Running Back To Him (10 page)

Chapter 15

Justine and I arrive early to Atwood Stadium to get a good seat. I hate inching past people, like I have a stick up my butt, spilling popcorn on people to get over to my seat. We sit front row, right on the fifty-yard line in clear view of the field. The cheerleaders are stretching, getting warmed up to be tossed up into the air. I sip on a Frapp and Just munches on a hot dog—heavy on the mustard.

“Excuse me,” a faint voice to my right says. I stand up expecting someone to scoot by Justine and I, creeping across to their seat, spilling ice-cold soda all over my new pair of jeans. I hear it again, louder this time, above the buzzing of the crowd anticipating kickoff of the game just minutes away.

“Magnolia Graham!” the boy shouts again, jolting me out of my seat. Only my Mom says my full name and only when I’m getting on her last nerve, which is usually often. He scurries out from behind the fence and rushes towards us.

“New Twitter follower of yours?” Justine asks. I shrug.

“I have no idea who that is.” The skinny red headed, red-faced boy, charges over; his arms the size of pipe cleaners flail in the wind. He’s wearing a Vikings jersey so big that he’s swimming in it.

A look of cluelessness puzzles my face. He’s bent over in front of us, sucking air, huffing and puffing.

“Who are you?” I ask, wondering if I should call for medical help because he hasn’t caught his breath and I’m trying to figure out how he knows my first and last name because I sure don’t know his. I mean I’m flattered that someone knows me, but this is becoming weird. And I’m in need of answers.

He stands up, still out of breath. “Magnolia Graham, Kellen is asking for you.”

My head jerks back. And I scowl in confusion. “I’m the Tim. I’m the assistant team manager.”

“You mean the water boy?” Justine asks snickering.

“Whatever,” Tim says, brushing her off. “Kellen told me to come and get you. He said it’s an emergency.”

I look at Justine—she’s just as clueless as I am. “C’mon, kickoff is soon. He says it’s a matter of life and death.” My pulse is rocketing. Life and death?

“Don’t just sit there and look stupid…go!” Justine says nudging me with her shoulder.

I hop off the metal bleachers and Tim rushes me back towards the locker room.

“Did he say why?” I ask Tim, trying not to trip over my own feet. Trying to run in skinny jeans is not the most ideal apparel to be running in.

“No he just said he needs you.”

“Oh,” I say weirdly “And can you not call me by my first and last name again? It adds like forty years onto my age.”

He chortles. “Sorry. Sure thing.”

My mind is about to explode. He needs me? I don’t know what’s making my heart beat faster, the running I’m doing or me thinking about what in the world Kellen could actually want from me. And right before a game. He hasn’t returned my texts from earlier today and now he
needs
me.

“Thanks Tim,” Kellen says as Tim and I approach him. Kellen’s pacing back and forth in the tunnel in front of the locker room. His face is flushed red, he’s sweating and his hair is mussed. And it doesn’t look like it’s from the warmup drills he and the team just finished doing. He looks frightened. The only time I’ve seen him this disheveled was the morning he went in for surgery on his leg.

“Kellen, what’s going on? You’re scaring me,” I say.

He doesn’t stop pacing back and forth. He doesn’t have his football pads on and the gray shirt he’s wearing is drenched in sweat. It’s dripping at the hem.

“Thank God you’re here,” he says through frantic breath. “I tried calling and texting you, but the reception is shitty down in here.”

“Are you okay?”

His eyes fling me a barbed look. “Does it look like I’m okay?” His voice is urgent and stammering.

I grab his wrist, hoping my touch would soothe him and get him to back away from the ledge he’s seemingly about to jump off of. It doesn’t help. His hands are jittery like he snorted a line or two of crushed coffee grounds.

“You’re shaking what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing but the biggest game of my life about to start in like ten minutes.” I’m annoyed by the sharpness in his voice.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Look I sprinted over here in skinny jeans and flats. I can’t even feel the lower half of my body from how tight these jeans are. I think my vajay-jay is paralyzed. You asked me over here because you said you needed me.” I yank my hand away from him. “I can leave, you know that right.”

He clenches the hair on his head. “I’m sorry Mags.” He exhales deeply and sweat flies from his face. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m just going crazy.”

