Authors: Noelle August

Boomerang (34 page)

My breathing slows, and his hand slips out of my panties to join the other one resting against my stomach. “Thanks,” he replies, and I can imagine his slow, satisfied smile, which may very well be my undoing.

I turn in his arms. His hands plunge into my hair, and I rise up on tiptoes to kiss him, to tongue all my pleasure and gratitude into his body, to give him a little bit of what he just gave me. We kiss and kiss for what feels like hours but like no time at all, like there will never be enough time to taste him, to know all there is to know about his lips against mine.

My fingers move down his neck, trailing across the sturdy “V” of his chest, slipping down the contours of his stomach to the button on his jeans.

“Now you,” I say, so hungry with the need to touch him that my fingers are clumsy.

“Not yet, Curls,” he tells me, and before I know it, he’s lifted me off my feet, like I’m nothing. His hands settle beneath me, and my legs come around his waist. I wrap around him, and he kisses me again, then starts to carry me toward the living room, his lips still pressed against me so we’re clumsy, bumping into the walls.

“What are we doing?”

I feel his smile against my own, and then he settles me on the couch. Vaguely, I think we should probably go to his bedroom, but most of me doesn’t care. I just want more of this. Want to swim in it.

“First, I think we need to get you out of the rest of your wet clothes,” he says, with mock concern. “And then I’ve got a few ideas.”

Chapter 44

Ethan

Q: What’s your favorite hangover cure?

E
than?” Mom knocks on my bedroom door. “Time to wake up. It’s six o’clock.”

“Sleep. My head . . . needs more sleep.”

I sound like Frankenstein. With strep throat.

“It’s six
p.m.
, Ethan. Your head’s slept all day.”

“What time?” My face is mashed against my pillow, and I can’t lift it. I think they may have become one. I peer at my window, seeing the fading daylight through the blinds.

“Are you decent?” my mom says, cracking the door open. “Guess not.”

“Geez, Mom.” I drag the sheet higher so it covers my ass. “How about some privacy?” I say, but I’m used to living in a family where nothing is sacred.

Mom looks from the clothes I wore last night piled on the floor, to the bottle of aspirin on my nightstand, with the same analytical blue eyes as Chris. “Looks like you accomplished your goal of making yourself sick.”

She waits for a beat, and I know she wants me to talk to her. She wants to know what’s going on, but I’m about ten years past the point of telling her. What I want to tell her is that I’m fine, but I can’t do that, either. Lying to people you care about is fucked. I thought so even before Alison.

“I’m a goal-oriented kind of guy,” I croak.

She laughs. “I just ordered pizzas and Matt’s on his way.”

I push myself onto my elbows, riding the swells of a monstrous headache as I try to figure out who Matt is. Then it clicks. “Coach Williams is coming?”

“He’s not your coach anymore. You can call him Matt now. He’ll be here in half an hour—and he’s bringing his wife, Tricia.”

I have no idea how my former coach found out that I was home, or why he’s coming to the house, but it’ll be good to see him. I feel myself crack a smile—which makes my mom smile—which gives my mood an honest boost.

“You called him?” I ask.

“Maybe I did, but he was the one who invited himself over. Now get your butt into the shower. I’ll make you a vanilla milk shake and a grilled cheese.”

Half an hour later, I feel halfway human as Matt and Tricia Williams step into the house with a bottle of wine for dad and a bunch of sunflowers for mom.

My parents hug Matt, and then I do, which feels more normal than weird. He’s my peer now, but it’s something I’m still getting used to.

Four and a half years ago, he came to this house to recruit me and stood exactly where he is now. His brown hair didn’t have any silver in it, and he wore a UCLA soccer sweatshirt instead of the Air Force Academy one he wears now, but other than that, he doesn’t seem to have changed at all. His vibe is still pure calm and positivity—the kind that quietly seeps into the people around him. Two minutes into his visit, and I already feel it.

Tricia is very pregnant, and I hear a steady flow of excited questions from my mom, who disappears with her into the living room. Dad, Matt, and I settle in the family room, where an MLS soccer game is playing on the television.

Soccer’s a small world. Matt coached or played with a couple of the guys who sprint across our flat screen, and I know a few of them, too, so for a little while, we talk about them and the game while Dad chills in his recliner, listening. Then Matt asks about LA, and I catch him up on Jason and the rest of the guys.

“I’ve got a youth team I’m coaching,” I tell him. “They play Saturdays too, so I can’t always make it to the pick-up games, but I see everyone almost every week.”

“You’re coaching a team?” my dad asks.

It’s the first thing he’s said since we sat down.

“Yeah. Boys. Under nines. It’s basically a squad of puppies, but they’re good kids. We’re seven and one right now. And I just added a kid who’s going to make us unbeatable as soon as I get him to buy in.”

Matt leans forward and sets his beer down on the coffee table. “What’s stopping him?” he asks, genuinely interested.

“He came in late, so getting him integrated with a team that’d already bonded pretty tight wasn’t easy. The main thing, though, is a confidence issue, but I think I’ve got a handle on that.”

