Chapter Text
AUGUST 8th
Ava Starr’s knuckles were still sore from punching that bitch Karla Sofen and she was happy that the pain lingered. Seeing the way the blonde’s eyes had widened as her fist cracked across her jaw was honest to God the highlight of her day—nay, her year—though she had a feeling that her foster father would disagree. Her coach certainly had. Vehemently and colourfully.
Ava couldn’t have given a shit about what that cow said, but when she threatened to bench her for the season, she had had to give something to show her that she belonged on the pitch, and it wasn’t going to be groveling. A forced apology and being made temporary kitman seemed to appease the bitch, but the extra chores and clean up had made her well over an hour late and her ride had long fucked right off. Evening was well on its way, and Google maps just made a frowny face when she checked the bus schedule, so she was stuck on school grounds until she could bum another ride or her foster father came looking.
Not that she was particularly eager for that conversation.
Part of her felt bad as she declined yet another call from him. He was a nice man, certainly nicer than someone like her deserved, and he was trying his best; she understood that. He actually seemed to care, which was infuriating as often as it was comforting, but with that care came the lectures, the frustrated looks, that creeping feeling that she was somehow letting him down when she fucked up, and coming from someone who actually was worth a damn, those looks felt all the more gutting. Although, after getting them as often as she had, you’d have thought she would have built up an immunity. So no, she wasn’t going to sprint to get a double helping of shite to end this shit day, thank you very much.
Especially since he would ask her “why” she had felt the need to crack Ms. Perfect across the face. As if there was just any one reason. Ever since they had met back in middle school, Sofen had for whatever reason singled her out. Maybe because she had been a transfer kid. Maybe because she looked different compared to the rest of this mayonnaise town. Maybe because she could slide tackle better than her. Maybe because she had been shy or awkward. Maybe because her bloody parents were dead and her accent sounded like Harry “Freakin’” Potter, but she didn’t act like a stereotype.
Or maybe, just maybe, Karla Sofen had been and still was just a bitch and didn’t need a reason to make sure Ava never forgot she was an outsider. A ghost cursed to invisibly haunt the halls of West Chesapeake Valley society until graduation, when she could be exorcised from all their lives.
Fine by her.
Ava adjusted her earbud and turned up her music. Her tastes were more eclectic than most would assume or she’d admit to, but for now, after a garbage day, there was something comforting about the Boss. Part of it was her parents had been fans, but the other part was her, plain and simple: there was just something in his voice, in his words, that made her feel seen. She snorted. Maybe her music was another reason Karla Sofen hated her. All the more excuse to turn it up louder and with a smirk to no one, she did. “The Promised Land” blasted in her ears as she continued her lap around the pitch—if she was going to be stuck at school, she was going to be at her favorite place.
Sure, it was a half-assed pitch, compared to their more elaborate and cared for “football” field, but it had the essentials and that was enough for her, at the end of the day. Bleachers for their audience (their fanbase was almost exclusively reluctant parents who had to drive their kids to matches and trainings, and the occasional hipster who wanted to feel smug that he watched a “true” football before he took a selfie and went home), two goals, mowed grass, crisp-ish white lines made from whatever unholy cheap chalk-proprietary concoction their meager budget could afford, and a scoreboard. She took a deep breath and basked in the smell: this time, before the school year even began, the smell of their sweat still lingering in the air from their now daily practices and relative newness of the grass and markers, there was just a such a sense of potential that managed to touch even a cynic like her every time.
She clearly needed to bring herself back down to earth, before she went soft and started thinking they actually stood a chance in hell at state.
The deep breath was released as a heavy sigh. Yes, she shouldn’t dream above her station: after all, that hadn’t helped her much so far, so why start now? She glanced over her shoulder and glowered at the football field—nay, stadium—that took up the majority of the grass field. It sat directly between the pitch and the school like a perpetual eclipse and if that wasn’t deliberately symbolic, God certainly had a sense of humour. The fact that it had actual seating, not just metal bleachers that burned a bum if you forgot to bring a towel on a sunny day, was a clear sign of their priorities: the school was naked about which of their football teams they were betting on to get them a trophy, especially since the new principal was installed a few years back. Rumour had it was that she even had headhunted students from other schools in the area to try draft up a team. What possibly made her so hellbent to be so hands-on? No one knew and honestly, Ava didn’t right much care, beyond how it affected their own budget.
Ava was halfway across the pitch before she realized that she was stomping towards the field. She didn’t know what she had to gain by going there, honestly. Maybe she was just bored. As much as she loved the sport, you could only walk around the pitch so many times before your mind wandered. Or maybe, she just wanted to look at what the competition was offered. Rekindle her anger; anything to avoid the emptiness, the sheer exhaustion that came with calming down.
As she got closer, the pristine sign above the entrance gate promoting the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts loomed: it had a cartoony old man that the school administration insisted was supposed to be Zeus throwing a thunderbolt. Frankly, it looked like the sort of design that was meant to appeal mainly to alumni from 40 years ago who still gave a fuck where they went to high school, and no one else. Perhaps it was the donations or the nostalgic angle, but either way, it didn’t exactly strike fear in Ava’s heart. The gate was up, so she just walked in and kept going straight, passing the hallways that led down to the locker rooms and the main seating areas, until she reached the field proper.
Somehow, the grass looked literally greener, and that didn’t feel like it should be possible.
The stadium was shaped like an oval, somehow, with rows of individual seats painting a blue wall surrounding her, while the yellow fork things stood out of the ground, like two awkward erections or very misshapen members. Or maybe a bellend that was split in half? Perhaps the metaphor wasn’t one to one, but it was something phallic, she had no doubt. There were even ads listed along with the walls of the stadium, again courtesy of the principal’s wheeling and dealing as she raised funds for this ego-exercise; it looked Dimitri’s Electric and Lighting really had forked over real bucks, based on the number of times their name appeared through the stadium. Meanwhile, the “soccer” team had been lucky Shane’s Tire Shop had sponsored their kits all those years ago and based on the patches be stitched over the holds, it was probably time to go grovel for another donation, if the shop even still existed.
