"Team dinner this Friday," Alex informs us at the end of our game on Tuesday. I love the way he often speaks in sentence fragments, as if he can't be bothered to tidy up the thought with extra words. He's poking at something on the iPad as he spells out the details of our dinner.

"Instead of practice?" Ariya asks, hopeful.

"After practice," Alex corrects her, unamused. Several girls giggle.

I let my mom and dad know about the dinner during our drive home from the game.

"Sounds fun, sweetie," Mom says. "Dad can pick you up if I'm still at my equity meeting, or just grab a ride home with one of the girls."

"Okay."

"Who's been dropping you off after practice on Fridays, by the way?" Mom inquires.

Shit! I have been avoiding the decision about whether to mention my carpool buddy to Mom and Dad, so I'm unprepared for this question, which means I'm about to royally screw up this conversation.

The decision is already pre-made, however, because I am incapable of lying to my parents.

"My coach has been dropping me off. So what happened is I actually forgot I needed a ride the first week, and by the time I realized it, everyone had left except the coaches." The breezy explanation floats off my lips with shocking smoothness.

"Your coach Steve?" Mom clarifies, sounding surprised but not concerned.

"No, Alex. He lives this same direction, so he said he can just drop me off on Fridays." I'm grateful that dusk is falling and I'm in the backseat, thus less exposed for this interrogation.

"Hm," Mom replies with a "pondering" sort of tone. "I doubt the school condones coaches driving students in their vehicles. Maybe you should get a ride with one of your teammates."

"I guess," I answer, with my best effort at nonchalance.

"I don't think I would have condoned you riding alone with a male coach, either, had I known about this sooner." Mom's voice is even, and I'm relieved she isn't reacting more harshly. I am eighteen—an "adult," technically—but we both know I'm naïve and inexperienced in most aspects of life.

Before bed, I see Alex has texted me:

I can still drive you home, after the team dinner.

With a winking emoji.

* * *

After practice on Friday, most of us shower and change into fresh clothes for our team outing. A year or two ago, there is no way I would have showered in the school locker room. Although I'm far from comfortable doing it now, I recognize that I've made some progress.

I would be dreading this dinner, except for the fact that I'll be able to steal glances at Alex all evening.

I change into my new favorite outfit, a multi-colored spring dress my Tía Leti brought for me from a well-known Latino market in L.A.

The girls are all gossiping, blow-drying their hair, putting on makeup and primping for the evening. If I'm being honest, I find the whole scene supremely annoying.

"Think Alex will like this dress?" Beck asks coyly, turning around in the mirror. Her cleavage is bulging out of the top.

My heart stops beating.

"Oh my God, shut up about him already," scolds Kelsey, rolling her eyes. "He's way older than us."

Way older?

"Yeah, Beck, I'm sure he's totally looking at high school girls. He'll take one look at your boobs in that dress and want to marry you on the spot!" Ariya rips into her with dripping sarcasm.

Jealousy and reality rip into my heart. A boulder-sized lump invades my throat like a tumor. If I had any valor whatsoever to do what I need for myself, instead of doing what's expected of me, I would have someone drive me home and skip this God-damned dinner.

"Natalia," calls Ariya, snapping me from my spiral of misery. "Let me do your makeup!"

I don't seem to have the energy to protest or shrivel back in shyness, or perhaps my resignation has overshadowed my shame responses, but I just shrug in agreement.

"Great! You will look so gorgeous," Ariya exclaims.

"Natalia already is gorgeous," Shelly corrects her, and I peer up with intrigue. Shelly is a cheerleader, and I remember being intimidated by her when I first learned she was joining our volleyball team last year. She is beautiful, with long, golden-brown hair and a perfect body with curves in all the right places.

"Okay, hold still," Ariya instructs as she lifts a liquid eyeliner up to my face.

I take a breath to steady myself, then flinch back at the last second.