“Go have Bobby-Jimmy or Jethro slap your shoulders or sacrifice a gerbil and drink its blood do a line or two of coke or whatever crazy stuff you football players do to get ready.”

“We already did that. It didn’t work. My fingers are numb and won’t stop trembling. If don’t get rid of these nerves I’m going to fumble again. That can’t happen. Hear me, Mags. That. Can’t. Happen.” He shoots me a look of steely-blue daggers.

I’ve never seen him like this before and honestly it frightens me. A part of me just wants to grab his hand and run away as far as I can and never look back. That would solve absolutely nothing, but it’s what I would do.

“Last night you seemed okay. Totally Joe Cool.”

He punches his fist in to his palm and hops back and forth on each foot. “Yeah, well that was last night. The recruiters from Michigan AND Alabama are here. I even hear Urban Meyer is going to be here.” His fingers clasp my arms. His grip is powerful; sure to leave a purple bruise by the time I wake up tomorrow. Great. No more sleeveless tops for me. Mom will think that Lucas is beating me.

“Mags, do you know who Urban Meyer is?” He eyes bulge and his gorilla grip on me tightens.

“Uh…isn’t that the new hipster hot dog restaurant they opened up on Saginaw Street?”

“No!” His voice booms. “Ohio State’s football coach.” I still draw a huge vacancy in my mind. “Only like the most elite coaches in the last fifteen years in college football. He’s like God. He’s colossal.”

“Like Catherine Lewis…but with a dick.”

His eyes narrow in disgust. “You would have to name some obscure dorky shit wouldn’t you?”

“Uhh, Catherine Lewis is
not
dorky shit,” I retort, with curled lips and a wrinkled nose. “She only like the Svengali of Cosplay.”

His gaze clouds and he tilts his sweat-covered head. “The who of what?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” I sniggle. “I secretly think you like it when I say dorky stuff.”

He flashes his patented pearly whites. “I do like it, it’s cute.” The words send a chill through my bones. And as quickly as he flatters me, things quickly revert back to intense. Gone is the irresistible smile and back is the sweaty scowl. “Mags, Urban Meyer is important to my future. Coaches usually don’t come to games, the recruiters, the scouts usually do. For him to be here…for me of all people is crazy right now.” The color rips away from his face. “I think I’m gonna puke.” I jolt back.

“On these shoes? You better not!”

He takes several deep breaths in succession trying to remain calm, but it’s an effort in futility. He releases me and I massage my arms.

“Sorry, Mags. I’m just a little nervous. Can you tell?”

“No, I haven’t noticed.” I couldn’t hide the bitchiness in my voice. He shakes his head and throws up his hands and turns away from me.

“Shit! I need you to do it.”

“Do what?” I play dumb, but my mind has already harkened back to what he’s asking. The unthinkable. The unspeakable. Please God in the heavens. Please baby Jesus in the manger, no.

He can tell from the raw chill of terror cloaking my face that I know what it is.

“You
have
to. This is a matter of life and death.” He gets down on both knees and interlocks his fingers together. His face is forgiving of mercy. I look around to see if there are any smartphones or tablets out to potentially record and upload the most embarrassing moment of my life.

“I can’t. Somebody is going to record this and it’s going to go viral and I’m gonna live infamy as the girl who sang “Warm Kitty” in some dank, musty football stadium.

“But what if it wins us the game? I’d owe you favors for like…ever.”

“This is more than social suicide. This is a public execution waiting to happen. I’m just waiting for the guillotine to drop. They’re bringing the gallows out right now. You really want to see me decapitated?”

His face further winces. He’s covered in sweat, at his most vulnerable. I can’t say no. “I pull him up by his damp forearms. “Get up. Get up. You look pitiful.” I sigh and bite down on my bottom lip.

He paces over to me and nestles in my arms. I clear my throat, half mortified and half swooning at the reality that Kellen’s head is resting on my breasts; even though he’s doused with sweat.

I swallow hard and mellow my voice out in a comforting tone.

“Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur. Happy kitty, sleepy kitty. Purr. Purr. Purr.”

“Again,” he gently murmurs.

