Free Underneath Everything by Marcy Beller Paul Page B

seearehoodsandhats.Jolenenevercoversherhair.
    Istandonmytiptoesandsearchtheshort,browngrasssurroundingthebleachersbeforeshakingoff theanxietywithaquick,coldbreath.Ididmypart—Igotherhome.She’llbefine.Alwaysis.
    Thewhistleblowsforanotherfreekick.Hudsonturnsandrunstowardtheothergoal,awayfromme.
    Anhourlatertheboysaresilentandsweaty.Thescoreis2all.Thegameisinextratime.Nextgoal wins.Thesun’slightissofter,andthewindispickingup.Thecrowdhasthinned.Jakeandhisfriendsleft tenminutesago.Myfeetarenearfreezing,butIcan’tleave.Ican’tkeepthesewordsinsideme.Ihaveto tellhim,tosayittohisface.IwatchHudson’schestheaveinandout,andmatchmybreathtohis.ThenI repeattherefraininmyheadagainandagainuntilthewordsareallIcanhearandthink.
    A few plays later Cal scores off a perfect cross, and the two tired teams line up to trade slaps and insults.When they’re donewith that, theycollect the flags, gatherthe balls, greetwhoever’s left on the bleachers,andbreakupintocar-sizedgroupsbeforewalkingtotheparkinglot.Theskyfightsforsome lastbitsoflight,untilthesunfinallygivesupandsinksbehindthetalltrees,leavingnothingbutagray sheen.
    Hudson’stheonlyguyleftonthegrassnow,butit’slikehehasnoidea.Eitherthatorhedoesn’tcare.
    He’sonlypayingattentiontoonething:theballhe’sjuggling.Rightknee,leftknee,rightknee.Leftfoot, right knee, head. Even when Bella and Cal walk over to him, Hudson’s concentration doesn’t fade. He finishesaseriesonhisrightfoot,bootstheballintohislefthand, says something to them—only a few words—andwalksaway.
    He’shalfwayacrossthebigfieldwhenIstartfollowinghim.Mybloodpumps,mymusclesloosenup, thesoundofmybreathsurroundsme.SoonI’mjoggingafterhim,desperatehe’llblendintothecharcoal nightanddisappearandIwon’tgettosayit.
    “Hudson!”Icallout.“Wait!”
    Hestopsbetweentwolargerocksthatmarktheoldparkboundary,wheretheblocksoncedivided, andturnsaround.AsIgetcloser,hisfeaturescomeintofocus.Wavybrownhair,wetwithsweat.Dark eyebrows, drawn together in question. The right corner of his lips turning up the tiniest bit. I slow to a walk,butI’mstillpantingwhenIreachhimattherocks.
    “You’rehere.”Hudsonpullsahandthroughhishair,scratcheshishead.
    “Yeah.” I grit my teeth as the words rise in my throat, like bile. I swallow, catch my breath, steel myself.“Listen,I—”
    “That’scool,”hesays.
    What?
    Hepresseshislipstogether,hitchestheballupagainsthiswaist.“Iwantedtoseeyou.”
    Isearchhisfaceinthelowlight,lookingforthehalfsmile,themischievoussquintofhiseyesthat’ll tellmethisisagametohim,thatI’mthesurethinginhisbackpocket,somethingtoplaywithinbetween stintswithJolene.ThatI’msecondplace,alwayshavebeen.Butthere’snolongerasmileonhisface,no upturned lips. Not even a hint. Instead, his look is searching, intense. It’s pulling me in. I look away, beforeI’mlostinhimandIforgethowtosayallthethingsIneedto,startingwith:
    “Youdidn’tcall.”
    “Iknow.”Hudsonstepstowardme.
    “Youdidn’ttext.”
    “Iknow.”Hecomescloser.Icanseebeadsofsweatrunningdownhisneck.
    “Yousaid—”
    “IsaidI’dfindyou.ButIguessyoubeatmetoit.”He’srightinfrontofmenow,socloseIcansmell him.Sweatandwoodandpine.Hesmellsmorelikewinterthanthetreesoneithersideofus.
    Iturntowardthetallsprucestogivemyselfaminute.Allthoseangrywordsarestuckinmythroat, chokingme.Mychest,sotightwithrageasecondbefore,haschangeditsconsistency.Ilookforthehard placeinsidemethathateshimforwhathedid;butit’ssoftnow,asifbeingnearhim,sharingspacewith him,hasmeltedit.Ihatewhathedoestome.ButIkeepcomingback.Becausehekeepssayingthingslike that.Istandthere,staring.Idon’tknowwhattodo.ButHudsondoes.
    Hetakesmyhand.Icanfeelthefoldsofskinbetweenhisfingers,thewarmthofhispalm.Ifallinto stepnexttohim,andwefollowthepatharoundthepond,acrosstheolddividingline,intoDivision18.
    Atfirstwewalkinsilence.Thisishowourconversationsalwaysstart.Butasthebirdssingaseriesof