Page 51 of Off Limits
‘Angel, you got lipstick on your teeth.’
‘Yes, Kathleen.’
‘Leona, there’re scuff marks on those boots. Either clean ’em off or get a new pair.’
‘Yes, Kathleen.’
Leona dives in front of me. ‘Okay, next. Serenity?’
‘Yes, Kathleen,’ I say, and my voice comes out shrill.
She looks me over. ‘Very nice, good effort.’
‘Thank you, Kathleen.’
She moves on and Jewel elbows me in my side, offering me an encouraging grin.
I swallow. We were at rehearsal all of Sunday afternoon, practicing our routines on the field. This morning, I headed to the diner for my usual early morning shift, only to be handed a sealed envelope with my name on it.
I sat down at a table just to open it, my fingers trembling, because I knew who it had to be from. Inside was Jake’s note.
If I died tomorrow, I’d die happy, because you let me kiss you.
You’re on my mind, all the time.
I can’t let this go, but I respect that you might have to.
But if there’s still a chance, meet me on Friday at 5 p.m. at:
Saltwood
10309 Parkland View
Canyon Rock
It’s a cabin. The picture online shows it has a red mailbox.There’s no driveway but it’s down a slope, behind a line of pinetrees.
I’ll be waiting. Hope to see you. Jake x
Somewhere on the other side of this stadium, he’s getting ready in the players’ locker room. I haven’t seen him since I ran away from his pickup.
And now he says he wants to see me again.
A half hour later, we’re in the tunnel, in formation in two parallel lines, ready to make our entrance onto the field. Mutineers’ staffers surround us with walkie-talkies. We’re delayed, due to some kind of security issue; some wayward fan running onto the field. All around I can hear the noise of the crowd echoing above us. Kathleen is not happy, because our second number will overlap with the team’s entrance.
Maybe it’s because we’re running late, but when I hear a commotion behind us – a clacking sound against the smooth concrete at my feet – I realize the players are lining up behind us in the rear of the tunnel. Their cleats hammer against the floor, each player holding onto his helmet, eye black on his face like war paint.
I glance back, my gaze searching. I crane my neck a little. I just want one glimpse of him.
Then he’s there, partway back, his smooth navy-and-white number fourteen jersey clinging to his broad chest, made bigger by the shoulder pads. And for a second, our eyes meet. I lean out of line to my right to get a better look before—
WHAM.
The Mutineers’ team mascot – a guy dressed from head to foot in this giant, ridiculous pirate-like outfit with stripes on the pants and a triangle hat – slams into the back of me and sends me sprawling to the floor.
The first thing I hear is dramatic gasps from all the girls. Ashlyn, a fifth-year veteran with long, wavy blonde hair with a pink hue, offers me her arm and tugs me back up.
‘Sorry!’ a voice shouts from inside the costume, as the mascot continues out of the tunnel onto the field.
