I don't know which part hurts more, if the muscles of my legs or my lungs. I just know my breaths are needle stabs into my chest and every time I raise a foot from the ground it feels like defying gravity.

I check my wristwatch, swiveling its hard metal case upward—it's a 1931 Reverso my father gave me before my first game. I've been running for more than two hours.

I should really stop now. I can't get frazzled and sore at tomorrow's game, I scold myself.

The start of the lacrosse season is finally upon us. Tomorrow night the Excelsiors will play their first match against the Southwark Public School's Jackals and they need their captain looking at his best. Tomorrow's game is pivotal, not only for opening the season, but because it will be the first time we truly put to the test our new roster, and we will do it in a public confrontation with one of the toughest teams of our district. Odds are even—we either shine or shame ourselves completely.

This is the first time Coach has given us a day off from practice since the team started training together again, after Markus' incident. It's supposed to be an exception to reward our hard work and get us rested to our first match, but I was too restless to really enjoy this break, so, instead of sleeping in, I woke at dawn and went doing laps around the campus.

I come near the lacrosse court, jogging at a light pace around the fence, then I start to slow down and stretch out. Deep in thought as I am, I almost overlook the lonely player on the field. It strikes me with a sudden awareness how easily I pick out that moves, not even needing to read the number printed on the jersey to know whom I'm looking at. The gate to the court is open, so I go through it and call out to her from a safe distance.

"Jules."

She doesn't hear me the first time and I try a second one, a little louder. Also in vain. Jules is too absorbed in her rapid-fire drill to notice me. She quickly scoops up a ball from the ground and shoots it like her life depends on it. She keeps repeating the exercise until she runs out of balls. I watch her go through it over and over, never tired of it. When Jules starts collecting the scattered balls I stroll toward her, but she only acknowledges my presence when I step into her sightline.

"Rogan," she blurts out. "What are you doing here?"

"Good morning to you too."

"Yeah, I mean, good morning. Sorry." Her porcelain skin flushed from running and embarrassment makes her look even prettier than usual.

"I was just..." My sweaty clothes speak volumes, I can't lie, nor can I scold her for disobeying Coach. "Well, the same thing you are doing, I guess."

We look at each other for a couple of seconds and burst into laughter. That beautiful sound—her smile would steal something from a thief. She certainly stole it from me.

"We shouldn't be here, if Coach knows he'll make us pay with our blood after the game."

Jules starts pulling off her helmet as I'm still talking and shakes her tousled hair, gathered in a low ponytail. "Then we'd better go before we get caught."

I nod sheepishly, cursing a hundred times at my idiocy. I cannot believe I'm seriously doing this. Despite all my efforts to stay away from her, I keep falling into her orbit. Before I can think twice about it, I'm saying, "Jules, would you mind going somewhere with me?"

She blinks, surprised. "What?"

I collect my courage and just say it. "I'd like to take you in a place I think you'd love. We can have breakfast along the road."

I catch a sight of uneasiness mixed with confusion on her face, but there's curiosity there too. Reassured by the doubt painted in her eyes instead of downright refusal, I push farther, "You'll be back before sunset—promised."

Jules focuses her gaze on her hands, like taking off her gloves requires every ounce of her attention. I feel disappointment starting to kick in.

"Where would that be?" Jules asks.

"Um," I mumble, taken aback. "It's a surprise. Don't ruin it, please. Just say yes."

I can see she still struggles to accept, so I ask, "Do you trust me?"

Jules nibbles at her lower lip and finally replies with a smile, "Yes."  

  ۝  

We sit in Rogan's car, eyes trained on the L-shaped line of trees in front of us, as the Ronettes fill the cabin with a soft hum. The notes of Be My Baby take us company and strangely help ease the tension a little bit. I look at the sparkling surface of the water, startling Rogan with an audible intake of breath.

"What happened?" he asks.

I shake my head and titter awkwardly. "Nothing. I just saw a fish jumping out and... Sorry, it's stupid—I'm stupid."

"You're not." Rogan chortles, and I can tell from the light crinkles around his quicksilver eyes that he is amused, though the tender look on his face also says he's not mocking me for my reaction. "My father used to take me here every Sunday when I was a child. The lake is full of trout."

I contemplate his wistful expression and think I might have glimpsed sadness there for a second. "My father never was a fan of outdoors activities," I say. "The only fishes of that size I've seen till now are those at the market. They aren't so—lively."

I manage to lighten the mood because Rogan is laughing again. He turns off the stereo then. "Ehi, I know it's not even May yet and the water must be deadly cold, but, what about a swim?"