Ava glanced to her left and was shocked to find she wasn’t alone.
Sitting on the player’s benches was a boy who looked about her age; he was clad in his training kit still, the meshy jersey stretched over some giant shoulder pads that his bulk made look normal sized, those scrotum-crushingly tight trousers, and the black boots still on his feet. He had dirty blond hair and what looked like scruff on his face; only a footballer could get away with that sort of flouting of dress code. She shot him a glare, just to show she wasn’t impressed just be cause he had been concussed, but to her surprise, he hadn’t seemed to register that she was there at all.
She scowled at the boy, as if he were the one intruding on her turf, which, as far as she was concerned, he was. This whole field was by rights for the beautiful game, not this copyright-friendly rugby mess, but sadly, the eyesore was here: he should at least acknowledge she was here, too. Petty? Perhaps, but she never pretended to be otherwise. The Boss had switched to a live recording of “The River,” and as the E-Street Band’s saxophone wailed in her ears, she began to trudge across the field.
Yet still, the boy pretended not to have seen her. Ava was tempted to just yell over to him, but that ran the risk of him not hearing it properly, and she’d lose whatever annoyance she had to the awkwardness. She jogged silently on the turf—she always had had a light touch and that had served her well on the pitch, and, if she scared the shit out of this twat, then it’d serve her well here, too.
Yet, as Ava got closer, whatever irritation she had felt began to be replaced by a growing concern. He was just sitting there on the bench; his expression hadn’t changed at all since she had seen him. He just kept staring ahead of him, as if at something only he could see and now that she was within a few paces of him, he definitely should have registered that she was there. Was he deaf? Was he having an episode or something? Should she go fetch someone?
“Hello?” She called over to him as she removed an earbud. “You okay?”
No reaction; he didn’t even blink. Her stomach tightened; she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what, but something about this didn’t feel right. He may be a footballer, but he didn’t deserve to be by himself, sitting under the warm sun. How long had he been sitting like this? Had his mates just left him? She swallowed thickly, but stepped in front of his line of sight. Deaf or not, there was no way he couldn’t see her, and yet, his blue eyes still looked . . . empty. No recognition, no reaction at all.
“Oi,” she said, trying to keep her tone casual, “dickhead, you in there?”
Still nothing. Something was wrong, and she had no idea who to call. An ambulance? That felt . . . dramatic, and probably expensive, especially if she was wrong. While she didn’t care what others thought of her, that didn’t mean she wanted this dick to yak with his friends about how she lost her head and overreacted or some shit. As for the school, the building was closed, at this point, beyond a janitor who would lock up eventually.
No, she was on her own.
She glanced down at the water bottle resting near his feet and, while keeping eye contact, she bent down and grabbed it; it was still mostly full, even if it had long since been heated by the warm sun beating down on it. “One last chance, dickhead,” she said, her tone level, “give me a sign of life or the kraken’s getting unleashed.”
Nothing.
Ava swallowed, but stiffened her resolve. “I want you to remember that I tried peace.” One last gulp, and she squeezed the water bottle at his neck. The stream of water bounced off of his skin and trickled down his neck; she kept it steady, but began to slowly angle it up, until it was hitting him in the face, the water wetting his lips and dribbling down his chin. While she tried to keep her gaze on his eyes, to see if any sign of acknowledgment would appear, she couldn’t help but think Is this what guys see when they cum during a blow job? She had normally been on the other end, and she couldn’t deny that part of her had always been curious; if it was anything like what she was looking at, it was certainly more . . . awkward than she had imagined.
Not that getting creamed in the face while staring at a bellend wasn’t; at least this way, she didn’t have to clean her hair immediately after.
Before she could pursue that thought process any further, the boy began to stir; his hands began to flex a little and she thought she saw his mouth widened. “That’s right,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “take it all, bitch.” Even she had to flush at that and pray to God or anyone that would listen that he still couldn’t hear her. If anyone saw this, there was no explaining it. Spontaneously, with her free hand, she reached up and disconnected her earbud, and suddenly, Bruce Springsteen began wailing out of her phone’s speakers at near full volume, just as the water bottle pathetically trickled out the last of its seed.
She watched as the boy, for the lack of a better way to describe it, seemed to come back online. His eyes seemed to be more alert and the rest of his body began to shudder, as if shaking off the stiffness, until he began to blink as well. Ava paused Bruce as the boy closed his eyes firmly and gingerly reached up to his chin, only to recoil at feeling water there.
“Wha . . . t the fu. . . ,” he began to speak, though his tongue seemed to be waking up as well. He shook his head and slowly opened his eyes. This time, she could see the awareness as he saw her. “Who the hell . . . are you?” His voice was firmer this time, with a trace of an accent, “why am I wet?”
Despite trying to be the one to wake him out from whatever the fuck it had been, Ava’s mind rapidly went blank now that she had actually succeeded. Instead, she just robotically gestured to the water bottle still sticking intrusively in his space. “Was it good for you, too?” She asked before her stupid brain could catch up; he just looked baffled while her common sense ordered she leave and find the nearest lake to walk into. Christ, she sometimes needed to think before she spoke.
“. . . What?” He blinked again and she thanked God his brain was still scrambled. Gingerly, she set the water bottle down and grabbed a fallen hand towel and tossed it at his face.
“Don’t worry your head, just clean yourself up,” she scoffed, before freezing. She had only had a fake penis for a minute now and she had already shot a load into someone’s face and told them to do their own aftercare. Toxic masculinity really was a hell of a power trip. Is this what men felt like all the time? God, no wonder they were such selfish assholes.