I repeat it twice, softer each time, cradling his massive body, swaying with the rhythm of the lyrics.

I open my eyes and Kellen has his eyes closed, totally soothed. The panic that was debilitating him has faded. The song never fails to reduce him to a cuddly toddler ready for dreamland. We stand silent for a few moments, but are shaken out of our embrace by the creek of a locker door opening.

His eyelids peel open and a smile of relief colors his mouth. “You’re a lifesaver,” he says, his voice tranquil.

He uncoils from my arms and plants a kiss on me. A brief kiss. His lips barely moist, but nonetheless it burns so delicious. It almost makes me forget the forty-five seconds of absolute horror that I just endured. His kiss sent shockwaves from the tips of my toes to my eyelashes. So brief, but immensely amazing. When he pulls away, he has a strange, indescribable look on his face. It’s like he sensed how amazing it felt too. Or at least I
wanted
him to feel what I felt.

He clears his throat. “Thanks…I uh…I appreciate the song.”

I pump my fist. “Anything for the Vikings.” I turn away and walk out of the tunnel.

“Mags,” he yells, his voice echoing. “Wait for me after the game. After we win, it’s celebration time. We’ll hit the strip and party.” He winks.

I turn around, his request music to my ears. “I will,” I say smiling. It’s the biggest game of the year and all the only thing can think about is how that kiss made me feel and if he felt the same way about it.

I head back to the bleachers and sit down.

“What was that about?” Justine asks as I plop down next to her.

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

I remain tight lipped for the rest of the game, my heart jigging around cheerfully in my chest. Tonight is going to be an awesome night.

Chapter 16

It might be too unsportsmanlike to be carried off the field by your teammates on only the second game of the season, but with the game that Kellen had last week he needed to be hoisted up on someone’s shoulders after his performance tonight. Three touchdowns and one hundred and eighty-nine yards rushing. A complete one eighty turn from his disastrous play last week. And just like that, he’s back in full football Jesus mode. All the naysayers who wanted to execute him by firing squad to are now back on the Kellen Murdock bandwagon express.

I wanted to greet him on his way back to the locker room but he was hounded by players, coaches, and news reporters with a microphone nearly rammed down his throat that I couldn’t get to him even if I threatened people with a loaded gun or at the very least a board with a rusty nail in it.

Justine and I waited in the stands after everyone cleared out. I wanted to wait for Kellen come out of the locker room looking for me. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and I wanted him to hold me tightly, thanking me for singing Warm Kitty and that spurred him and the team to victory. He’d tell me he couldn’t have done it without me and then I’d be drowning in those stark blue eyes of his and then he’d kiss me. He’d be doused with sweat, elbows scraped and bloody, grass stains on his hands, but I wouldn’t care. Just him embracing me would be the only thing that mattered.

That’s how I saw it playing out. But I’ve learned that reality always has a funny way of slapping the taste out of your mouth when you least expect it.

Justine and I moved over to the locker room entrance after our butts got sore sitting on the bleachers. We tried to go inside, but security wouldn’t let us. After loitering around there we decided to go the parking lot. Kellen’s car was still parked there, so he’d be guaranteed to come out.

“Can we just go?” Justine asks, exasperated. “It’s obvious he’s not coming out anytime soon.”

The stadium light shuts off in a loud snap cloaking the area in darkness.

“He’s coming out,” I say, my head shooting up anytime the door to the locker room flies open. My stomach leaps every time it does, only to be filled with dejection when someone else besides Kellen walks out.

“Let’s just meet him on the strip,” Justine says. “What’s so important about meeting him here.”

I didn’t have a good enough answer to reply. Well, I did, I just didn’t want to tell her the real story. About how I wanted him to run over and embrace me, you know the storybook, Disney ending where the boy runs through all the pandemonium to the girl and kisses her. If that was going to happen, it would’ve happened well before the sprinkler system turned on the field. That’s when you know it’s time to go.

I see Tim, the water boy, I mean the assistant team manager, coming towards us, lugging a huge Gatorade barrel behind him.

“Hey Tim, have you seen Kellen?” I ask. “Is he still inside?”

