I spend the rest of the day in a fog, my brain too exhausted to keep up with my classes or to put on a show for my friends. My head hurts and my limbs ache, and all I want to do is go home and crawl into bed.
But I can't skip soccer again. Since I missed the game last week, Coach won't tolerate another excuse, even an Emma-related one. My skills aren't going to improve if I keep blowing off the team. Besides, I'm the captain. I accepted this responsibility and I can't let the girls down.
As I meet up with my teammates, a warm breeze sails over the field. We split the team in half and begin practice, but my concentration is off. I keep losing track of the ball and mistiming passes, and worse still, getting pissed when Coach calls out my mistakes.
"Plays like those aren't going to win any games," she calls when I fail, once again, to shield the ball. She nods toward the sideline. "Why don't you take a seat until you can get your head out of the clouds."
My shoulders deflate. "But, Coach! I can do—"
"It's not a request, Hayes." She pulls off her hat, runs a hand over her hair, slides it back on her head. "Butt on the bench. Now."
I mutter a string of curse words and drop onto the weathered slab.
This is my own fault. If I can't focus, I'm of no use to the team, and I'm not the only player with scholarships on the line.
It's a good thing Dad's not here. Whenever he has the chance, which isn't often these days, he watches practice from the sidelines. He's been one of our biggest cheerleaders over the years. I feel bad for him. I know he'd like to be more involved, but his job needs him, too.
That's one of the reasons I have to succeed. After the trouble I've caused in the past, he deserves this small victory.
"Tough break."
The voice yanks me out of my head. I glance up and Jordan's sitting next to me, lacing her cleats.
I'm not sure what to say so I shrug.
She squints, tosses wisps of auburn hair from her forehead. Watches me. "Coach can be a real bitch sometimes. I think all that authoritative power's gone straight to her head." She lets loose a sarcastic chuckle and rolls her eyes.
I drag my gaze toward the field. "I deserved it. Sometimes, I wonder why she even made me captain. I can name at least five other girls who'd do a better job than me—including you."
And I mean it. Jordan's a strong player, and better than I am at keeping her eye on the prize. At least, as of late.
"Yeah, right. I'm only a junior. Seniority wins every time—except if you're Emma Navarro. That was probably the first and last time they'll play favorites like that." She gives me a lopsided smirk. "Besides, you don't do so bad. Usually."
It's a compliment and an insult rolled into one. "Emma may have been a junior when she was made captain, but she knew exactly what to do and when to do it. There was never a situation, on or off the field that she couldn't handle."
Jordan lets out an ill-humored laugh. "Some people have all the luck, huh?"
Is she trying to be funny? I can't tell. And I don't know her well enough to read her expression. "Yeah. Some luck."
She tugs on her earlobe and stares into the distance, a seriousness taking over her face. "I've been wanting to reach out to her, but didn't know if I should."
I study her profile, trying to gauge my response. There's something going on behind her expression, only I can't make out what it is. But the tone of her voice tells me it's genuine. "You should try. I'm sure she'd love to hear from you."
She shrugs, her eyes dropping to her shoes. "Maybe." We watch the players in an uncomfortable silence. And then she shifts and sighs. "Is she coming back to school?"
My jaw clenches. "I don't know. We haven't talked about it yet."
"What have you talked about?" When her eyes meet mine, a rosy color creeps over her cheeks, making her freckles disappear.
Why is she so interested? It's not like her and Emma were close. I'd seen them speak a few times, on the field and in the hallways, but I wouldn't call them friends. Or even enemies.
But then a memory strikes like a bolt of lightning.
They were arguing last year in the locker room when they thought they were alone. And when I mentioned it, Emma said it was nothing and brushed me off.
No, she didn't just brush me off. She lied.
Something tightens in my chest. I could ask Jordan what happened. Maybe she'll tell me, maybe she won't. But I'll never know if I don't try.
I clear my throat and swallow, but my mouth is as dry as a ball of cotton. I push the question out before I change my mind. "Can I ask you something?"
Jordan doesn't answer, she just waits.
"Last year, I walked in on you and Emma in the locker room. It looked like you were fighting, but when I asked her about it, she wouldn't say what happened. So, were you? Fighting, I mean?" The collar of my shirt suddenly feels like it's strangling me. I pull at it, trying to loosen the deadly grip. It doesn't help.
The corner of Jordan's mouth sags, her forehead creasing. She's thinking. Is she trying to remember, or trying to figure out what to say? "We were fighting. Why?"
Why what? Why do I care? Why do I want to know? Why is it any of my business?
I tug at the hem of my shorts. "Because she's my best friend and I've never seen her that upset."
"Do you always have to know what Emma's up to?"
"What? No! I just—I was concerned, is all. She's not normally confrontational, but she looked like she wanted to—" I stop, take a breath. Rethink what I'm about to say. "I just never saw her look like that before."
"Like she wanted to kill me?"
A cold sweat slithers across my flesh. I don't like her choice of wording. But she's not wrong. And it brings to light another question that's been weighing on my mind. "What were you talking about the other day when you asked if Emma was with someone she knew?"
Jordan's green eyes zero in on mine. "I'm not sure you want to know."
When she doesn't elaborate, the question bursts from my mouth before I can swallow it. "What does that mean?"
Just as her lips part, a shrill voice interrupts us from the field. "Pacey," Coach yells. She points toward the goal. "You're up."
Jordan rises from the bench and gathers her short hair into a ponytail. She steps across the sideline and turns to face me. "It means, you don't know your best friend as well as you think you do."