“The fuck are you?” The boy reached up and wiped his face clean and Ava could reluctantly admit that he wasn’t horrible looking, if you were into that sort of thing. Seeing him wet certainly didn’t hide that fact, nor did it hide the dimple lines that, while not actively in use, made the intrusive thoughts division of her brain curious what his smile looked like. Was he a teeth-shower, or was he the type to keep his lips pursed, or only raise a corner, like a perpetual smirk? It didn’t matter at all, but . . . the question remained.
“A passerby,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “Bigger question is what the hell you’re doing, sitting in the middle of a pitc—field, dressed in your shit, by yourself.” Having decided he posed no threat to her, she decided to take a seat on the bench herself, though she kept out of arm’s reach.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he mumbled through the towel as he finished wiping up the water. He glanced over at her and held out the towel, only to set it on his lap at the disgusted look on her face.
“Let’s say I tutored someone on cause and effect, and my coach disagreed with my lesson plan,” Ava replied, suddenly wishing she had a cigarette, but she had left those in her locker, like an idiot.
“Meaning . . . ?”
“‘Meaning,’” Ava snorted, “Bitches get stitches.”
Reluctantly, the boy snickered and Ava smirked; the hint of smile that flickered across his face satisfied her curiosity. Teeth-shower, it seemed. “I thought it was snitches get stitches.”
“My practice takes all clients.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “You’d be surprised how many patients need a prescription for a good smack in the face that can’t get one. The healthcare system is broken as fuck.”
An actual chuckle. “Sounds like you got your work cut out for you, doctor.” He shook his head. “So your patient today . . . ?”
“Didn’t like her medicine, no. And my . . . coac—boss . . .didn’t either,” she winced; the metaphor felt like it was falling apart, “so now I might get benched for trying to ‘help.’”
“Malpractice,” he sighed dramatically while she nodded firmly, as she ignored that her lips were threatening to break into a faint smile; he was turning out to be more interesting conversation than she had assumed. “Benched from what?”
“Football,” she answered, dropping the metaphor. At his confused look, she dramatically rolled her eyes. Philistines, this whole damn country. “Footie. The beautiful game.” She swore to God she could hear faint static leaking out from his ears. “Soccer.”
“Oooh,” he nodded sagely, as if she had provided a profound secret as opposed to something that was common knowledge literally everywhere else in the world. “Yeah, I thought using hands was against the rules. I’d think throwing hands would count, but I just play actual football; what do I know about soccer?”
“Bitch!” She actually let out a laugh. He smiled more fully, looking slightly pleased with himself. “So yeah, I was just . . . .” She hesitated; saying that she didn’t want to go home sounded bad, “killing time. Cooling off. What’s your excuse?”
“My exc—”
“Why are you sitting here by yourself?” She rolled her eyes. “Everyone else went home hours ago.”
He blinked, and for a second, Ava thought it was for a bit, but he looked genuinely confused. “Are you. . . what time is it?”
Ava stared at him, whatever mirth she had been feeling began to evaporate. “Um,” she glanced at her watch, “Like 6pm?”
His already pale face paled even further, and he quickly grabbed his bag that had been sitting at his feet. He rooted around it, before pulling out his phone. One glance and he closed his eyes. “Fuuuucccck,” he hissed to himself. He unlocked it and a few taps later, he was holding it to his ear while his other hand rested against his forehead, like a visor.
“Hey Olivia,” he said, a forced cheer in his voice. “How was your day? . . . That’s great—I know you guys will kill it. I know, I know, you can’t say more until I see it, I get it. I’ll look forward to it, then. Tell them I say hi, okay?” It was surreal; his voice was cheery, but he was slumped over, looking so weary. She couldn’t judge: she’d had more than a few calls like that.
“Listen . . . ,” he paused as he struggled to find the words, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight. I’m sorry; practice ran long. You know how these coaches are, and I’m the new guy, so they gotta do that hazing stuff—probably haven’t forgiven me for last year. No, it’s nothing like that! I’m just—I’m fine, it’s okay. Just guy stuff. You know.” He paused, listening to Olivia, and snorted, a shy smile trickling onto his face against its will. “Yeah, no, I’ll make sure to tell them you’ll mess them up. That’ll shut ‘em up good. No, I’m not laughing at you, I believe you! Yeah, yeah . . . I know.” His tone grew softer. “. . . Thanks. I’m really sorry. Tomorrow work okay?” He nodded again, listening. “See you then. For sure. Good night and . . . love you.”
The boy nodded along again to whatever Oliva said for another minute, before he hung up. Whatever enthusiasm he had mustered for the call evaporated, and he stared down at the ground, his elbows resting against his thighs, hand visor still shadowing his face; for all intents and purposes, it seemed like he had clean forgot Ava was sitting there as he sat with the weight of some world on his shoulders. Ava just casually mimed lighting another cigarette and held her fingers up and pretended to take a drag from it. It looked stupid but it kept her hands busy and it wasn’t like What’s-His-Name was even paying attention.
“So . . . ,” she exhaled an imaginary drag and crossed her legs, “not that it’s any of my business, but any reason you lied to her?” He remained stubbornly silent, either because he was lost in his thoughts or because he hoped she’d just shut up and drop it—which only showed how little he knew her. “She’d probably want to know that you . . . you know.”
“. . . I don’t want to worry her.” He didn’t change position, didn’t glance up or remove his hand, but at least he was talking to her. Curse her good heart, whatever those bitches said about her.
Another fake drag. Another exhale that sounded even to her like a disappointed sigh. “Let me let you in on a girl secret,” she said as she lowered her fingers, regretting that there wasn’t a real cigarette between them. “She already is. Worried. I may not be an expert, but most girls aren’t stupid. They can see a lie a mile away.” She glanced down at his slumped-over form. “. . . Does it happen a lot? That zoning out thing?”