“Oh hey, Ms. Graham...I mean Magnolia,” he says hurling the bucket into his backseat. “No, Kellen left a long time ago. He and a few cheerleaders hightailed it outta here. Lucky son of a bitch. I’d
kill
to be that guy for a day.”

***

“You’re acting really weird right now. You have since the game started,” Justine says, driving down Welch Blvd towards Clio Road. I still haven’t heard from Kellen.

“I just have gas that’s all,” I say. “The popcorn was too buttery. And my butt is numb from these jeans.”

She shakes her head. Weird isn’t the word. More like disappointed. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. This wasn’t supposed to be a real thing anyways. Cheerleaders, though? My shoulders droop just thinking about it. He can flirt with whomever he wants I guess. And so can I. Get real, Mags. By Homecoming, he’ll go back to ignoring me and I’ll go back to being invisible again.

I have to remember that this is only pretend. So why can’t I
pretend
like I just didn’t get my feelings hurt?

Justine parks her car next to an Asian beauty supply store and we make our way down the strip of Clio Road between Stewart Street and Pasadena Street to commence our evening. I’ll try to have fun even though the thought of dumb ‘rah rah sis boom blah’ girls are batting their twinkly eyes and throwing their taut, tanned legs towards Kellen’s way, runs through my mind.

Cars are stacked on top of cars, parked between barbershops, liquor stores, and greasy Chinese take-out joints. People are sipping out of brown bottles or red cups, making out against the side of pickup trucks, and bobbing their heads and shoulders to the music that’s pumped up so loud the paper in the car stereo speakers are surely begging for mercy.

It all can be overwhelming if you let it. I crack open the pint of Pineapple Malibu Rum that Justine’s older cousin bought for us earlier. I sip it and pass it to her. The hotness scuttles down my throat, blotting the sting out of being ignored by Kellen.

“So what do we do?” Justine says after taking her first sip. “Just stand here and look stupid.”

“No,” I say, “we walk until we find people that we know. Then we shoot the shit. Then we chill. Talk. Laugh. Flirt—”

“You mean, drink till my liver curses me to holy hell tomorrow morning, find someone to makeout with, hookup with, and pray you don’t remember it when you wake up.”

I wrap my arm around her, snickering. “Now you’re getting the hang of it. Taught you well I did, Young Padawan,” I say in my best gurgling Yoda voice.

She grimaces. “Young who?”

“Star Wars reference…don’t worry about it.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

We walk and sip for a few minutes, my neck sore from swiveling all around to find where Kellen is, but so far there’s no sign of him.

As we approach the Krispy Kreme shop, I feel a slight tug at the tip of my elbow. I turn around and it’s Micah Jones.

Micah plays basketball for Northern and has been rehabbing his shoulder up at the clinic at McLaren for the last few days.

“Hey you,” he says, his sienna eyes flickering. Micah is a statuesque, wiry frame of slender proportions swabbed with muscles, flawless olive skin, and a noble jaw line that the most gifted sculptors of granite would envy. It’s like Leonardo DaVinci’s Vitruvian man was encoded in his parents’ DNA and out came Micah—with just oodles of more muscles and double the ego.

“Hey,” I say looking down at his empty hands. “I’m surprised you don’t have a fifth of vodka or at least double fisting two beers.”

He laughs. “Oh, I’ve had my fair share of libations. I started once the referee blew the whistle on the game.”

“And how are you not stumbling right now?” Justine asks.

Micah flashes a slight grin. “It’s in the genes babe. My grandfather on my Dad’s side is Irish. And on my Mom’s side is Russian.” He strokes his chin. “Plus I’m just gangsta like that.”

Justine rolls her eyes and sticks her index finger in her mouth, stopping short of her throat. “Wow you’re a cocky little beaver aren’t you?” she asks. “How do you know this loon?” she asks me.

“Me and Mags are like bffs. She’s rehabbing my shoulder. And doing an excellent job, by the way.” He winks at me. “And it’s not cocky if you can back it up,” he says pointedly to Justine. “Obviously you haven’t seen me on the court.”

“You’re an outstanding player,” I say, feeding his ego. If Micah was a senior he’d be voted Most Likely To Be Jealous of His Own Shadow or Most Likely To Take Longer To Get Ready Than His Girlfriend.

