No One's Watching (34 page)

****

The team was already dressed out and warming up on the field, a huddle of coaches in conversation off to the side. The only one not on the field was a girl kneeling on the ground off to the side, assembling water bottles in carrying cases. She stood as I approached. And I stopped. And stared. And forgot why I was there.

She was beautiful. Long, dark brown hair. Delicate face dominated by big green eyes. It was those eyes that got me. Haunted. Hurting. Filled with pain and longing. I couldn't look away from them. Staring into them felt like being home. I fought an irrational longing to grab her in my arms and take her far away from whatever had put that look in those eyes. Head shake. Deep breath. What is going on?
It's just a girl. You've talked to girls before. Stay detached. Get a grip.

“I'm Blake.” The beautiful girl stood and extended her hand. She stood watching me, waiting for my response, smiling, a quizzical look on her face that couldn't quite mask the raw pain. Finally, after staring at her like an idiot, I grabbed her extended hand. It was warm. Soft. I didn't want to let it go. Before I could question why, she pulled it back, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes as she pondered me. When I said nothing, she tried again.

“Okay, so I know you're Mateo, that you're not mute, and you do, indeed, speak English. Flawlessly, I might add, with no hint of an accent. I heard you in class.”

“We have a class together?” How had I missed her? And why was that the first thing I had managed to get out of my mouth?

“Three, as a matter of fact. I'm the quiet one who sits in the back and doesn't say anything. I guess I'm easy to miss,” she finished quietly, looking down and twirling a strand of her hair in her hand.
Impossible
, I wanted to insist. Thankfully I didn't say it out loud. I had already made this introduction weird enough.

“So I, uh, thought Blake was a guy name?” Another stupid response.
Idiot.
It was the first thing that popped into my head to say. I hoped I hadn't offended her.

“Yeah, my dad wanted a guy baby, his own little football player, but he got me instead. My full name is Katherine Blake Alden.” She was looking down again, fidgeting now with the water bottles. The sun shone on her head. Golden highlights danced in her hair. I wanted to touch it. “My mom called me Kate at first, but Dad insisted on Blake, and it just caught on.” She stopped and looked up, the pain in her eyes a blazing fire now.

I was desperate to comfort her. I didn't know how. Shoot, I could barely manage to speak around her. Two big tears overtook her eyes, extinguishing the flames and leaving in their place ashes and misery.

“I'm sorry.” At least that was something. Not much, but sincere. I started to speak again, to do better, but she shook her head no at me and wiped her eyes on her arm.

“Okay, Soccer Boy.” Blake stood and grabbed a football and a tee. “Let's see what you've got.”

We walked toward the unoccupied end of the field, away from the team who were now all jogging rapidly in place and then throwing themselves to the ground whenever the whistle blew. Blake followed my gaze.

“Those are called up-downs,” she said.

“A bizarre ritual.” Did I really want to be a part of that?

She laughed. “Indeed. So, do you know anything about football?”

“Sure, we followed it back home via satellite. Especially college ball. Both of my parents went to UT. That's where they met. My mom is a fanatical Longhorn fan. The year I was ten we even had season tickets, but the commute was a little extreme.” Wow. From speechless to rambling. I wanted to keep her talking, though, keep her distracted from whatever was hurting her. Instead, I shut up and followed her to the ten-yard line, where she knelt to set the ball on the turf.

“Uh, could we place the ball a little farther back than that? My
abuela
could make that kick, and she's eighty-two.” Blake looked up at me, squinting in the sun, skeptical. I tried again. “I'm trying to protect my dignity here.”

“That's what I'm trying to do too, Soccer Boy. You know you add another ten yards to get it through the uprights? Okay, okay…”

I mockingly glared at her, and she moved it back to the twenty.

“I'll hold. You kick. Need any instruction?”

Rolling my eyes at her, I moved into position. My kick was a little off-center, but still managed to sail through the uprights with at least a respectable accuracy.

“Impressive,” she said. “Let's try some other distances and angles, then we'll see how you punt.”

For the next thirty minutes, we talked of little other than trajectory and velocity and football in general. She watched me kick, grinning every now and then and taking notes on a small pad of paper in her pocket. Her eyes lost their haunted look when she was distracted, even becoming playful and animated at times, until they were dragged back down by some hidden internal weight. Ten minutes into our session, she took the elastic band off of her wrist and pulled her hair through it, knotting it up off of her neck in a surprisingly graceful motion. She caught me watching her and blushed, then quickly looked away. We went back to kicking and punting, and by the time Coach walked over, I was covered in sweat and grass stains and a slightly smug feeling of victory. I wasn't half bad at this kicking thing. It was a nice outlet for my aggression. Not as fulfilling as running or real
fútbol
,
but close.

“So, were you right?” Coach asked, stopping to stand beside Blake.

“Aren't I always?” Blake responded, genuinely smiling.

“Right about what?”

“You. Kicking. It was my idea. I thought you might be able to ease our kicking woes. Coach Joe has been worried about it all summer, hardly shutting up enough to enjoy his family. It drove Mary and me crazy. Joe,” she said, handing him the paper she had taken notes on, “He can kick the seams off that ball. You can rest easy tonight.”

“Excellent,” Coach Williams replied, high-fiving Blake and then me. Then he turned concerned eyes on her. She noted his expression and looked down. Uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

“Hey, Blake, why don't you knock off early and go on home?” Joe tried to sound casual, but concern was radiating off of him. What was going on with this girl? “I know you didn't sleep much last night, and I'm sure Mary would love to have you hold the baby while she chases Benji and makes dinner…” Blake cut him off before he could say more, her eyes blazing. Determined.

“I'm fine, Joe. I still need to finish filling the water bottles. The team will be plenty thirsty today. I know I am.”

“I'll do it,” I found myself saying. Anything to help her. Would a little rest ease her tortured eyes? “I'm not exactly dressed to finish working out with the other guys. Let me at least contribute to the team that way today.”

Blake sighed and handed Coach the football she was holding. “Thanks,” she whispered, looking in my eyes for just the briefest second. Her expression shockingly vulnerable. And then with a blink, defiant. How could someone look so strong and so fragile at the same time?

“I'll go after I get Soccer Boy's equipment issued and checked off. See ya at home, Joe,” she said, turning and heading for the gym and, I supposed, equipment room. Coach watched her go, looking sad and proud at the same time.

“She's something else. Stubborn as her dad and pretty as her mom and as talented and complicated as the both of them put together.” He paused, clearing his throat and adjusting his baseball cap. “Be nice to her Reyna. She's been through a lot, and I don't take kindly to people who don't treat her right. Oh, and welcome to the team.”

He shook my hand again and turned back to the team. I headed for the water bottles, determined now to erase the pain out of two sets of haunted eyes and wondering how I was ever going to be able to do it. And why? I had just met this girl, but her eyes held me captive.