“Coach told me he may make me second string.” His voice sounded small. “I may spend senior year on the bench.”
“Okay, not what I asked, but go off, sure,” Ava shrugged. The boy lowered his hand and glared up at her while she made a show of putting out her fake cigarette; she had no idea if it would help distract him from whatever this funk was, but judging the confused look on his face, it may be working. Still, she winced as her own words caught up to her. “I mean, I get it, that sucks, but how does that make you, you know, just sit here in a trance or whatever? Would’ve thought you’d hit the gym or whatever you protein-shakers do.”
He straightened his back and sat upright, but he couldn’t meet her gaze; he returned to staring at the grass. “. . . It’s nothing. I can deal with it.”
“Right,” she mimed drawing another cigarette and just let it dangle from her fingers, for the habit of it if nothing else, “looks to me like you just stood up your girlfriend and lied to her about it because of it. So unless you have a different definition of ‘dealing with it,’ I’m going to say you’re full of shit.”
“Why the hell are you even asking?” He scowled and hopped to his feet. “It’s not like it’s any of your business.” She just stared cooly at him as he tried to loom over her, hand still held up; he might have seemed scary, if she hadn’t seen him before. It was just a defensive reaction, like some white blood cells going after an intruder—in this case, emotions. As a football player, he probably didn’t process those very often.
“You’re right, it’s not my business,” she shrugged, keeping her expression bored, “but the way I figure it, I woke you from that trance, Sleeping White, so I think you owe me one. Humour me.”
He glowered down at her and she just stared at him, unimpressed. It was a staring contest and she wasn’t going to let herself lose. She wasn’t particularly sure why she didn’t just tell him to fuck himself and leave. Maybe it was because she was bored, maybe part of her felt responsible for waking him up, or maybe she was merely curious. Whatever the original motivation had been, now it was purely spite. If the idiot thought he could badmouth proper football and out-stubborn her, he was in for a rude realization.
Finally, he glanced over her shoulder. She just slowly smirked and casually leaned back. That was enough. “Snow White.” He muttered.
“Come again?”
“Snow White,” he muttered again, but slightly louder. “Her name’s Snow White. Sleeping Beauty. They aren’t, like, the same thing.”
Ava rolled her eyes. This guy wasn’t winning any favours by acting so damn pedantic. “Fine, whatever. They both woke up because some guy kissed them, right?” A teasing smirk tugged at her lips. “What, you wish I had kissed you, instead of using the holy jizz?”
His pale skin flushed pink with embarrassment and annoyance and she laughed, which only made him blush more. This was fun. “Used the—what?” He stumbled on the words and she had to admit, it was endearing. “No--God no!”
“To which?” She pressed, smirk still firmly on her face. “No to kissing or no to my jizz?”
“To you in general,” he scowled. She put a hand to her heart, her expression unchanging, as if to say “I’m wounded. See? Look how wounded. Bitch”. Judging by the way his eyes narrowed, he got the message loud and clear. “Oh just . . . shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.” She smiled. For all his protesting, he could have marched off in a huff at any time, and yet, he stayed. That was rare, in her experience. Usually once she started needling at someone, they left her alone; Mel and Yelena (and Bob, she supposed, by virtue of being attached at Yelena’s hip) were typically the only ones that put up with her.
She may as well play with this toy until either it had enough or she grew bored of it.
“So, princess, grant your prince this boon,” she flourished her arms. “Tell her what ails you so that you needed the aid of her . . .,” she paused; she didn’t want to run the jizz thing into the ground, and as much of a prat as she was being, rubbing it in probably was a little too much, “. . . magic . . . water. Life giving water.”
Despite his glare, he snorted. “Ran out of steam with that one?”
“. . . Shut up,” she scowled, her arms still in the air. He snorted again and crossed his arms which, with his shoulder pads, looked pretty funny. Some of the annoyance had left his face and he just looked . . . tired. He turned his gaze to the bench. Again with the avoiding eye contact. Not that she was one to talk, but it was still annoying; still, whatever it took, she supposed.
“Sometimes,” he began, “I just . . . slide. I guess.”
“Slide?”
He flushed a little, as if he were annoyed he had to elaborate more than he had, but he reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, it just feels . . . like I’m sliding backwards or something. I’m not moving, but in . . . in my head, you know?” She didn’t, but she nodded anyway. “Like I’m there, but . . . everything seems sort of . . . far away. In a place where things seem . . . ,” he struggled for words for a second, “slower. And faster. It’s . . . weird. It feels like things are quiet—I can hear things, see them, but they’re sort of . . . fuzzy, like I’m overhearing something meant for someone else. Background noise, right?”
Why the fuck you asking me? Still, she nodded; she hoped he was just looking for validation, rather than actual discussion. That seemed to do the trick, as he nodded back. “So . . . yeah. That’s all. It’s no big deal, but sometimes . . . it just takes longer to slide back.” He paused, before reluctantly nodding. “So, uh, thanks, I guess. Could have been a while if you hadn’t . . . whatever that was.”
Ava pondered this as she waved off his thanks. “Of course, princess,” she said distractedly, “anything for a damsel in distress.”
He groaned. “Don’t tell me that’s going to be a thing with you.”
“What, ‘princess’?” She snorted before his implication registered. “Are you planning on talking with me again?”
He flushed again, but this time, it was with embarrassment. She had to hand it to the melanin-ly challenged, they wore their hearts on their sleeves, and everywhere else, apparently. He paused, as he struggled for some kind of face-saving retort, but in the end, he just sighed. “I . . . don’t have a lot of friends here.”
“Big strapping football player? No friends?” She shrugged and leaned back. “Why ever would that be? Your personality?”
“Ha. Ha.” He deadpanned. “I’m just . . . new.”
“New?” Ava blinked. “But it’s almost—” The pieces clicked into place; she had heard Mel bursting with the gossip at the cafe the week before. “Wait, you’re that John Waller guy?”