I don't know what to do and the first thing that my mouth blurts out is, "Will the trout hurt me?"

"Of course not," Rogan chuckles.

I'm out of the car and barefoot before I can even ask myself what my mother would do if she knew I was alone and half-naked with Rogan Montrose, of all people. We play, and laugh, and laugh more. Rogan talks me a little about his family, I lie a lot about mine—well, only about their name, but not about who they are. I tell him of my mother's obsession with decorum and etiquette, and how it inevitably clashes with my own obsession with lacrosse; I don't mention I have a brother, though. We talk more, about ourselves this time. It's a beautiful day, or maybe Rogan's company makes it so, but I don't notice the cold till I'm shaking all over.

"Let's get into the car now," Rogan says. "If you catch pneumonia Coach will have me whipped on the court."

I follow him without protests and cuddle up in the passenger seat of his cyan Corvette. As Rogan turns on the car heater, I can't keep my father's voice from coming back to me: "There are two kinds of ," he would say, reciting the lines of some article. "On the one hand, there's the fire-breathing, hairy-chested sports car often gracing the pages of magazines; but there's also that other Corvette—the garage-kept, low-miles car piloted by a gray-haired gentleman who keeps a California Duster in the trunk."

Apparently, Rogan suffers from such split personality as the Corvette. He's usually so sensible and measured that I'd expected him to drive something like a Volkswagen; but when he holds the steering wheel of his car—or his lacrosse stick—he transforms into a completely different person. He is confident, relaxed, and a bit intrepid. He is the natural leader, the boy I met at my parents' party—and I'm totally fascinated by his two faces.

Rogan quickly puts on his clothes and drives us back toward the Interstate, while I shift under the blanket he passed me to get rid of my drenched underwear and change as well.

"Ehi!" I admonish him, pulling the blanket higher to my chin. "Keep your eyes on the road."

"Sorry, I was just checking traffic."

His gaze snaps back forward and I shake my head disapprovingly at him, not buying the excuse; though, I surprise myself when I find a smile on my lips.

The trip back is quiet, but not awkward. I just sit in comfortable silence staring out the window, lulled by the suffused rumble of the engine as we approach our destination. At some point, late in the afternoon, we pass the colorful sign of a thrift shop and Rogan pulls over to the curb in front of the diner where we had breakfast this morning.

"Why are we stopping?" I ask.

"I thought you could use another round of waffles."

My stomach grumbles loudly in reply, stating an unnecessary agreement.

We take a table in a quiet corner, far from the noisy children near the window, and order the same as earlier today. Rogan is still visiting the bathroom when the waitress brings our plates, but I dig into my ice cream anyway. I have a mouthful of waffles stuffed down my throat when I see Preston and my cousin Theo walk through the door, and almost choke myself. They look around for an empty table and I try to make myself smaller behind the thick ficus half-sheltering me. I'm mentally searching for an escape route and in the same time I peep through the leaves to make sure they're not coming my way. I almost sigh in relief when they turn their attention to the opposite direction, but then I feel the food coming up again, instead—Rogan has just come out of the bathroom.

Damn.

Rogan doesn't look surprised or upset, he simply strolls over to them and stops in front of Theo. From here I can't hear a word of what they're saying, though, my brother's expression is all but genial. The lump stuck in my throat makes me want to puke.

He'll kill me. No, worse, my mother will lock me in a dark basement for the rest of my miserable existence.

I shut my lids close waving my head convulsively, refusing to witness what comes next. I bury my face into my palms and wait.

"Are you ok?" Rogan's muffled voice breaches the buzzing sound filling my ears.

I look up, slowly. The first thing I notice is that he's alone. Alone. He seems... worried?

"Hmp," I mumble. It takes me other two tries and several minutes to spell out, "Yes."

Preston and Theo are gone. They did not see me, did they?

"Are you sure? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Sure." I try to clear Rogan's concern with a tentative smile. "I just ate my ice cream too quickly."

Rogan looks from the finger pointed at the melted mess onto my plate to the other hand rubbing my temple. "Ah. I thought that two Cavaliers had scared you."

I stare him petrified, hoping the lingering shock on my face might pass for confusion.

"Didn't you see them? Preston and Theobald Caldwell were here a few minutes ago."

Rogan eyes me curiously, making me nervous. I don't trust my own voice, so I just shake my head.

"Let it go, they're gone. It's better this way, you don't have to make their acquaintance earlier than necessary after all. Let's eat now, I'm famished."

I don't know where I find the strength to smile back at Rogan.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.