"Just, not too much, please?" I say, breathless.

"Not too much what?" asks Ariya.

"Not too much makeup."

"Relax, you're gonna look stunning when I get gone with you," she declares with bold confidence.

"I just don't want to look..." My words trail away, losing their power and their meaning, even though there's a very specific need I'm trying to convey.

"She wants to look like herself," Shelly finishes for me. She smiles subtly at me.

When I met her, I thought she would be vain, judgmental and irritatingly peppy. It turns out, Shelly is deep and unfailingly kind.

Ariya completes my makeover, going easy on me after multiple reminders from Shelly. When I look in the mirror, I'm surprised by my mind's interpretation of the image reflected in my eyes. My brain registers beauty.

* * *

Our coaches are already seated at a large banquet table when we arrive at Chili's. I've ridden with Kelsey, Beck, Shelly and Ariya, and another car-full of girls has arrived right before us. I'm the last one to enter from the massive group filing inside. I stare indiscreetly at Alex, observing his reaction to our arrival.

He salutes the girls as they shuffle by him, not really meeting anyone's eye. He's looking over his menu.

"Hi, Alex!" Beck greets him with a certain emphasis I wouldn't have noticed had it not been for the conversation that took place back in the locker room. He looks up, shoots her a bland smile that doesn't extend to his eyes, and waves his hand in an obligatory, almost sarcastic manner.

"Beck," he replies curtly. I don't notice his eyes travel down to her cleavage, but who knows? Guys are probably very practiced at being discreet about that.

Alex's eyes suddenly lift from the menu and dart around the room. We make eye-contact, on which I don't place much meaning, seeing as how I've been staring at him for the past two minutes. He smiles wide. I remind myself that we have spent quite a bit of time together over the past weeks, as compared to the other girls; in a sense, we're now friends. Thus, a smile is a reasonable, expected gesture.

I'm scoping out the open seats. Alex gestures for me to sit across from him.

"Here, Nati," he tells me, pointing to the empty chair. Oh my God, here we go.

I settle into my seat, and I feel Alex's eyes on me. When I peer up, he smirks. I've always heard that word in books—"smirks"—yet I could never quite picture what it looked like. Now I know. His expression is so attractive I feel like I'm about to pass out.

Alex is wearing a light-blue dress shirt that contrasts perfectly with his rich honey skin, and his hair has some kind of product in it. His skin tone is tanner than normal now that the weather has turned sunny.

"You clean up nice," he says to me in a low, crystal-clear tone. The sentence is directed as a personal message to me, as if he slipped it in an envelop and passed it straight into my hands under the table. No one else seems to hear it.

My teammates giggle, chat and shriek at unimaginable volumes around us. At one point, Alex grabs his forehead in his hands as if suffering from a massive migraine. I can tell he's joking around, even though his face is dead-serious.

"Am I allowed to order a beer?" he asks with unsmiling humor, plucking up the drink menu from the table.

"No," responds Steve, deadpan yet emphatic. It's the only word I've heard Steve utter so far tonight. He's an interesting guy—harmless, but strange nonetheless. His hair is always cut short, just shy of a buzz, and he possesses one of those immemorable faces that's neither handsome nor unattractive.

I turn my attention back to Alex, whose shoulders scrunch forward in a stifled laugh as he winks at me.

And I swear to God, over the next hour Alex and I make eye contact about three-hundred and seventy-eight times. We don't exchange a word, but his eyes go chameleon, lighting up gold as they dance with mine, darkening to spotted sea-green as he locks me in with a serious expression, and finally blazing in a rainbowed mosaic as he engages me for the first time in conversation.

"How was your dinner?"

"It was good," I reply, feeling like an idiot because I can never think of another adjective besides "good" with which to respond to questions. It is ironic, seeing as how I'm one of the top writers in my Advanced English class.

"I've never seen someone consume a hamburger with a fork and knife before, to be honest," Alex comments, making fun of me.

