#Score (9 page)

R
amona

A
ll I have
to say is yes. It’s really that simple, but instead the inner social pariah comes out of me and I blurt out the kind of mess that makes guys run for the hills around me. “And what do you plan on teaching me?” My regret is instant.

And even better, Benji pretends like I didn’t just vomit up words and laughs. “The only thing I really know is soccer, and no offense, but you don’t exactly seem like the soccer type. How about we just stick to food?”

I give him a weird smile that is not at all scary or psycho-looking. After debating for a minute where we want to go, Benji just throws his hands up and laughs. “Why don’t we just walk this way and see what we can find?”

It’s a good enough plan for me, especially because it means I don’t have to pick a spot. The ramifications for suggesting a good food spot that turns out to be not so good to the other person . . . I don’t want to face them.

“So. I hear you’re a certain soccer star now. Congrats?” I don’t know why it’s a question.

Benji is walking a little faster than I would like, especially with my short legs, and he only just now realizes that I’m a few paces behind him so he slows down, looking as though he’s about to bounce off the sidewalk. Something tells me that Benji never stops moving unless he’s dead asleep. “I’m getting there. By this point next year my name will be everywhere, I’m sure of it. It just takes some . . . getting used to I guess.”

A chink in the armor? Who would’ve thought? “Getting used to?”

“Maybe that’s not the right way to say it. I’m doing good, everything is cool. No worries. My coach thinks that my hard work is paying off and we’ll be set once we start playing season games.”

I nod along, wondering if maybe his coach doesn’t think everything’s good to go, but I don’t say anything. I’ve only just gotten his silent forgiveness and I don’t exactly want to trash it now. “That’s good. You’re all settled into your place then? Where are you staying, anyway? Downtown?” Another thing with us socially awkward people is that we don’t know how to stop asking questions.

Doesn’t seem to bother him though. “I’m actually right around the corner from here. On Sycamore, right where that old rundown building is?”

I try to place it in my mind. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about. You live in one of the houses beside it?”

Benji laughs and shakes his head. “Not exactly. I live in one of the apartments inside of it. I’ll eventually be able to move somewhere better, but this season it’s looking like either a shack or the street. So I went with shack to be smart.”

We keep walking until we hit the line of small shops and a few restaurants throughout the neighborhood. One of them is a personal favorite of mine, and the other one I’ve only been to once. “How about Carlini’s? It’s an Italian bistro. They have pretty good breadsticks.”

“Carlini’s it is then. But warning, those breadsticks better be the shit. I will judge you heavily if they are not.”

The blood drains from my face instantly, even though I know he’s only joking. “I guess it’s a good thing that they are the shit, then.” I manage to smile through my embarrassment, because it’s very clear that Benji knows just the right thing to say to me to set me off. It must be
so
hard for him to be both incredibly sexy and also insanely infuriating at same time.

“And where do you live?” he asks me, opening the door for me to the restaurant. “Let me try and guess. Somewhere cool but not too mainstream, so like a hipster community kind of place. Where everyone wears berets and paints about their dark, misunderstood souls. That kind of thing, right?”

“Who wears berets anymore? Is that a thing?”

Benji rolls his eyes at me. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

It only takes a minute for us to be seated at a booth. The menu is plastic and tacky feeling, but I know it bears no resemblance to the quality of the food here.

“I live about, uh, a mile or so away from your apartment apparently.” There I go with the stupid blushing again. And really, why blush over that of all things?

He raises an eyebrow at me, the smirk on his face all too clear. “Wow. I did not expect to hear that. So we’re kind of like neighbors then. That’s an interesting development.”

It is, but I figured he wouldn’t think that much of it. “Do you know what you’re going to order?”

He twists his mouth to the side while he looks over the menu. It sort of reminds me of something, but I push it down when my stomach clenches automatically.

“You recommend anything in particular?”

“The chicken marsala is one of my favorites, but it’s pretty heavy on the mushrooms and I know not everyone likes them . . .”

