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Most everyone’s already been picked up. My mom will be here any minute to pick us up. She’s been trying to help out Mrs. Tolar lately because of the baby. Camden catches a ride home with us after practice most days.
“No, like…um all the time?” I strip off my practice jersey, and then my pads, leaving me in my sports bra. I shove everything into my enormous gear bag. I snatch my favorite sweatshirt out and throw it on over my sweaty torso. Whew, I don’t smell like roses either. When was the last time I washed this thing? Ugh, I can’t wait to get home and get in the bath.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Camden grabs his water bottle from the bench, bringing it up to his mouth and spraying it in before he takes a seat down next to me again.
The Zamboni cranks off in the distance and begins its nightly run over the ice, drowning out the potential for anyone to overhear us.
The dull thud I’ve felt in my head for weeks is still there. Even with the medicine my mom has been giving me, it won’t go away. I’m nervous to tell them. I know just as soon as I do, they’ll pull me out of practice and make me go to the doctor. Doctors mean shots, and I am terrified of needles. No thanks.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
I tell Camden everything. Maybe he’ll know what to do. Maybe he has the same pains, and I’m overthinking it.
“Is this one of those things that I’ll get in trouble for later?” Camden scratches his cheek, looking at me nervously.
“Maybe…I don’t know.” I answer honestly.
Camden is the rule follower, and I’m usually the one getting us into trouble. I call it balance. He doesn’t so much appreciate it when we have to face the consequences of my actions.
“Spit it out.” He says when I pause for too long.
My mom will be here any minute. We should be waiting in the parking lot, not sitting on the bench inside. She’ll be mad if she has to come looking for us.
“I’ve been hurting a lot lately. Like, all over. My head. My body. My stomach. I don’t know what’s up, but I’m scared.” I twist my hands together in my lap.
“You talk to your mom and dad?” Camden gives me a wary look.
My eyes snap up to his. “No way. They’ll freak out. They think it’s growing pains.”
Camden opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. He tugs on his damp, sweaty hair, and then starts again. “Ria, you think maybe you should tell them?”
“No, and you better not say a word. Understand?” I stare into his eyes and double dog dare him to say anything about this conversation ever again.
When he doesn’t answer me, I take it a step further. “Spit in your hand, Camden. Do it.”
“That’s gross, Ria.” He reels back and scrunches his nose up at the thought. Big baby.
“Do it, Camden. Or else I’ll tell everyone how you tried to kiss me on the bus in first grade and you ended up with your lips pressed up against my lunchbox when I blocked you.”
I spit in my hand and hold it out between us, waiting for him.
“You wouldn’t.” He hisses. His eyes narrow, and he looks back and forth between my spit-covered hand and the determination that I know is in my eyes.
Oh, I would. And he knows it.
“Spit. In. Your. Hand.” I demand.
Camden looks at me once more and then brings his hand up to his mouth, hocking a loogie into his palm.
I smile.
His wet palm connects with mine, and we shake.
“Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone.” I reiterate.
“Fine. I promise.” He sighs before pulling his hand back and grimacing.
He wipes his palm down the front of his practice pants, and we both stand just before I see my mom and dad walk through the entrance to the practice arena together. That’s weird.
