Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(57)

Just some tests because science has yet to understand how I got so manly and shockingly lumberjacked. Nothing serious.

“Lumberjacked.” I snort a laugh, derailed from my concern.

Dinner’s served, and I enjoy the tacos as much as the volley of insults lobbed between Tucker and Becks and Ryder via catapulted food, texts in group chat, hands thrown in emphatic gesture.

I stare at Ryder, feeling weird, un-frenemy things. Which is so stupid. A pointless road to go down. I’m a frizzy-haired, foul-mouthed thorn in his side, not a woman he wants. I mean, we might have, half-asleep and half-drunkenly, dry-humped each other a little. We might have kissed because our brains misfired. We might have made out like goddamn prodigies under that waterfall until we broke apart and it felt all at once awkward and transformed and mysteriously the same.

Giant, dry-humored, snarky, insult aficionado, asshole lumberjack has emerged as my type for down the line, but Ryder Bergman is nothing but my frenemy. Maybe a frenemy I could hate bang if he were up for that kind of thing.

“Willa.”

I jolt, and my mind is now back at the table. “Huh?”

“Want any more?” Becks holds the taco meat bowl out to me. I stare at it, feeling my appetite dwindle.

“No. No, thanks. I’m okay.”

Ryder’s eyes are on me. His hair is pulled back in a man bun so it doesn’t get in all the taco goodness, but he has some salsa in the corner of his mouth. I white-knuckle my jeans as an impulse strikes me to push away from the table and straddle his lap. To kiss that salsa off Ryder’s lips until our mouths burn for a very different reason besides habanero peppers.

His eyes darken as they hold mine and he slowly lowers his food.

“Here we go.” Tucker drops his tortilla chips and wipes his hands on his jeans. “They’re doing one of their stare-downs. Quick, get the timer.”

Becks yanks out his phone, setting it. Ryder and I have in the past engaged in a few juvenile showdowns of unblinking stares. Becks and Tucker have historically placed bets both on duration and victor. But this is not one of those times. This is…something very different, even if I can’t say just what.

His irises are pristine, glittering green. It’s unfair. I stare into their depths, their shades of lush hillsides, soccer fields, dazzling emeralds. My eyes start to water from staying open for so long. Ryder’s jaw tightens as his pupils dilate. A huff of air leaves him, and finally, he blinks.

“Woo!” Becks slaps the table, then sets his hand, palm up, for Tucker. Tucker grumbles and smacks a five-dollar bill into it.

I turn their way and lob a lime wedge at Becks’s head. “I should inspire a higher bet than that, Beckerson. I’m insulted.”

Ryder stands, collecting plates and stacking them. I help clear the table, then dry the plates Ryder washes in a daze, staring at the backsplash tiles. What is going on with my brain and body? And does Ryder feel the same way? Empty and full at the same time, like a balloon about to pop, a bubble that’s grown too heavy. Something between us feels incomplete and unavoidable. Something’s coming. I just can’t figure out what it is.





18





Willa





Playlist: “Stay,” Rihanna, Mikky Ekko





My ears ring. I stare out at the field, stunned. We lost. We lost. People try to console me. Stupid platitudes and empty reassurances.

At least you’re only a junior.

There’s always next year.

Hell of an effort, out there, Sutter.

You did everything you could.

Nothing makes it better. Nothing dulls the sharp pain of disappointment. We didn’t just lose, we didn’t play our game. Our defense fell apart, poor Sam took so many shots on goal I think she broke her personal record for saves in a single game.

Rooney and I were in sync, as always, but it felt like everyone else was passing ten yards behind me or right to my defender. Our only goal was a long shot I took. Rooney flew up the sideline, hit me with a gorgeous pass off the outside of her foot. I cut with it on my first touch and thanked God for my feet’s relative ambidexterity because I cracked that shot with my left and watched it sail over the keeper’s hands, rippling into the net.

And then I watched Stanford drop four goals over the remainder of the game. I saw Sam defending that gaping box like a woman facing a firing squad. And I was helpless. I was stuck at the top, useless except to try everything I could to put more past Stanford’s keeper. I could barely get the ball, and when I did, they triple-teamed me. My teammates took shots, some on target, but none with enough power or finesse to sneak by their keeper.

That feeling of helplessness gnaws inside me. It does not diminish after Coach’s consolation talk. Not as I pack up my gear and walk, head hanging to the bus. Not on the four-hour ride home. Not on the call with my mom the moment Rooney and I stumble inside.

“You did your best, Willa Rose. You should be so proud.”

I sniffle as tears stream down my cheeks. “My best wasn’t good enough.”

“Your best is always good enough,” Mama says. “Your best just doesn’t always mean that things turn out how you want.”

Wiping my cheeks, I exhale shakily. “I know. I just don’t like that.”

Mama’s chuckle is hoarse yet familiar. “Well, at least you can admit it.”