“Yet I do. Chicken marsala it is,” he replies, laying the menu down and looking around for the waiter.

“I’m Marcus, your server today. What can I get for you two?” the waiter asks us after he waltzes over to the table, using a very bad Italian accent. Probably a failed actor if I had to guess.

“Yes sir, may I please have the chicken marsala with the salad, some French dressing, and a large sweet tea?” Benji asks, the words rolling off his tongue like honey. I bite my lip. Ordering food should not be that hot.

“Ah, we do not serve sweet tea.”

“Oh. Okay, well then I’ll take a water.”

The server looks at him funny but nods, repeating it back to him before looking my way.

“I’ll take the spaghetti a la carbonara, without the olives. And a large water, also.”

After the server with the bad mustache walks off with our order, Benji leans in like he’s about to divulge some big secret. “I don’t think that guy is really Italian,” he whispers.

I cover my mouth, trying not to laugh. “What gave it away?”

The rest of the restaurant is loud around us, but there’s this protective bubble between us and them. When we finally get our food, we’re quiet again and eating so slowly that others would think we’re moving in slow motion. It was easy before but now, looking right at him across from me, it’s hard to think of anything to say without sounding like a moron.

It probably stems from me being so awkward, that has to be it. Before, when Benji pretty much controlled the evening, I was able to relax and not worry about whatever stupid stuff would come out of my mouth. But now I don’t know.

It’s a sad realization to know that Benji is most likely only taking me out to eat because he feels obligated to for some reason. Maybe because we had a good time that one night.

“What’s up?” His blue eyes are startlingly intense when they look right at you. I feel naked all of a sudden.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know . . . how’s that painting you were working on coming along?”

I snort. “It’s not, but thanks for asking. I hit a brick wall and all of my ideas dried up like a well. Hopefully it will be easier now and I can finish it soon.”

“What’s it a painting of, anyway? Like do you do landscapes like that one guy? The one with the retro 70s white man ‘fro?” Benji sticks his hands way out over his head and I lose it.

“Are you talking about Bob let’s-paint-those-feelings-away Ross?” I ask, laughing in between each word. “Oh my god, I didn’t realize anyone knew who he was. Wow, you really do learn something new every day. No, I don’t paint landscapes really . . . well, I guess that’s not technically true. I did paint this scenic landscape a few years ago for a friend. I’m more into modern abstract techniques.”

“Oh, like Berta James?”

I raise a brow. Is Benji secretly really into art? Because I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose my mind if he is. A jock who loves art? “I don’t know a Berta James, but maybe? Is she a favorite of yours?”

Benji nods like he’s been sworn to secrecy, but ends up looking at me for a moment too long and bursts out laughing. “Ha. No, I just made that up. The waitress and waiter over there,” he says as he points to two people behind me. I turn and see their nametags—Berta, and James.

“But I had you going, didn’t I?”

I roll my eyes and pretend like I didn’t just fall for that. “That makes more sense. If you’re not some secret art lover, tell me something most people don’t know about you then.” I don’t usually pick at people’s brains like this, but I’m honestly curious if he really does have more going on underneath than just the whole soccer genius thing.

“Hmm, something most people don’t know about me. I’m an open book but . . .” he begins, trailing off as he gulps down some more water. “This is a big one. You ready?” He leans in even closer and holds his hand up to block whatever he’s about to say from anyone’s listening ears. “I drool when I sleep.”

“Oh please. That’s hardly noteworthy. This is what a ‘big one’ looks like. When I was twelve, I went through an emo phase. I’m talking dyed shitty weird hair, a fake nose piercing, terrible poetry to go with my sad, sad paintings. Oh, and all the black rubber bracelets you could hope for. I even had all the emo music.”

He takes a bite of his chicken. “It was a phase? You sure?” he deadpans, before cracking up as my jaw drops open indignantly.

And so it goes, back and forth like that through the rest of the meal. We trade silly little things about ourselves like that until I nearly spill my water from laughing so damn hard.