“Walker.” He scowled.
“Weren’t you some kind of . . . ,” words failed her, the bastards, “. . . big shot?”
“Custer Grove High Varsity QB my freshman year,” he said bluntly. “Won state back to back to back. Go bears.”
“See, saying shit like that probably isn’t helping you in the friends department,” she drily retorted. Still, that was impressive, which made him being there all the more baffling, especially so late in the game. “What, winning get too boring for you? So you thought you’d throw in with our batch of losers for the fun of it?”
His skin tone began to look as red as his dirty blond facial scruff. “Fuck off.” He uncrossed his arms and scooped up his water bottle and bag.
Ava winced; maybe she had misread this toy’s breaking point. Instinctively, she held out a hand, as if telling him to slow down. To her own surprise, she didn’t want him to leave. Especially not all pissed off like that.
“Wait, look, I’m sor—that was too harsh,” she said quickly, “I’m a bitch sometimes. Bad habit.”
He slung his bag around his shoulder, but to her relief, he stayed put. “Seems like that’d not help you in the friends department,” he echoed coolly.
“I do okay,” she immediately shot back, until she winced again as the tone caught up with her. “. . . But yeah, it, uh, it doesn’t.” Now it was her turn to look over his shoulder. She had never gotten into the habit of apologizing and this certainly proved to her why: it was awkward as hell. “So . . . yeah. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Pretty sure you did.” He squared himself to look at her straight on, though he was no longer looking like he was going to march off. “You and all those . . . the rest of the team.” With a resigned sigh, he seated himself back down on the bench, though he was a little closer to her this time. “That’s . . . probably fair.”
“So . . . why then?” She tried to keep her voice calmer, free from any kind of pre-judgement, but it was harder than she thought it’d be.
“Your principal recruited me,” Walker sighed. “Offered me a scholarship. Said I could . . . make a difference here.” He shrugged. “After all . . . I just—I needed a change and it just . . . it sounded good. ‘Course, that was before I started playing like shit and everyone got pissed.”
“Probably didn’t help you kicked their asses three years in a row.”
To her relief, he actually chuckled, “Yeah . . . yeah, that certainly didn’t help.” She grinned at him and he gave a reluctant smile back. A companionable silence fell between them as Ava glanced up at the sky; it had begun to fade to that shade of orange-ish purple that she always liked, the kind where you could faintly make out a few stars, if you squinted hard enough.
“Well,” she said quietly, “I’ll be your . . . friend or whatever. If you want.” He blinked with surprise and she hated herself for even suggesting it. It had sounded less stupid in her head, but the minute the words left her lips, she found herself wanting to die, a desire that only grew stronger with every second of silence that followed. She didn’t dare look away from the stars. “. . . Forget I said that.”
“No, no, it wasn’t weird or anything,” he said quickly—too quickly—and she reluctantly looked over at him. To her surprise, there was nothing mocking in his expression; there was just curiosity. “I think . . . yeah, I think I’d like that.” She just stared.
“Wait, for real?”
“Yeah, I mean, who the fuck else do I know here?” He shrugged and held out a hand. “But I’m not calling you ‘prince’ or whatever. Need your actual name or no deal.”
She snorted and looked at his outstretched hand and tilted her head, as if weighing the consequences. “That depends,” she said, her lips twitching back up to a smirk, “are you a fae? You have to tell me if you are.”
Walker rolled his eyes, and dramatically held up his other hand, like he was giving some kind of pledge, “I swear I’m not some stupid fairy thing.” He shook his head, but kept his hands in position. She was pleasantly surprised he actually had recognized what it was; guess he had actually read a book once. “. . . You’re already making me regret this.”
“Too late,” she shook his hand, “I am and I claim your name. You’ll now be . . . Princess Walker.”
He tried to release her hand but she tightened her grip and cackled, which made him groan again. “I thought you were a soccer freak, not some kind of nerd.”
“I contain multitudes.” She shrugged innocently, but kept her hand clasped to his. It felt calloused, but soft, too, like for all the bitching and hard work, he still took time to take care of it. “I’m . . . Ava.” She hesitated. “Starr.”
“. . . Look,” he sighed wearily, “if you’re going to just pull a name out of your ass, could you make it less obvious?”
“Rude.” she tightened her grip and callouses or no, he still quietly yelped at the sudden pain. “That’s my name. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine, fine!” He ripped his hand free and gently shook it, trying to get blood flow back into it. “Jesus, it’s not my fault you have the name like some 70s David Bowie groupie.”
She actually let out a laugh, “This from the most generic white guy name since Brad?” She shook her head. “How was it filming with John Wayne, by the way? Does he actually sound like that or is it just a voice?”
He gawked at her while she glared back; they held it until they both snickered. “Bitch,” he muttered as he turned his gaze to the sky overhead. She just stared at him, and felt the smile tug at the corner of her lips.
“Takes one to know one. Bitch.” She softly snickered before she looked up as well. For a crappy day, she couldn’t deny that it was feeling better. “Look, Walker, I know—”
Her phone rang and cut her off. Reluctantly, she looked down and winced at the ID: Bil Foster. She bit her lower lip but, with a glance over at Walker, picked it up. Now that she had cooled down, she felt shitty for giving him the cold shoulder. Hopefully he knew that she didn’t mean it, but then, she was a bitch. She hadn’t been kidding about that with Walker and dimly, she wondered how long he’d last: the longer he got to know her, the clearer it would be that her being a bitch was a feature, not a bug. He seemed tough, but she knew she’d find a way.
She always had before.
Fortunately, Bill’s tone was level and to the point, but that almost made it worse. It wasn’t there, but she could feel the implied disappointment in his voice. Still, however disappointed in her he may or may not be, he was in the parking lot, waiting for her. How he knew she’d be there, she wasn’t sure; she had deactivated the “find my phone” app the day she got it. The possibility that he actually knew her seemed ridiculous.