I giggle nervously. The waiter is clearing our plates, and several of the girls are getting ready to head out.

"Just trying not to ruin this dress," I defend, shrugging.

"That would be a shame," he replies, and this is the first time that I am completely certain he is blushing. I see the color of his cheeks change right before my eyes.

"I'll be back." I stand up, shoving my chair back with the elegance of a warthog, and shuffle on shaky legs to the restroom.

When I exit the bathroom, Alex appears out of thin air to intercept me in the hallway. I can't help but wonder if he was waiting for me.

"Natalia Stevens," he calls quietly. "You did not answer my text."

"Which text?"

"The other night. Can I take you home?" His voice is low and deep.

Oh, right. I fell asleep on Tuesday night before I could figure out how to respond to his text, overanalyzing the decision after the conversation I'd had with my mom about my Friday rides home.

"Um, sure."

"Great, come on." We walk back to our table together, and pretty much everyone has cleared out.

"Natalia, do you have a ride?" Steve asks me as he pulls on his jacket.

"Yeah, my dad is on his way," I easily lie.

"You'll wait with her?" Steve asks Alex.

"No problem."

We're standing on the same side of the table, and Alex plops back down in his chair as Steve departs, so I follow suit.

"Look at this!" Alex pulls out his phone and plays me a hilarious montage of epic volleyball fails. We crack up together. At its conclusion, I look at Alex expectantly, assuming we'll be taking off now. He taps my arm with the back of his hand, a nonverbal gesture telling me to relax.

"We've got time," he says, scrolling to pull up another video. "This one is so funny." He scoots his chair towards me and leans in so we can both see the screen better. A few seconds in, he adjusts himself forward in his chair, and our knees are now touching under the table.

My eyes are on the screen, but my brain registers nothing. I may as well be watching ants carry crumbs across the desert. With extreme effort, I inhale a deep breath and re-focus my mind on the images of people getting smacked in the face with volleyballs.

At a particularly amusing moment, we both burst out laughing, and Alex swings his legs so they press harder into mine under the table.

"Should we get dessert before we go?" he asks me after slipping his phone into his shirt pocket.

"What?"

"I mean, we could have a beer, but I'm pretty sure you're under age." There's an extremely awkward pause, and he apologizes. "Sorry, stupid joke. I would never offer you alcohol."

He fidgets around, and I can tell he's uncomfortable with the comment he just made—and I'm pretty sure it has more to do with the age part than the alcohol part. Alex doesn't repeat his dessert offer; instead, we head out to the parking lot. He opens the car door for me.

"Thanks for taking me home," I say.

"Nati, you don't have to thank me. I think it's pretty clear by now that I enjoy your company. Now that I've gotten you out of your shell a tiny bit."

My thoughts are battling inside my mind, unable to make sense of my present circumstances. All the signs are pointing one way, but I have no prior experience to validate what I think must be happening. Part of me is convinced Alex just sees me as a friend, or an awkward player he's enjoying drawing out of her shell—like a mentor.

"My parents will be home when we get there, so..." I don't know exactly what I'm trying to say, or how to say it.

"Do they not know I take you home on Fridays?" Alex asks.

"Actually, I told them. But they were a little hesitant. They said it's probably against the rules for coaches to drive players. Does Steve know you drive me?"

"I've been considering telling him. I don't want him to think we're hiding something."

Does this mean we are hiding something, or that there's nothing about what we're doing that we need to hide?

"That dress is fire, by the way."

"Thank you?" My voice is a spiderweb strangling my vocal chords. I swallow hard.

"Sorry about what I said earlier at the restaurant; that was stupid," Alex says, his tone softer than normal.

"It's fine. How old are you, by the way?" I can no longer hold back the question that's been in the back of my mind for weeks. My chest is like ice.

"Twenty-one," he replies automatically. "Please tell me you're eighteen?"

"I am eighteen."