Things I learn about Benji that I’m not surprised about: he won best-looking guy in the senior superlatives each year, starting with his freshman year. He’s only had a couple of sort of serious girlfriends, but none since high school. He got his lunch for free every day back then because ‘
the lunch lady totally had a pedo-crush on me.
’

Things I learn about Benji that are genuinely surprising: His favorite sport to watch isn’t soccer, but football, like his dad and his cousin. He got into soccer because he wanted to be different from everyone else and didn’t like all the stopping and starting when you actually play football. ‘
In soccer, I can keep going the whole time.
’ He also used to have a ten-year-old Golden Retriever named Mimi, but she died a few months before he moved away from South Carolina.

It’s fun having lunch with him and trading these stories back and forth. But I know it won’t last, and the very last thing I want to do is get my hopes up that it could be more than what it is. Nothing more is going to come from whatever this is, and I need to stop pretending it will.

Anyway . . . I’m supposed to be using this to spur my muse back so I can get the painting finally finished. This meeting with him is only really supposed to be helping me with the guilt of how I treated him last time. That’s it.

But when Benji smiles at me as we exchange numbers and part ways at the restaurant, I have to wonder just how badly I’m kidding myself right now.

B
enji

“
I
thought
it never rained here?” Fat droplets of cold rain pelt us while we dart across the street to where my baby is parked.

We jump in, soaking wet and laughing our asses off.

“Well, I don’t know the exact ratio of dry days versus rainy days but it’s mostly dry, yeah. And when it rains? People lose their shit, like they don’t even know what rain is or something. It’s kind of funny actually.” She wipes her wet bangs from her face and collapses back in the seat. “God, I’m so glad to be out of there.”

I hand her a couple napkins from the glove compartment to wipe off with and turn the radio on low. “Rough day?”

This is how it’s been for the past few weeks. Me and Ramona have pretty different schedules but when we do get a chance to hang out, I usually come pick her up at the café and we go hang out for a little while before she’s got to show up to her night shift at her parent’s Laundromat. It’s honestly been the weirdest and most platonic relationship I’ve ever had with a female, and I still can’t wrap my damn head around it. Do I still want to fuck her? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do. But something keeps me from turning on the full game with her.

Ramona dries herself off and tosses the napkins in the back, where everything else gets trashed. “I don’t know, maybe. Some days just drag on more than others. And I hate people in general, so it’s fun to try and cover it up with the world’s worst fake smile.”

I grin at her because damn, she doesn’t know how right she is. “Yeah, I don’t think you would’ve made it as an actress, sorry to say.”

“As if. They would take one look at me and immediately turn me into the black version of Wednesday Addams or something. Not that I would mind, she’s a pretty cool chick and all. But still, Hollywood has a terrible tendency to pigeonhole people and never let them out of their square boxes. And all I do is think outside the box so . . . it wouldn’t have been a good profession for me, no.”

I see it in my head — Ramona dressed up in a short black skirt with a tight black sweater, hair in braids past her shoulders, wearing big black combat boots. The combat boots she has, apparently a precious find at her favorite vintage store. Believe me, I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. But the thought of that tight black sweater, the short black skirt . . . I swallow hard.

I haven’t gotten rid of the image in my head from the first night we met where I had her out of her shirt and shoes at least, and God, the things I wanted to do with her. It was going to be one hell of a night for both of us—that I was sure of. But now we’re in this limbo where I’m not exactly sure what the hell we’re doing.

We’re friends, but I don’t know if we’re taking it further or not. And really, what’s the point, right? I’m not here in L.A. to make friends, I’m here to play soccer. But I don’t find her much of a distraction. I can still do my job and think of Ramona in the off times.

It’s just that there’s something different about her, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Part of it is because she’s not anything like my normal type. But there’s more to it, I can sense it under the surface of everything we say to each other. I thought she was into me at first, especially the way things went down that night at the pier, but now I’m not so sure.