“Your ride?” Walker asked as he got to his feet.
“Yeah . . . ,” she sighed as she got up as well; her legs felt stiff after sitting for so long, “my . . . foster dad’s here.” Her stomach tightened at the admission and she dared risk a glance over at Walker, as if daring him to pity her. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to react any differently to the revelation; he just gave her an acknowledging nod. “You . . . need a ride?” she found herself asking. “It’s getting pretty dark out.”
He smiled but waved her off. “Nah, it’s cool, I got a car.” He raised his arm and took a sniff and winced. “Probably don’t have time for a shower, though.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Ava snorted before shooting him a small grin. “See, I can be nice.”
“And a broken clock’s right twice a day,” Walker shrugged. She shoved him and he stumbled. “Now, see, that seems more like you.”
“I dunno,” she deadpanned as she shoved him again. “Seemed like the wind, to me.”
“Fine, fine, the wind,” he raised his free hand in surrender, but he had a small grin of his own as he exasperatedly shook his head. “But, what were you gonna say before? That call?”
She blinked; she had almost forgotten, herself. “Right. That.” She flushed slightly and was grateful the darkened light kept it from being obvious. She never had the easiest time being sentimental. “Look, Walker—”
“John,” he interjected.
“Walker,” she emphasized and ignored the weird feeling she had in the pit of her stomach, “for the team, maybe you’re just . . . getting in your own way, about it. No one likes it when someone comes in and acts like they know more than they do, even if they do--especially if they do.” Walker was silent, but he was giving her an appraising look; at least he was listening. “So you’re in a new place . . . maybe try something new. Follow their lead, and they may let you in more.”
“That what you’d do?” He gave her a skeptical look.
“. . . I never said I took my own advice.”
“Yeah, you didn’t have to,” he shook his head, “that seemed pretty implied.”
“Well, fuck you, too,” she rolled her eyes, “doesn’t mean I’m wrong. You got nothing to lose. Let Sam Wilson or whoever the fuck by the Quarter thing: try being a tight ass instead.”
He chuckled and despite his skepticism, an amused smile tugged at his lips and she did not appreciate the way that made her stomach feel. The fuck was going on? “You mean ‘tight end’?”
“That’s literally what I said.”
“Right, no, it wasn’t,” he rolled his eyes but the smile remained, “but I get what you meant. I’ll . . . think about it.”
“I know that’s not your forte, but trust me, when it works, you’ll be on your knees thanking me.”
“‘Not my forte’?” He raised an eyebrow as they entered the stadium’s exit tunnel. “I’m a straight A student.”
“Right, because grades always mean you’re able to think for yourself.” She gently shoved his upper arm and pointedly ignored how surprisingly firm it felt. “Grow up, Walker.”
“Could say the same thing, Starr,” he replied as he shoved her, which sent her stumbling back. She raised her hands to retaliate but he just shook his head. “Just call it the wind and let it go; your ride’s waiting, right?”
Damn. He wasn’t wrong. “. . . This isn’t over.”
“I would’ve been surprised if it was,” he scoffed. “You seem like the vindictive type.”
“Oh, piss off.” She kept her tone bored but she felt surprisingly nervous asking. “Just give me your insta.”
He winced and distractedly itched the back of his neck, “. . . I’m, uh, not . . . doing the social media thing right now. I can give you my number?”
“The fuck am I supposed to do with that?” She balked but dug her phone out. “. . . You will be getting memes, either way.”
“Making me regret this already, Starr.”
“Regret’s part of my deal, Walker.” She shrugged as his contact info was saved. “Get used to it.”
To her surprise, instead of retorting, he just gave her a look, as if he were seeing something, but she didn’t know what, which unsettled her. To distract herself, she typed out a quick “Hi Major Tom, it’s Ava. The David Bowie one, you fucking smartass” and sent it to him. “You got it?”
He pulled out his phone and snorted at the text; she smirked, but before she could retort further, a sustained car horn boomed from the direction of the parking lot and she flushed: obviously, Bill had lost whatever patience she hadn’t burned through yet. “You should probably get going,” he said. “Don’t want them ditching you.”
“If they do, you got a car,” she said. “I’ll just bum a ride of you.”
“Yeah, no room,” he tapped his shoulder pads, “gear comes first.”
“‘Yean, no’ yourself,” she snorted, “pretty sure being friends gets me shotgun for life.”
“That in the fine print? With the fairy spell?”
“Yes, Princess Walker, it is. Not my fault you didn’t read the contract.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said, in a tone that clearly said he was never going to honor that part of the bargain; she had to respect the boldness.
“I guess we will,” she just smirked. “You’ll see. They don’t call me ‘Ghost’ for no reason.”
He groaned and began to walk towards the parking lot, while Ava jogged to catch up. “They do not fucking call you that.”
“Walker, you’ve been here five minutes: I think I know my own nickname.” She wasn’t even lying about this one, even; admittedly, she mostly got it because she slipped in and out of tedious classes and conversations without people noticing, but the talent came in handy on the pitch, so she made it work in her favour enough, but he had no reason to know any of that.
“Giving yourself a nickname isn’t a good look, Starr,” he snorted. “Never works.”
“Well, well,” she said as she caught up to him and glanced up; on the bench, she hadn’t noticed that he was at least half a foot taller than her. Bob was close, but he was lanky, and she hadn’t appreciated what a difference that made. “Do I detect the sting of experience in your voice? Did Mr. Captain Americana try to give himself a nickname?”
Even in the darkness, she could see his face flush; she couldn’t tell if he was just not used to being teased or if he was really that shite of a liar, but either way, it was amusing. “Oh my God, you actually did, didn’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, no no no, I am not letting this go,” her grin widened. “What was it? Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Fine, keep your secrets: your pale ass face is liar detector enough. I’ll just keep guessing until it turns red as that face scruff you’re trying to call a beard.” His flush deepened. “Just like that.”
