She Drives Me Crazy(62)

I stop walking. So does she. We face off near our cars.

“What?” Danielle prompts, teeth chattering.

“I love you,” I tell her firmly. “You’re a force to be reckoned with. I think you should stop hiding from people.”

She blinks. She looks completely dazed. “What?”

“You do realize that stepping up to coach your peers through a winning season is pretty extraordinary, right? Especially when you’re still maintaining straight As? You should tell the college admissions people that. You should let them see you. The real, genuine you. Authenticity, remember?”

Danielle swallows and looks away, embarrassed.

“Try it,” I plead, my arms shaking in the cold. “Just try the essay. I promise I’ll tell you if it’s too braggy. But, like, imagine if me or Kevin or Gunther wrote it! We’d brag about you the whole fucking time.”

“You think Kevin would brag about me?”

I roll my eyes. “You tell me.”

She gives me a crooked smile. “Yeah. He would.”

“So you’ll try it?”

She takes a deep breath. “I’ll try it. I’ll probably hate you the whole time, but I’ll do it.”

“Happy to be hated. It’s kinda my thing lately—”

We’re interrupted by a loud beeping over my shoulder. Someone is remote unlocking their car. We turn to see Irene pulling her duffel bag off her shoulder. She’s wearing a ridiculously long parka.

I look back to Danielle. “I think I’m gonna—”

“Yes. Go.”

She doesn’t need to tell me twice. I hurry across the parking lot, my duffel bag bouncing over my coat. “Hey! Irene!”

Irene looks around. Her expression turns softer than I could have hoped for. “Hi. What are you still doing here?”

“Helping Danielle. It’s getting pretty intense with the Candlehawk game coming up.”

Irene stiffens, and I feel like an idiot for saying the C-word.

“Intense because it’s the end of our season,” I clarify. “Not because I care about winning anymore.”

She tips her head, studying me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I smile at her. “So … nice coat. Aren’t those for people in, like, Minnesota?”

She narrows her eyes. “They’re for cold weather, asshole.”

“Arctic weather, Georgia girl.”

“I guess there’s no chance of fixing your dumb sense of humor during this healing process?”

“Unfortunately, that wasn’t part of the deal.” I grin until she rolls her eyes. It warms me to my bones. “Hey, so how are you? Are you ready for SAOY?”

“Yeah, I am.” Her eyes have that familiar spark in them. “I was just making more posters with Honey-Belle.”

“I’ve loved your posters so far.”

“Suck-up.” Her mouth twitches. “I guess you’ve heard Charlotte is back on her bullshit with all these rumors about me?”

I have to fight hard not to say something nasty about her. That’s not what Irene needs. “Yeah. I’m sorry you have to deal with that. It’s hard enough coming out. You shouldn’t have to prove it to anyone.”

“It’s not your fault. She’d find another angle if she had to.”

“Irene, can I ask you something?” I pause, letting the question formulate. It’s something I’ve been wondering for weeks, but it’s a delicate thing to ask. “That picture you have on your phone—the one of you and Charlotte kissing last year—why have you never showed it to her? To anyone? One look at that photo and Charlotte could never torture you again.”

Irene stares at me. Her expression is very serious. “Is that what you think I should do?”

I search her eyes. It’s clear she’s had this idea before. Maybe even considered it.

“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t think you should do that. Do you?”

“No. I haven’t and I never will.”

I swallow down the lump in my throat. I look at her and wonder, is this how it feels to love someone for who they really are? Their core being, their compass, their resolve?

“Irene—you’re a pretty incredible person.” My voice is quivering with emotion. What is it with me gushing to people tonight?

Irene blinks. Her steely gaze settles. “I’m not, Scottie. I just try to do better than I’ve done before.” She pauses. “Same as you.”

We smile at each other. I don’t want to end the conversation, but my body is numb with cold, yearning for the heat of my car. Besides, I have more healing to do.

“Good luck with SAOY,” I say, backing away from her. “I’ll be cheering for you.”



* * *



In the first week of February, our principal finally makes the announcement: Nominations for Student Athlete of the Year will be announced at the end of the day.

“Holy shit,” Danielle says as we’re sitting in morning homeroom. “I wonder how Irene’s feeling.”

I look up from the final version of her Common App essay, which she submitted last week, where I’ve been reading about how nervous Danielle was before our season opener. She has somehow managed to write about coaching our team in a way that is both powerful and humble. I’ve only counted one self-deprecating remark, and she’d written it in parentheses, so I count that as progress.