She gives off these platonic vibes, like she couldn’t think of me as more than a friend. It’s the weirdest thing, I swear. I’ve never dealt with someone who only wants to be my friend and nothing more, at least female wise. I don’t get if maybe I just turned her off somehow or what, but underneath everything, it’s irritating me. I’m just naturally curious to know why people do the things they do, I guess.

“So where to?” she asks, drumming her fingers on the door.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I have to go head over to the soccer pitch though before too long. Coach wants to have a meeting with everyone on the team. It’s something we could have done without having to meet out there, but whatever. You could come if you want to, it won’t take that long I don’t think.”

Ramona sets her pretty brown eyes on me and looks at me like I’m crazy. “That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you just drag someone along to.”

“I mean you could sit in the bleachers or whatever. You don’t have to be right there beside us, in fact, that’s probably not allowed anyway. You know, trade secrets and whatnot. I was actually going to . . . never mind.” Shit, I didn’t even mean to bring that up.

And of course she picks up on it instantly. “Never mind what? What were you going to do?”

God, I’m a fucking idiot sometimes. “No. You wouldn’t be interested.”

This time she puts her hand on her hip, her mouth dropping open. “Benji. You can’t just say something like that to someone and expect them not to want to know what the hell you are talking about. What is it?”

“I was just going to have a few beers and play on the Xbox. I’ve never been into video games or anything, but a couple guys on the team suggested picking something else up to do besides practicing kicks and drills all the time. To kind of keep your mind fresh and in the game. I know it’s fucking weird, I don’t even know why I brought it up.” Glancing over, I notice her playing with a gold necklace that dips down right into her cleavage in the black v-neck she’s wearing. She twists it around one way and back again, and it’s so fucking hard to look away because now I’m wondering how I didn’t see the little dark freckle that hides there, tucked away.

Ramona laughs, catching me off guard from my dirty thoughts. “I thought you were going to tell me something off-the-wall, like you secretly collect old greeting cards and wanted to go through them and show me or something. Like you got a stack of old Father’s Day cards ready to share,” she says, gesturing with her hands, like I’ve learned she does often.

I stare out the windshield, gripping the steering wheel tightly in my hands. Sometimes when people say things, it takes a moment for them to sink in and then I realize
ouch
, that shit hurts. But that was an instant flinch of pain Ramona unknowingly delivered.

I can see out of the corner of my eye that she’s staring at me, wondering to herself. “I mean . . . crap. I’m sorry, Benji. Sometimes I forget how to not be cringey around other people.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” My voice takes on that tone that only exists when people refer to their parents or mine. Or really the lack thereof. I don’t know how she knows since I haven’t told her yet.

“I can tell that it’s not a subject you like to talk about, but . . . just know I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

I shrug my shoulders and turn the windshield wipers on, switching the headlights on and easing off the brake as I pull out of the parking space. “It’s cool. No worries.”

A strangled noise comes from the back of her throat but she holds it back, probably not wanting to make the situation worse by saying the wrong thing again. It’s whatever, really. It’s not like I actually knew my parents or anything.

“So you’re getting ready to leave tomorrow, right? You guys are going on your next away game?”

I appreciate the change of subject. “Yeah. Flying out to Denver in the morning. You know what I’ve noticed? I’m not really a fan of flying, surprisingly enough.”

We pull up to my place and I realize I never actually asked her to come over, but there’s a first time for everything.

“It’s pretty nice in here.” She pulls her messenger bag off her shoulder and carefully places it on the small kitchen table. “No nude posters of women or black-light posters with giant pot leaves on them. And look.” she says, pointing to my microscopic living room. “It’s actually clean. I have to say, Benji, I’m pretty impressed with your ability to not live like a total frat guy.”

“Hey, don’t get your hopes up just yet. Most of my refrigerator is filled with alcohol, and there’s probably a ton of dirty laundry laying around my room.” I flash her a grin at the mention of my bedroom, winking because why not? We're friends, so it’s a given to joke around, right?

Ramona bites her lip, leaving me struggling for what to say next.