Before he could reply, they had exited the stadium and the parking lot was laid out before them. Bill’s familiar silver Subaru Forester was pulled up along the curb; besides him, there appeared to be a handful of cars scattered throughout the parking lot—more turnout for a summer night than Ava would’ve expected, but she was also here late same as them, so who was she to judge? She was dimly curious which of the cars was his; with his vibe, it had to be some kind of sports car or some other rich white boy shit.
Bill must have noticed them leaving, since he honked again, and she tried to scowl at him, but she paused as a feeling of horror creeped up her spine. Bill had seen them leave together. Maybe he had even seen them exchange numbers. He was going to think—no, surely not.
Walker glanced from her to the car and back to her, and a damn smirk crossed his face. He had apparently come to the same conclusion. “That your ride?” He asked through his disingenuous teeth.
“. . . No.”
“Well, then, let’s go introduce ourselves,” he said, his tone completely serious, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed him. “We’d hate to be rude. That’s not the Thunderstruck way.”
“Thunderbolts,” she automatically corrected as she tried to think of a way out of this that didn’t involve this white boy marching himself up to Bill’s car, but Walker began moving before she could come up with anything. “Walker!”
“Starr!” He said, matching her tone, but he didn’t look back at her as his damnably longer legs casually lumbered over to the pavement. Part of her wanted to just walk casually; she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her sweat, but desperate times. She jogged behind him but by the time she had caught up, he had already reached the sidewalk and waved to Bill through the car window.
She was going to kill him.
Bill was a man who kept his hair and beard buzzed to the point of near invisibility, a look he diligently maintained, possibly because it helped accent his frown lines and furrowed brow: he wasn’t the type that smiled easily. It wasn’t so much that he was hard to please, so much as he just didn’t like advertising his emotions much. It made sense, in a way: from what she had gathered, he worked in some government lab nearby, and that didn’t really sound like the sort of place you lowered your guard much.
Comparatively, Yelena’s mum worked in a private lab with brains or some shit and was much emotive, though per Yelena, that was more of a recent-ish thing. She blamed her father for infecting her with emotions and from the brief times Ava had met Alexei, the theory had some legs: how three sarcastic introverts managed to survive that unflappable human social battery, she’d never know.
In some ways, it made her appreciate Bill’s more reserved nature. He was quiet, but attentive when he wasn’t swallowed by work: he cared and though he showed it in the small, subtle ways, they seemed all the more genuine because of how mundane they were. From cooking, cleaning, and even just asking her questions about her life, it felt . . . nice. There was less pressure to be impressive and she could be herself more . . . though, much to both their regret, her being herself proved to be more of a problem than it was probably worth, but he had put up with it, so far. Sometimes, he even chuckled about it.
This wasn’t one of those times.
To his credit, Walker must have balls of steel or the brain of a moron, to just stand there smirking under Bill’s withering gaze that his thick glasses only seemed to emphasize. Bill had simply raised an eyebrow and lowered the passenger window, but to Ava, his annoyance was practically radiating off of him, almost like some aura, as Ms. Karla “Moonstone” Soren would call it (Ava was pretty sure that bitch had somehow said the word “retrograde” enough times, it had lost all meaning.).
“Evening,” Bill said, his tone as neutral as his statement.
“Good evening,” Walker said, some of that cheer he had shown Olivia back in his voice; he reached his hand through the open passenger window for a handshake. Bill just glanced down at the hand and then back to Walker. “The name’s John, Mister . . . ?”
“Sir,” Bill said calmly. “You can call me sir.”
“Oh my God,” Ava groaned quietly, though which of them she was more embarrassed by, she wasn’t sure. Maybe the entire gender.
Walker frowned but nodded and withdrew his hand. “Er, yes, sir,” he said quickly. “I, uh, just wanted to say sorry for keeping your daughter out so late.”
“Is that right?” Bill’s quizzical expression subtly shifted to more of an amused one and he glanced at her. Not for the first time, she wished she could actually disappear like a ghost. “I was wondering what was keeping her so . . . busy.”
She was going to push Walker into traffic for this.
Whether he was acting or genuine, Walker reached up and rested his hand on the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m, uh, new to the school, and Starr—I mean, Ava here, she noticed I needed some help, and she, ah, showed me around. She was pretty helpful.”
“Yes, that sounds like her,” Bill said, his tone was level. “Altruism is something she makes a habit of.”
Ava knew him well enough to recognize the sarcasm hidden the depths of his words. Walker, on the other hand, apparently wasn’t burdened by observational skills. “Yeah, I got that impression, too, when I met her.” His tone sounded a shade shyer compared to before; Bill was throwing him off his rhythm, and if it was at anyone else’s expense, it would be funny, but sadly, her life’s somehow become a sitcom. Literally, the only solace she had was that Mel and Yelena had no idea that it was happening and, if she had her way, they never would. “So, I just wanted to say thanks and sorry, again.”
Bill slowly nodded, as he gave Walker that assessing up-down, like some kind of Terminator. “Thank you.” He glanced over at Ava before returning back to Walker. “Welcome to West Chesapeake Valley, Mr. . . .”
“John’s fine, sir.”
“It is not. Mr. . . . ?”
“It’s Walker, Bill,” Ava groaned. If she hadn’t intervened, they probably would be stuck there all night; Walker was pretty dense.
“Mr. Walker,” Bill said, his attention not leaving Walker, who now seemed uncomfortable, but still stood his ground. “I appreciate the kind words.”
“And that’s the end of that conversation,” Ava said as she shoved Walker in the direction of the parked cars. “Get your ass home, Wanker.”
“Not what I’m called,” Walker mumbled as he rubbed the part of his arm Ava had pushed.