“Jesus. Mags, hand me that bottle,” Justine groans. “I’m gonna have to be drunk to tolerate this level of narcissism.”

“I resent that,” he says. “I’m not conceited like everyone says I am.” He inches closer to me, licking his lips. His eyes narrow to a flirty gleam. “I’m misunderstood. I’m just confident in what I do. Sometimes it bleeds off the court and it comes across oft- putting. But all in all it’s just a joke. People like to judge others by what they see on the surface.” He straightens the front of his varsity jacket. “But I bet those people who have something to say about me, never sat down and had a conversation with me. I’m pretty sure you know all about that.” He winks at me.

“I know a little bit about it,” I reply brushing a curl behind my ear. “So what’s your drink of choice tonight?”

He rubs his hands together. “Enough of the philosophical talk then. Follow me ladies.” We trail him to his black Ford F-150 and he pulls a bottle of silver tequila out of a cooler in his backseat. “Pardon me ladies, the bottle is almost finished.” He holds it out to us. “But it looks like enough to get the job done.”

“Uhh. What job?” Justine snarls with a frown. “And who keeps tequila in a cooler? You keep footlong subs or cans of beer in there, not top shelf tequila.”

Micah sucks his teeth and gives me daggered look. “What’s up with your friend here?” he asks.

“She’s just a little uptight,” I say, my voice outlined with snark. “There’s a Dr. Phil marathon on TV that she’s missing out on.”

“You
do
know there’s a thing called DVR right?” he snickers. “Lighten up. It’s Friday night. The team just won a big game tonight. And most of all…we’re alive. That alone is cause for celebration if you ask me.”

He twists the cork off the bottle and lifts it up in the air. “Open wide,” he yelps. I oblige and tilt my head back to receive his pour. The icy contents to rush down my throat. I swallow hard and then gasp from the chilly heat coating my stomach. “Wow,” Micah says with a shocked face. “You’re a champ. You didn’t even need a lime or salt. And so far you haven’t puked.”

“Mags is a swallower not a spitter,” Justine says with a huge grin grabbing the bottle. My eyes are moments from popping out of their sockets from being the brunt of her comedic relief. I slap her arm with all my might and she high-fives Micah.

“Now a girl with a sassy mouth like that is a girl that I can hang out and drink with! Your turn,” he says to Justine. She tilts her head back, places the bottle up to her lips and takes a huge sip.

After a few more shots with Micah, Justine and I catch a mean buzz. Not the sloppy type where you stutter every word that begins with and with the letters
s
and
h
and you begin every sentence with the word ‘listen’. We’re buzzing in the sense where you get that bubbly feeling in your legs and semi-average guys suddenly become amazingly hot and kissable. And the true mark that Justine is feeling a little tipsy is when she can’t get rid of her perma-grin. A cute, furry bunny could get flattened by oncoming traffic and she’d still be perma-grinning it up.

“Listen,” I Justine says, jutting her index finger into Micah’s thick chest. “Listen…listen, just because you bounce a basketball doesn’t mean you have the right to f-feel like you own the sc-chool.”

Micah responds, but his words don’t register in the neurons in my brain. My thoughts are on Kellen.

And those thoughts are interrupted when I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket. It’s Kellen. My stomach dips and I nearly fumble my phone on the patch of gravel we’re standing on.

I take a deep breath, deciding if I should launch a hellish tongue lashing at him for ignoring me after I waited for him like he asked me to or if I should casually answer like none of it mattered.

“Hello,” I say, settling on the ‘you’re just a pretend boyfriend’ approach. I hear the sound of several girls chortling in background, but Kellen says nothing. “Hello,” I say again. He says nothing. “Butt dial,” I say grumbling. I could hang up now and forget about it or I could stay on longer and see what unfolds.

“Stop, Kellen, you’re so cute,” a girl says. Kellen laughs. I wait for him to say something but he doesn’t. I hear another boy’s voice in the background speak, but I can’t make out who it is. “So, do you want to go upstairs?” I can’t bear to listen anymore.

“Who was that on the phone?” Justine asks.

I press end on my phone and slide it back into my back pocket. “Nobody,” I say irritably shrugging it off. “Time for another shot.”