“No one said anything about going into your bedroom. I have better things to do than mess around with some wannabe sports superstar.” That’s what I imagine her to say, but she just stands there and blushes a dark pink under those pretty freckles of hers again. Well, it’s not a no, exactly.

I grab us a couple beers from the refrigerator as promised and pull out a bag of chips in case anyone gets the munchies. I can do friendly. I can do this, no problem.

Except when I hand her the game controller, my fingers brush against hers and it's like a zap of energy is set off between us. She pulls her hand back quickly, and I realize it's probably static electricity for real and I'm just making shit up in my head.

"
O
kay
, so this game is pretty straightforward. You're given a choice between four different guns. Pick one to arm yourself with and shoot the other guy. And the other guy? Yeah, that would be me. I'm no pro at this or anything, but I'd be careful if I were you. Just saying," I tease her, getting my mindset ready for the game.

I show Ramona all of the buttons and what they do, hoping she's able to catch it all. I might like her, but I don't believe in going easy on someone, for any reason.

The black screen on TV turns to gray and the opening sequence flashes to life, something about war and misery across lands. I don't ever pay attention to it, but the graphics are pretty killer. Joshua always liked to play this game and used to beg me to join in with him all the time. Now I feel stupid for never getting that time in with him. Oh well, no use thinking about it now.

Once we have our characters and weapons, the screen splits in two with me on top and her on the bottom. Pretty fitting if you ask me.

"Okay, I think I'm going to try and do a few practice rounds before I go looking for you," she says, taking aim and shooting at one of the barrels on the screen. "It really shouldn't be this hard to aim."

I can see her location on my map and immediately I start looking for her, hunting her down like the cute prey she is.

Once I sneak up on her, I'm just getting ready to pounce and take the first shot when Ramona spins around, getting a perfect headshot in, earning her the first fatality of the game.

What the hell just happened? I glance at her from the corner of my eye as I respawn in a completely different place. I’ll be damned if she didn't totally game me, playing innocent. She's got the smuggest look on her face. This just got interesting.

* * *

R
amona knocks back
the last of her beer and sets it on the table. "You sure you don’t want to go again? You might get lucky this time . . ."

I clench my jaw, reminding myself not to be a pain in the ass about it. "I think that if I had any luck, it would've shown up the first three times. I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking it's safe to say you whooped my ass. Like there was
consistent
ass-whooping involved. How come you didn't tell me you knew what you were doing?"

S
he settles further
into the cushy couch, putting her hands into the pockets of her sweater. "I thought it would be fun to beat you at something. Besides, people always underestimate girls when it comes to gaming or sports in general. Anything that requires some kind of physical dexterity. And I just
knew
that it was going to aggravate the hell out of you. Was I wrong?"

"I'll be the first to admit that I'm a terrible sore loser. But you won fair and square, as much as I hate say it. Hey, would you mind checking the time real quick?"

I stand up and stretch my arms overhead, catching the way Ramona's eyes drift downward right to where my shirt pulls up and exposes part of my abs.

I want to tell her to feel free to look all she wants, or hell, even touch if she's feeling generous enough. But she quickly looks away and pulls out her phone.

"What time did you say you had to be at the soccer pitch?"

I look up, trying to think. "Oh yeah, four o'clock. Why, what time is it?"

She winces as she flips the phone around so I can see.

"Oh shit, it's already almost 3:30? Man, I need to get going. I'm sorry, Cinnamon, but I gotta cut this short. Coach will kill me if I'm not there on time."

"It's okay, I should probably head back so I can get ready for the night shift at the Laundromat tonight. Thanks for having me over, though. It was fun, especially since I've been holed up in my room for the past few days."

I don't know why, but I feel the sudden urge to touch her so I pat her shoulder, hoping that'll do enough to satisfy the urge. That wasn’t awkward at
all
. "Still having trouble with painting?"

She shrugs her shoulders as if it doesn't matter, but I can already tell it does. You don't have to be an expert in someone to know when they're frustrated enough.

She gives me a small smile and a wave. "Okay, see you later."