Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(17)

I cut a hand through the air. Enough.

“You’re being so stubborn!”

I rip my phone from the grass, anger tightening my breath to short, painful bursts as I type. You have no clue what this is like. The aids make it worse—what’s loud is even louder, what’s quiet still isn’t audible. And I still can’t find the sound of my voice.

“Ry—”

I stand, palm up, as I type one-handed, Leave it or I’ll drop the class.

“Now, wait a minute.” Aiden springs up from the grass. “You need that class.”

I nod. But I need you to leave me alone about this more, I write.

His shoulders fall as he reads my message, then his eyes meet mine. “Okay, man. I’m sorry.”

Thank you, I sign sarcastically, with a smack to my other hand.

I surprise myself by doing it because I rarely sign. Sign is a language that works quite differently from spoken conversation. When I realized I was deaf for good, it was overwhelming to contemplate learning a new language, especially when I didn’t have anyone to sign with. I bought a book, watched some videos. Learned a little bit in case I randomly bumped into someone like me.

So, after Willa signed sorry in class, I took a chance the next time I saw her. She understood my hodgepodge sign for telling her the food she was making smelled fucking incredible, and it made something in my chest twist with warmth. I liked being able to meet her eyes when I communicated with her, instead of having my head buried in my phone, waiting for her to turn away from me and read my words. It felt closer, more intimate.

Intimate? What the hell, Ryder?

I shake my head as I walk in silence with Aiden back to the car. I must be lightheaded from my run. Willa and I are collaborative partners, and maybe we have a few things in common—stubbornness, a background in soccer, a love of shrimp scampi—but that’s it. We’d gouge each other’s eyes out before we got intimate.

A tap to my shoulder draws me from my thoughts. “Want to go to her game?” Aiden says.

Are you insane? I mouth.

“Probably.” He shrugs. “I feel like it’s the least we can do after nearly sabotaging her eligibility—”

I smack his arm. We? Shaking my finger, I type one-handed, Ohhh, no. This was all you.

Aiden reads his phone, then grins. “Admit it. You like messing with her, even if you didn’t mean to at the outset. Thing is, that’s not going to get you far in teaming up this semester, so this can be your peace offering. You should come, show your project partner you’re not a complete ass. Just fifty percent.”

I shove him, sending him careening into the side of his car. But I don’t say no, either.





It’s shockingly loud in the stadium. I should have anticipated that. I stupidly pictured a women’s soccer game being as poorly attended as they were when I was little. From a moral standpoint, I’m glad that I was wrong. For the sake of my ears, I’m cringing.

The stands are packed with families, coeds, and plenty of locals. Signs decorate the rows and those goddamn vuvuzelas blast from all corners of the stadium. It’s dusk and there’s a hint of crisp coolness to the air that reminds me so much of fall in Washington, it nearly makes me smile.

I’d be lying if I said sitting here doesn’t make me feel like someone slit my gut, took a fistful of my intestines and drew them out. I feel empty and alienated. It’s wrong for me to be on this side of that fence. I belong on a field, the reliable defender in back. Not sitting on my ass, legs wiggling, longing to do what I’ve loved since I could walk, playing the beautiful game.

It’s been two years. I tell myself I’m over my loss, and most of the time I feel like I am. I’m a practical person. Logically, rationally, I recognize my skill is comprised, my opportunity is gone, and that’s reality. I’m also my Swedish mother’s son, who raised me in her culture’s spirit of lagom—just enough, no excess or extravagance, contented simplicity. I had my years of soccer greatness which was extravagance enough. When they ended, yes, I felt shitty for a while, but then I accepted my lagom life and moved on.

I thought I was past grieving what I lost, but maybe grief isn’t linear. Maybe I can accept what I’ve lost and still mourn it. Maybe I always will.

My phone dings. Aiden.

She’s good, right?

I shrug as I type, Decent enough.

Our eyes meet as he rolls his. “You’re full of shit,” he says.

Aiden’s right, I am full of shit. Willa’s not good. She’s not decent. She’s breathtaking. Her touches are fluid, her movement effortless. Her powerful quads flex as she jukes and spins and tricks every one of USC’s defenders, blasting by them and bearing down on the goalie. She’s had four goals and she’s not slowing down.

I barely recognized her at first, because she wasn’t swimming in sweats, and her hair wasn’t in its normal pouf on top of her head. She wears a fitted kit—a jersey that hugs her lean torso and narrow shoulders, shorts that sit on her hips and cut off just a bit above the knee, revealing those defined quadricep muscles every real soccer player develops. But the shit kicker is her face, bare and clear, because her hair is French-braided severely down the back of her head.

It wasn’t until the stadium lights bounced off her forehead, her cheekbones, those insanely pouty lips, that I recognized her. Now, watching her score and smile, I swear I see her eyes light up from here. She’s happy, and her eyes are sunshine bright, the luminous color of melted caramel.