Toaster Notes From My Best Friend the Dating-Optimist (A Christian Romance)

Chapter Fourteen

I wake up in a fit of flailing limbs, seemingly eager to be out of bed even before I'm awake. I roll out of bed, landing in a crouch. My head still feels . . . cottony - like I haven't gotten enough sleep. 

The sheets are still clenched in my left fist. I let go of them and stand up, pushing my hair out of my face. I realize how much of a tangled mess it must be, seeing as it already looked bad last night. I cluck my tongue against the roof of my mouth. I frown at the horrible taste that it comes away with. I walk into the bathroom, glancing at Anton's bed on the way by. He's sound asleep in a mass of blankets. 

I look into the mirror, rubbing at my shadowed eyes. There's a line of dried spit running from the corner of my mouth to my chin. My face wrinkles in disgust. I splash some water on my face and immediately feel more awake. It isn't until now that it occurs to me to look at the clock. 8:36 AM. 

Part of me wants to yell. I mean, seriously? I slept for five hours? I'd been so exhausted last night, yet I'm already awake.

I take a peek back out the bathroom door. Anton's still asleep. Coach had told us yesterday that breakfast isn't until 9:30. I take a quick shower and wash my hair. I wring it out in the sink before tying it into a loose knot at the base of my neck. I pull on my favourite shirt and a pair of jeans, hoping it's not too chilly outside. I don't put on any makeup, I'm only going to breakfast with a bunch of jocks. I don't tend to need much anyway, so I look very nearly the same either way.

When I come out of the bathroom the second time, Anton is out of bed. He's standing on the little balcony. He's still in his pyjamas. I join him on the balcony.

"You can use the bathroom now, if you want." I tell him curtly, resting my elbows on the rail. I'm surprised that there isn't a screen to protect little kids. The breeze blows through my wet hair, making me shiver. Anton turns to leave, then stops himself. He comes back to where I'm standing, tilting his head.

"Is everything okay? Ever since our conversation on the plane yesterday, you've been freezing me out." I hang my head, really not wanting to talk about this on five hours of sleep. I shake my head tiredly. Anton looks suspicious, but he walks away. I have a feeling that this conversation isn't over.

I stay leaning on the railing until the cold water dripping down my back gets to be too much with the windchill. I step back into the room, making my bed. The sheets are white and puffy - classic hotel style. Better than the drab, ugly, floral quilts that some hotels like to use. I always think those look dirty.

Anton comes out of the bathroom at quarter after nine. I'm sitting on my bed, reading my so-so airplane book. I bounce onto my feet as soon as he opens the door. My stomach is growling loudly.

"Come on, let's go." There's still an icy tinge to my voice as I grab my thin jacket and go to wait by the door. I realize that I could just go to breakfast without him, but I'm not going to. I don't know how to get to the restaurant.

Anton looks surprised. He grabs his jacket quickly, coming to meet me by the door.

"I'm surprised you're willing to wait for me." He says. His tone is rather neutral, it isn't snarky. I shrug.

"I don't know how to get to the restaurant." I mumble, turning back towards the door. "Let's go." I tell him, opening the door. 

He follows me into the hall. We walk together down a few sets of stairs, around a few corners, and into the restaurant. I glance up at the sign. The Merrymen Tavern.

As soon as I step into the buffet-style restaurant, my ears are assaulted with an explosive level of noise. It's the team - of course. They're sitting near the back of the restaurant at a huge table that's actually three tables pushed together. The floor is a shiny black and white checkered linoleum. The tables are rich brown wood.

Anton sits at an empty place between Five and Twelve. I really need to learn their names. I sit near the end of the table next to a few team members that I don't recognize. Since they don't have their uniforms on, I can't even refer to their numbers.

I eat pretty much in silence until Coach Anderson comes and taps me on the shoulder. I turn to look at her. She looks exhausted. There are dark bags underneath her eyes. She shoves a piece of paper in my face. It's a schedule.

"This is the schedule for the tournament - in case you need to plan ahead." She says blearily. I take the paper and look it over. The first game is this afternoon at three. She hands me another piece of paper. It's the team roster, complete with full names, jersey numbers, and pictures. I grin. This is helpful. I take a quick look at the two guys next to me and match them to their pictures. The boy on my right is Spencer - number fifteen. The boy on my left is Matthew - number two.

Coach Anderson walks to the head of the table, loudly addressing the boys - and frankly, the rest of the restaurant.

"Alright boys, our first game is this afternoon at three o o'clock. We'll start warming up at about two-fifteen. Meet in the gym at about two. The other team will be there at about two-thirty, so we'll have fifteen minutes to ourselves. Got it?" The boys nod in unison and continue to eat. They change their minds and put their cutlery down. They quietly begin to chant, banging their fists on the table.

"Sherwood, Sherwood, Sherwood . . . ." They gradually get louder and louder until they're on their feet yelling. They motion for me to join them. I shake my head briskly, hunkering down in my seat. Despite their prodding, I refuse to chant with them. My face is flaming red. They continue to chant without me, seemingly enjoying themselves. People are staring. Oh my goodness. My face feels like it's going to melt. I'm so embarrassed. -

Since I have time to fill before lunch at one, I go back to my room. There's a master schedule with all of the teams and their games sitting on the dresser. I pick it up and lay on my stomach on my bed. There are four games going on today and four tomorrow. 

The winners will move on in the tournament. The losers will stay in Scotland for the rest of the tournament, but they won't play anymore games. I hear the door open and close behind me. 

Anton comes over to see what I'm doing. I pretend that I don't notice him. I study the groupings for this week. There are five groups with five teams each. Each group will play a round robin today and tomorrow. The winner from each group will move on. Our team is facing Mexico and New Zealand today. We'll face Iran and China tomorrow. Anton points at New Zealand's flag.

"We've heard that New Zealand's team is on something. They're doing a little too well." I continue to look at the sheet, as if I hadn't heard him. He points at China's flag.

"They'd been doing well up until a few weeks ago. One of their best players got sidelined."

"What about Iran? I heard their team is pretty good this year." I say, surprised at myself as the words come out of my mouth. Anton nods.

"Yeah, they and Mexico are the ones we have to worry about I think."

"What about the rest of the countries? Who are the major players there?" Anton flops on his stomach next to me. I shift over without really thinking. As soon as I realize what I've done, my grip tightens on the bedspread. I shift even further to the side to put some distance between Anton and I. I suddenly realize that he's talking.

" . . . and then of course there's France. Their team's doing amazingly this year. They shouldn't have any problem winning the round robin. Germany's doing well too." My stomach clenches. I ignore it and nod thoughtfully, as if I've been paying serious attention. 

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Alright, here's hoping that you don't all hate me.

I've been crazy busy with work, and the time I've had to write has gotten significantly smaller. However, I'm back!

If you'll forgive me, I'll try and get some chapters published in the next few days.

Emma