Two weeks later, I finally get to play the game. I'm bouncing on my toes in the grass, my laces tied tightly and my equipment strapped around my body. My dad gives me a thumbs up from the stands. I take my helmet off and swipe my forehead, getting rid of the sweat that collected at my hairline. I see his eyebrows pull together. "You okay?" He's asking silently. Slipping my helmet back on, I nod. Malia takes a seat beside him and buttons her denim jacket over her chest because of the chill on the wind. She smiles at me before Scott pulls me away.
"If you feel anything, you let me know, alright?" He speaks seriously.
"You really don't need to worry about me."
"Yes, I really do." Coach blows his whistle and has everyone huddle in a circle.
"Alright, girls. I have nothing to say except…don't get your asses kicked. And keep your eyes open. I'm talking to you, Greenberg, you little sissy. Closing your eyes doesn't make the monsters go away." Coach claps once, sending us out on the field. Scott's helmet to helmet with the other team's captain. The Ref drops the ball between them milliseconds before Scott scoops it up. He immediately passes it to me as if saying "I'm trusting you."
I run with it. I run past my teammates without a second look, breezing past coach and the crowd. They're all background and there's nothing stopping me. I'm seeing so so clearly. Is this what drugs feel like? Like I'm in the fast lane? I want to scream at them, "do you feel it? Are you feeling this?" I swing. One after the other. Goal goal goal. I'm programed for this. I'm hearing my name. Malia's saying it, my dad, other dads, everyone. I'm eating power. The power of the vibrations in my feet, the absolute excitement; untainted by shots made by anyone else. The power to excel. There is nothing for me to fear.
"Stiles." My head pops to the side, hearing too well. "Are you coming?" Malia's hand is in mine. The rest of the game is a blurred water color painting, but by the look of things now, it must've went well. We must have celebrated because of the smiles on the players faces, Gatorade cups in hand.
"Ice cream time!" My dad smiles when he puts his hand on my shoulder. I'm not playing little league anymore, but that doesn't mean I'm not excited for ice cream after a big game.
"God I can't decide. Mint chocolate chip or pistachio?" Malia pulls at her hair, driving herself mad over the choices.
"Ew. Since when has it ever been a problem for anyone in the history of anything to choose between sweet sweet heaven and garbage cream? Why on earth would you choose pistachio?" I turn around in my front seat to question her.
"You don't know unless you've tried it!"
"For your information, I have. And I puked. Puked! And pistachio looks disgusting, for the record." I squint my eyes at her.
"Oh they're both equally green," she hisses and waves me away. My dad pulls into the small parking lot of the shop and we get out. Malia and I go to the counter while my dad talks with a deputy who had brought his son as well.
"Moment of truth," I whisper in her ear.
She straightens her back and with confidence she says, "Pistachio." The girl behind the counter stares for a second. She even thinks pistachio is an abomination and she spends all day around it. After we get our ice cream and my dads, we open the trunk of the sheriff's car and sit in it cross-legged leaning over the edge in case we drip. "Mmm," Malia sighs over the two wads of ice cream stacked on her cone. "Yep…I really know what I'm doing when it comes to desserts." Dad comes over and retrieves his banana split.
"Yes…" He laughs manically. "I will treat you so so well."
"Getting a little creepy there…don't you think?" He takes a savored bite.
"Oh no no, I'm not," he coos at it like a baby. Well, he only gets sugary desserts on the nights we win games, so basically, it's a rarity and he'll protect it with his life.
"I spy a Malia checking out my mint chocolate chip." She nods, agreeing, and I switch with her. She has a bit of the green liquid on her lips and I want to lick it off even though its the dreaded pistachio. The only reason I don't is because my dad is sitting two feet away with Deputy Pike and his son who would probably get off on it. I watch her bite into a chocolate chip, savoring the taste of it all. Everything she does is so interesting it's unbelievable. I find myself watching her brush her teeth in the morning and at night or when she puts on Chapstick. These things all take place with her mouth, but it's not about that. It's that everything she tastes is almost brand new to her after all her years as a coyote, it's so fascinating to witness. She smiles and takes her cone back but keeps mine too, switching hands so that mine is on my side.
"Share?" I take a chunk off the top of mine and go back to watching her make a mess of it all. She puts both lumps on cones together and gets both flavors. "Yes!" She's successful with her flavor combination. I line her hands with napkins and pluck the chocolate dust off of her chin. I sit back and tap my foot alone with the music coming from the two-windowed shop.
"Thanks, Sheriff, but I'll just run home. I haven't in a while," Malia tells my dad when he offers to drive her home.
"Malia, just get in the car. I know you'll just sneak in Stiles' window anyway, so you might as well just come home with us." Her eyes widen at the information that he indeed knows about her late night arrivals. He would have found out eventually anyway.
Malia takes a shower when we get to the house and changes into a pair of my boxers and one of my old blue sweatshirts. "Comfy?" I ask. She nods, her eyes pulling out at the sides with a smile. She puts herself under my plaid blanket, kicking her feet until they're quilted just as she likes them. I know she always thinks it's cold in my room, so I turn on the space heater and roll it to her side.
We assume the position. Her arm underneath her pillow, the other over my side, hand resting on my stomach. I nuzzle my back against her front and she puts her face into the crook of my neck. It's cozy; our clothes brushing up and our hands locked together somewhere in between the rest of our bodies. There really is no shame in being the little spoon.