Matt and my dad fire off tons of questions about Parker, so the whole damn story comes out, from Raylene to bowling night. For reasons unknown to me, my dad laughs his ass off when he hears I had to go on dates for work, but Matt only becomes more interested, asking me questions about the other kids on my team, and then about Parker and Raylene.

“So you got through to him?” he asks. “The team outing worked?”

“I haven’t had a chance to work with him since bowling night, but I think so. I want to get him out a few times a week to work on his finishing skills.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” Matt weaves his fingers together— a familiar cue, telling me he’s about to say something he believes with conviction.

“Of course.”

“Don’t work with him privately. If you’re going to work with him outside of practice, bring Tyler or one of the other boys out too. The last thing Parker needs, I’m guessing, is to feel like he’s being singled out.”

I sit back, absorbing the wisdom of his suggestion. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

Matt smiles. “You’ve done the hard part already, Ethan. That’s just a minor point.” I shrug, trying not to grin like an idiot over his praise. “So, how’re the law school plans coming?” he asks. “Last we spoke, you were getting ready to study for the LSAT?”

“Right . . . LSAT,” I mutter. “I haven’t had a chance to get to it yet, with work and coaching.”

We’re quiet for a few moments, watching the television, but I know both Matt and my dad are focused on me. Their attention makes the blood rush to my face. My sole preoccupation becomes not fidgeting. Just staying calm.

“Ethan, I was thinking about something on my way here.” There’s a serious note in Matt’s voice that makes my heart beat faster. “I had my squad work with a specialist this year. Mike McCarthy. He’s a psychologist who focuses on high-level athletes. The guy was incredible. Every single one of my players made massive strides in their training and game performance after working with him. Unfortunately for me, he’s leaving Colorado.”

There’s a pause, and I know I’m supposed to fill it. So I do.

“Yeah? Where’s he going?”

“Out your way, actually. USC. He’s starting a new graduate program there. Masters and doctoral degrees in sports psychology. I’ve told him about your interest in psychology and your playing history. Mike thinks you’d make an ideal candidate for the program. I’d be happy to put you in contact with him if it’s something you think you might be interested in.”

My lungs stop working for a few seconds. I stare at the television, trying to get my breathing to become unconscious again.

“I appreciate the offer, Matt. But—”

What can I say? My bank account is hovering at a hundred and thirty bucks right now? It wasn’t the plan?

Think of a reason, Ethan. Think of one decent goddamn reason to turn down his offer that doesn’t have to do with money or pride.

I hear the front door open and close. “Pizza!” Chris yells.

A stroke of luck. Matt picks up his beer and quietly leaves, but my dad stays back.

“Ethan.” He stops me with a hand on my shoulder, then he waits until he knows I’m really listening. “Do me a favor, son. Think about what Matt said?”

It’s the favor thing I can’t say no to. Of course I’m going to do whatever he asks when he says it that way.

“I will, Dad,” I promise. Then I make a break for the bathroom.

I need to get some cold water on my face before my head explodes.

As I turn the corner into the hallway, I run right into Chris.

“Sup, bro?” His smile is so big, it looks painful. “How’s your day going?” He holds up my cell phone. “Because it’s about to get
so much
better.”

“You little shit.” I lunge for him, but Chris dodges and slams into the wall, almost knocking down a framed picture of us skiing.

“Who’s Mia and what did you do to her?” He’s shouting and laughing, and I have never had a clearer goal in my life. I catch his shirt and get him in a headlock, snatching the phone away. Then I pull up my texts and read Mia’s message.

Holy Mother of God.

I read the two lines again, but Chris swipes the phone out of my hand. He tears into the dining room. I’m right behind him, but it’s too late.

“Dear Ethan,” he says, embellishing words that are perfect just the way they are. “I wish I remembered more of our magical night. I’m pretty sure you
rocked my world
. Love, Mia.”

Laughter explodes from my mom and dad. Matt puts his arm around Tricia and grins. I can tell he’s at least trying not to lose it.

“Thanks, Chris,” I say. “Real cool of you to share that with everyone. With my coach.”

“I’m not your coach anymore, Ethan. Anyway, by the sound of it, I’m the one who should be getting pointers from you.”

Tricia rests her hands over her huge stomach. “I think you do just fine.”

“I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” my dad proclaims, like he’s making a public service announcement. “You know what they say. Like father, like son.”

And here comes the cliché part of the night.

I catch my brother’s eye across the table. “You’re going to die, Chris. As soon as I have the energy, your life is over.” Then I drop into a chair and prepare myself to answer a million questions about Mia.

“Ethan, what are you doing?” my Mom says. “Don’t be rude. Go text her back!”

Matt nods. “Prudent advice.”

“Keep making me proud, son.” Dad barely gets the words out before he’s in stitches again.

Chris tosses my phone across the dinner table. I catch it, and I’m out the door, in my room, and texting Mia in less than two seconds.