Page 86 of Blitz

He whistles. “Damn, son, you have changed.”

“Not that much.”

“In a good way,” he’s quick to reassure me. “She’s good for you.”

Micah hums. “She’s great.”

Greg claps him on the shoulder. “So you guys are siblings?”

“Twins.” Micah is extraordinarily tight-lipped.

“Well, she’s awesome. We’re glad she’s here,” he says. “We’ve been trying to get your boy here out of his shell for the last two and a half years. She’s been good for him.”

He hums again, politely disinterested. His eyes are trained on the field. There’s a brief lull between events. Nothing is going on. He doesn’t want to talk to my friends. Or to me.

Greg hands me a sandwich from his backpack. It’s turkey and havarti, which is my second favorite type of sandwich.

Micah raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Amir and Barrett get turkey sandwiches, too, and a container of apples and peanut butter to split between them.

“It’s a long day,” Barrett says, unwrapping his sandwich. “Got to get our protein in.”

“The concessions have shitty food,” Amir adds, dunking an apple slice into peanut butter. It does nothing for me. If it’s not slathered between two pieces of whole wheat bread, I’m not interested. “You can get, like, a hot dog or a microwaved burrito. It’s nasty. And it’s expensive. My meal plan doesn’t cover concessions food.”

Micah looks between us. “And all ya’ll are football players?”

“Defensive squad,” Barrett confirms. “You play for Patterson?”

“Running back,” he says, and both of the guys nod. There’s a very big difference between offense and defense.

Micah is a shrimp compared to us. He stands at five foot ten, maybe five foot eleven if he grows his hair out, and is about seventy pounds lighter than us. We’re built to block, to defend. He’s built for speed. On top of that, there’s the entirely different mindset we have to have. One guy wants to protect the team, defend against encroaching intruders. The other guy just wants to score and have a good time.

No, I’m not bitter at all.

Greg offers Micah a sandwich. “Turkey and cheese.”

“No peanut butter?” He shoots me a sly grin, taunting.

“Nah, that’s just for special occasions,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Eat your fucking sandwich. Her race is coming up soon.”

The sandwich isn’t bad. Sam and Miles were volunteered into making a dozen of them this morning while Wes cut up apple slices and Amir peeled and segmented oranges. Last week, Barrett and I coordinated the snacks for everyone. We all take turns, we all contribute. We’re a family.

That’s what Mason doesn’t get. My roommates are more than just my friends. They’re my life. Good and bad, I suppose. I like hanging out with them. I like spending time with them. So what if that time is spent watching movies or playing video games? We enjoy our time together. We get along. Sure, some of the guys like to go out and party—they aren’t all reclusive freaks like Wes and I—but we all know when to kick back and have a good time, just us. Sam joined our ranks last semester, and now I can’t remember a time that she wasn’t part of our group. She’s like the kid sister I never asked for and got anyway. She’s amazing. And she’s really brought Miles out of his shell, so I can’t complain about that.

Mason has been good for me in the same way that Sam is good for Miles. She forces me out of my comfort zone. She makes me want to try new things. And not only in bed. I find myself agreeing to go to parties, agreeing to spend time with her friends, agreeing to hang out with her brother. She can get me to agree to just about anything with a sweet smile and an even sweeter kiss.

Going to parties will probably get easier over time. I’ll learn to tolerate socializing with drunk people. What I don’t know if I can tolerate is Mason getting drunk every weekend—or multiple times every weekend. I don’t want to be around that kind of lifestyle.

Mason comes in second in her first race. I can see her disappointment in the set of her shoulders, the tension in her spine. She’s not happy.

“You’ve got this, Mase,” Micah cheers, clapping.

She gives us a half-hearted wave. Fred looks upset, too—she came in fourth. None of the Newton sprinters look happy.

Her second race gets called, and Mason lines up on the blocks. Micah chews his cheek as she steadies, readies, waiting for the starting gun to go off.

“Come on, sunshine, come on,” he mutters under his breath. He links his pinky fingers together and tugs outward, putting tension on his wrists. “Come on, you’ve got this, you can do this.”