“And yet, I have the feeling you have a lot of firsthand experience.”
“What are you doing, feelings my ‘wanking’?” He made a face, but now that he was out of Bill’s direct eyeline, he seemed a little more himself. “That’s a little gross, Starr.”
Well, that was an unfortunate Uno reverse card, especially with Bill being in earshot. “Just . . . shut up and get some sleep, Walker,” she rolled her eyes. “You’re delusional.”
He opened his mouth his mouth, undoubtedly with some half-baked snarky reply, but he closed it after a second thought. He just raised his hand and called out, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sir!” He lowered his hand just enough to hide it from Bill’s eyeline and flipped her off as he smirked. “And you too, I guess.”
“Please,” she snorted, “as if I wasn’t the highlight of your day. I’m a delight.”
“Seems more like you’re projecting there, Starr,” he adjusted his bag so he could rest his hands on his hips. “But you’re welcome.” He smirked as he turned around and began to walk off towards the cars.
She just stared after him; did that motherfucker just steal the last word? Not on her watch. “Well, you’re not,” she called after him, “just go back to Custer’s racist ass Grove, tight ass!”
“You think my ass is tight?” He called back of his shoulder as he waved back. “Thanks!”
She flushed, annoyed, but grateful that the smug bastard wasn’t looking in her direction to notice. However, unfortunately, Bill had, based on his bemused smile as she turned to open the passenger door. To his credit, he didn’t say anything as she reluctantly pulled herself inside. The loud click of her seatbelt resounded throughout the car’s cab and Bill turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb. Despite the circumstances, the silence was companionable. It was something that she liked about Bill: he wasn’t afraid of quiet. He didn’t assume something was wrong if she wasn’t saying anything. That usually made her feel comfortable.
Not this time.
No, this time, she knew he was just biding his time to say something. To dare comment on what he had just seen. It was merely a matter of “when,” rather than “if.” Admittedly, she wasn’t sure why she felt as embarrassed as she did about it; maybe she just didn’t want him to misunderstand what he thought he had seen.
“So . . . ,” he began and her stomach tightened. “Did you eat?”
That bastard; he knew what he did.
“No, didn’t have a chance to,” she said cautiously, trying to sense where the trap was.
“Ah, right,” he nodded, the bemused smirk returning and her heart sunk. “You did, uh, seem pretty busy.”
She groaned and hit her head against the headrest. “Bill!”
“He seems nice,” Bill said casually, as if she hadn’t reacted. “Bit dim, but nice.”
“It’s not like that, Bill.” She couldn’t exactly refute the “dim” part, and even if she could, it probably wouldn’t help her case.
“What is?” Bill kept his eyes on the road, but his smile widened, the night and his dark tan skin only making the brightness in his smile stand out. “I didn’t say anything other than your new friend seems nice. You are the one with red on her face, miss.”
Her face burned slightly and glowered out the window. “Because I’m just too embarrassed for you, old man. Making assumptions: what kind of scientist are you?”
Bill chuckled fondly. “Who says any assumptions were involved?” He shook his head before reluctantly conceding. “Observations? Yes. Assumptions? I’d never.”
“Oh, I’m sure this will be good,” she rolled her eyes. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”
Bill raised an eyebrow. “ . . . Do you want to talk about that call I got from your coach about the incident with the Sofen girl?”
“. . . So, uh, you said you had observations?” She rested her elbow against the base of the window and propped her head up.
Bill snorted, “You know punching her was wrong?”
“. . . Yes.” It tasted like ash in her mouth.
“Then good talk,” he shrugged and despite herself, Ava snorted as she felt a small smile cross her face. Of course, she wished every day her parents hadn’t died, but if she had to be raised by anyone else . . . she was glad it was Bill. “Now,” he continued as he took a right on Barnes Blvd instead the usual left, “I’m thinking Little Caesar’s tonight. Pizza sound good to you?”
“That sounds—” Before she could finish, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. “Uh, good. Sounds like a plan.” With a quick glance over at Bill, she pulled it out.
Ava smirked and before she overthought it, she typed out a reply.
She snorted, but it wound up being louder than she had planned and Bill shot her a curious look. “Allergies.” She deadpanned and dared him to contradict her.
"Right,” he said seriously. “Your famous conveniently timed allergies. I’ll let Doctor Temple know; it might be fatal.”
“Could you, I dunno, just be cool about this?” She groaned.
“I’m a biochemist; I’m already the coolest cat on the block,” he grinned, which only widened as she groaned louder. “I don’t even know what ‘this’ is, remember?”
She wasn’t sure either, but like hell was she going to admit that to Mr. “cool cat” here. “I felt sorry for the prick, yeah? Guy apparently transferred to our shit hole where everybody hates him, and so yeah, I took pity on him and said I’d be his friend. That what you wanted to hear?”
Bill just laughed, which only pissed her off more. “Friends are good.”
Ava nearly said What would you know about friends, anyway? but managed to stop herself. That wasn’t fair; as irritating as he was being, he was clearly just joking. The fact that she had been able to bite her tongue felt like progress, which took some of the shame away. She glanced at her phone, where Walker’s quip still sat unrebutted. Despite her chagrin, her lips twitched upward as she reread it.
“If I may make an observation,” Bill said casually; if he noticed her glare, he didn’t react to it, “you seem to be . . . happier today than you usually are when I pick you up. Whatever variable may have influenced that result, it may not be a . . . bad thing to see if its replicable.”
"You are such a fucking nerd, Bill,” she scoffed as she leaned her face against the cool window class and watched the houses flash by, their lit windows blurring together too quickly for her to get a peek inside at the lives and stories they were merely window dressing for. Still, as much as she normally liked daydreaming about the worlds they passed, for once, she found her thoughts lingering on the phone she was pointedly ignoring on her lap.
She’d roast his ass tomorrow.