I Hate Football Players

1: The Puke-Meet

Pluck my eyelashes out one at a time.
Adopt a rabid raccoon.
Attempt goat yoga.
Go on a date.

I couldn't deny that NorCal was picturesque from every angle. Dry, cool breezes kissed my cheeks. In hours, the sunset would paint ribbons of vivid colors across the sky and tint the water aquamarine. My Achilles heel of fast food – the warm, cinnamon-sugar fried goodness of churros – was overpowered by the smell of fried foods, questionably sourced hot dogs, popcorn, and ocean salt. Remote screams from the roller coasters sandwiched the white sands against the melodic, metronome of waves crashing on the shore.

"No." I scowled at all of it. "No way. I'll nap in the car, Harper."

I didn't hate the outdoors. Being surrounded by the quiet, natural beauty of the majestic Redwoods? Sign me up. Losing all sense of time and self in a book? Even better.

"Harper." My whine lowered her glasses an inch. By the stubborn look in her eyes and the beep of her locked doors, whining was mandatory. "I hate the beach."

Her gazelle legs strode across the sand. "How can you love reading, but not enjoy doing it here?"

I gasped. Sand lodged in the cracks of my books was almost as offensive as it was in any of mine. Moisture pricked my armpits and behind my knees. How was I already sweating? "Two words: sand and melanoma. What are you plotting, Harper?"

"Again, stop overthinking," she said over her shoulder. "You asked for a diversion? This is one, trust me."

Trust me, she says.
I trust her. Why would she think I don't?

My ankles wobbled as I kicked sand into the cuffs of my jeans. Friction itched my skin as if rubbed by fine-grained sandpaper. I stumbled and almost face-planted.

Twice.

Perspiration beaded my hairline as I squinted ahead. Families built sandcastles near that cold water's edge, footballs and volleyballs were tossed, and groups of girls giggled at any and all eye candy in board shorts and banana-peeled wetsuits. Harper's sun-kissed blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, and legs for miles completed the beach's poster.

And yet, I couldn't engage in any of it. Maybe that was Harper's point, find something so not me, that I couldn't think about being me.

"Do I need to state the obvious?"

"You mean how you haven't shaved or waxed, ever?" Harper smirked and dropped her bag with a thud. "I almost took you to the salon for some Amazonian machete ladyscaping, except that would be a wasted effort."

Ladyscaping. I narrowed my eyes. "And how would that make me feel better?"

"Brazilians hurt like a bitch." She shrugged as a slight breeze tossed her hair. "Would've been a good distraction. Who knows, maybe we can-"

"No." I crossed my arms. "Halt all boy-related trains of thought at 'not a chance' station."

Her lips pursed, and she shifted her gaze, then exhaled a loud, frustrated sigh at the cluster of boys near the waterline. "Fuck, I didn't know Jake was here. Now I need a diversion."

I shaded my eyes at his half-dressed, tall, broad-shouldered, muscular body. A six-pack was wasted on my brother. Never far from football, he sprinted around with his teammates. Even barefoot in the sand, Jake was a freaking olive-skinned racehorse.

Some days – fine most – I had no idea how we were related.

Our differences were beyond obvious. All we had to do was stand next to each other. Every day served me reminders that we were nothing alike. His confidence, my introversion. His charisma, my self-deprecation. He demanded respect; I existed in my quiet content. His participation, my observations.