Page 9 of Unbound

“You always do that for him?” I ask. Before she can answer, I add, “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

“Oh.” She pauses, biting down on a plump pink bottom lip. “Um, no, actually. I’m new, just started. I’m a freshman, I mean, but I’m an equipment manager—trainee, for now.”

“Me too.” I nod before realizing how ridiculous that sounds and shaking my head, skin growing warmer with the familiar heat of embarrassment. “I mean, I’m a freshman, too. Not an equipment manager.”

“Clearly.” She laughs, all low and smoky, and it makes me freeze further. “I’m Paloma.”

“Bennett.” I nod at her instead of reaching out to shake her hand.

“Nice to meet you.” She pauses, eyes wandering to my pile of pads and discarded clothing. “I can take those—”

“No,” I bite out, a little too harshly based on how quickly she shifts away from me. She almost trips over her own thick tennis shoes before nodding rapidly.

“Sorry.”

Heaving a sigh, I tuck my head into my hands. Why is everything this simple so fucking hard for me?

“No, I’m sorry. I’m just—” I cut myself off, standing and collecting all my pads like I’m protecting the sweat-wet equipment from her. Feeling as ridiculous as I look, I keep my back turned to her as I pray and hope she just leaves quietly and lets me do what I need to do.

My hands tremble as I stack them again, in the order I always do.

“Bennett?” My name rolls off her tongue, gentle and soothing against the heart-pounding anxiety growing louder and louder.

I shift, realizing she’s closer now; close enough that I could reach out and touch her, but far enough away not to crowd me. Her arms are crossed, not defiantly but more . . . self-consciously. Her hand rubs against the soft sleeve of her shirt in a rhythm my brain starts to follow.

“You like to do it yourself?”

The question is genuine, curious if anything, so I nod.

“Yes, but Coach doesn’t like it. He’d prefer I leave it. But they just . . . It’s—”

“Okay,” Paloma says, not pressing me for more. We stand side by side, surveying my neat pile of blockers and pads, my glove and stick carefully laid inside my cubby.

She’s about average height, but like most people she has to look up at me because of my height. Her skin is tanned, cheeks and nose reddened like she got a little too much sun this summer. No makeup to be seen, except black lashes that have smudged lightly under her dark brown eyes.

“What if you showed me how to do it right? Cleaning and care—exactly how you do it. And I’ll just watch you.” She chews on her lip and looks away, like my stare is a little too intense for her to gaze directly into. “Then you can watch me do it—make sure I do it right, and if I don’t, I won’t bother you again. But . . . if I get it perfect, then you let me handle your equipment from now on?”

She’s patient in the silence that follows her offer. She seems serious, no mark of teasing or innuendo. No annoyance, just acceptance. And . . . and a solution, one that has never been offered to me.

If I can watch her, see that it’s cleaned right, then maybe I can trust her to do it when I’m not watching. Maybe she’ll let me watch a few times first, just to make sure . . .

My continuous thread of anxiety and embarrassment seems to evaporate, leaving me a little empty and exhausted without something dire to focus on. So, I focus on her.

“Just you?” It slips out.

“Just me,” she swears, meeting my gaze with a bright-eyed smile that seems to glow even in the fluorescence of the room. “Deal?”

Paloma reaches her hand out, and I stare at it hard but don’t move to take it. Eventually, she lowers it. Something tugs at my chest.

“Deal.”

Chapter 5

NOW

Paloma

“You’re the only one I haven’t placed for your practicum.”