we sit down for dinner, a chicken and green bean casserole that I can barely pick at, Gran tells me she’ll drive me to the appointment tomorrow. Wes has told her already, or maybe Coach called, because I don’t remember telling anyone about the doctor appointment. I’m thankful she knows, either way, because I’m not sure I can say it aloud yet.

It dawns on me that Wes hasn’t joined us for a family dinner in a long time. I shake my head, realizing I haven’t seen him at all since the swimming outing. That’s really strange. He spilled his guts to me, showed up on a whim to hang out, and then disappeared. I suppose I’ve been busy, and Jace has too, and we usually all hang out together. It’s not like when they were in high school anymore, when we all showed up to the same parties most weekends.

But didn’t Gage say Wes was at that party last weekend? I’m lost in my own thoughts, partially about what Wes might have been up to, but mostly with painful anticipation of the news I will receive tomorrow. Even sitting at the table, the soreness in my legs resonates through me, a constant reminder of my failure.

I haven’t paid attention to a word Wes and Gran are saying when Jace busts open the door like he’s on a mission. He takes one look at me and strides forward, kneeling by my chair. I imagine I look a little lost right now, even sitting at home eating dinner like I do nearly every night. With my running goals stripped from me, I’m not sure what my purpose is anymore.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “We’re going out tonight, okay? To a concert. It’ll be fun and you can be out late since you’re skipping morning classes.”

How does everyone know about the doctor appointment already?

“The appointment’s at nine, right Buns?” Jace asks Gran.

“Yup. Take this girl out. Have some fun!”

I’m not about to protest. Wallowing in my thoughts alone in my room is the last thing I want to do right now.

Wes and Jace are, apparently, on a mission to save me from misery. First we drive to Clyde’s Creamery and they essentially force-feed me a chocolate mint ice cream cone. It’s my favorite, but I can’t finish. My emotions are so volatile I’m not sure when they’ll erupt and for that reason, I’m queasy.

A local band is playing at Clifford’s, a theater on Main Street that’s been around forever. I’m still only seventeen and officially, you’re supposed to be eighteen to go to a show at Clifford’s, but everyone knows that as long as you look older than twelve, no one will care.

Wes and Jace don’t know much about the band, only that the drummer is supposed to be awesome, and Wes thinks he remembers there’s a girl who sometimes plays the piano with them who’s “smoking” – but he’s not talking about her musical talent.

The theater is dark and smoky – not from cigarettes, but a cloud of marijuana. I’ve never smoked myself, but I’m familiar with its sweet, earthy scent. It’s not too packed, but it’s only the opening band up there.

I gesture to the ledge along the side of the wall, hoping to get off my legs. Jace lifts me up before jumping up after me. Wes is already lost in the crowd, doing his social butterfly thing.

“I’m worried about him,” Jace tells me. The music is loud, but he has his head right next to mine so I can hear.

“Yeah? I haven’t seen him in a while. Have you?” I ask.

“Not much. A couple of times we’ve watched games together at Dad’s house, but he knows I’ve been busy with football, classes, and you of course,” he says with a nudge.

“What makes you worry?”

“I’ve heard he’s been at a lot of UC parties.”

“That’s not really surprising, is it?”

“I get a feeling he’s getting into the drug scene again. People act a little sketchy when his name comes up and I’m around.”

I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I guess if people knew Jace used to deal drugs with Wes, and that they both got out of it, but now Wes was back in… well, it would be easy to infer that Jace wouldn’t be happy about it. People don’t know the two of them are brothers, but they do know that they’re close.

“Did he get a job?” I ask.

“Nope. That’s another reason I’m worried. What the hell is he doing with his time? My dad asked him if he wanted to work a construction job with him, and he said he’d think about it. I don’t know what he has to think about.”