Catnip

05 | In Which Maya Reigns Supreme

“So why do I need to be here?”

“For moral support,” Caleb explains through gritted teeth. “Marnie fought like hell to get on this team. The least we can do is cheer her on.”

“She’s your friend.”

“Exactly.”

“Not mine.”

“What’s your point?”

Maya folds her arms across her chest, sulking. Caleb sighs because, honestly, he doesn’t want to be here, either. Soccer’s never made much sense to him. Not the logistics of the sport itself (those he understands, having read plenty of online articles explaining the offside rule and detailing the differences between midfielders and strikers) but, rather, the very notion that guys (and, as Marnie would insist, girls) can run around a muddy field for ninety minutes, kicking a football from teammate to teammate, and gain any source of enjoyment from it. Where is the fun in being just one piece of a collective whole? In knowing that, no matter how much you practice, no matter how well you perform, your success still hinges on the shoulders of ten other people whose skills may not be on par with yours?

And why the fuck do professionals earn thousands of bucks for their efforts per week when most everyday citizens struggle to rake in that much cash in a year? Hell, it’s not even entertaining; he’d have twice as much fun watching one of those shitty Real Housewives shows, and he wouldn’t need to leave the comfort of his home on a Saturday afternoon to do so.

(Then again, staying at home’s hardly a comfort with Cinder around.)

(Damn mutt.)

Caleb fights through a gaggle of irritatingly slow walkers in his haste to reach the spectator benches. Maya follows at his heels, grim-faced and sombre like a kid on a funeral march. So much for this great idea.

“Try not to look too happy,” he says, but she refuses to acknowledge him, just continues walking with her arms still crossed. Good times, good times. “Seriously? Is it that bad?”

“I had stuff to do today.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff.”

“Well, so did I. Deal with it, princess.”

She glares, and if looks could kill Caleb’s certain he’d have shrivelled up like a plasmolysed cell by now. With another sigh, he leads the way up the stairs to the top bench and holds his arm out, gesturing for her to go in first.

It’s busy already, the field and benches jam-packed with teachers and teens and parents alike, all waving banners and singing their support. He spots Daniel and his dad standing a few rows away, the former’s arm wrapped around an unmoved Brittney. She catches his gaze before he can avert it, but rather than give him her usual ice-queen-worthy glare she just rolls her eyes, and Caleb can’t quite decide what to make of that. Did eating lunch with her last week promote him from unofficial rival to unofficial rival/apathetic accomplice?

“I don’t get why we have a soccer team, anyway,” Maya mutters, giving him an excuse to look away. “Football or baseball, sure, that’d make sense. But soccer? Seriously? The only time anyone here gives a fuck about soccer is during the World Cup.”

“Maya –”

“And even then it’s half-assed.”

“Maya –”

“You know what a good sport is? Swimming. How come no one’s queuing up to watch a swimming match?”

“We watch your swimming matches all the time,” Caleb points out. Then, with a smirk, adds, “Well, on the rare occasions you qualify for anything.”