Page 37 of Love Is a War Song

“Who’s ready for some stickball?! Yee-ow!

” Davey shouted as he stuck his head out of the truck window like a dog.

I laughed, squished in the middle back row between Red and Lottie.

Since Lucas and Davey were playing, we all let them get the legroom, so they wouldn’t cramp before the “bloodbath,” as Lottie called it.

A group of people outside—men, women, and children—screamed back in excitement, lifting brown wooden sticks with small leather baskets at the end.

Lucas parked the truck next to all the other vehicles on one side of a large, open field. So many people were setting up what looked to be a tailgate with food and drinks, camping chairs, and blankets. Canopies were being erected while players gathered to warm up.

Lucas and Davey had all their gear in the bed of the truck along with our picnic supplies to watch the game all day.

A horn behind us started honking rapidly. I twisted as much as I could in the cramped quarters and saw Mary Beth waving from her bright yellow Jeep.

“That’s my baby!” Davey yelled as he hopped out of the truck, folding the passenger seat forward to let us crawl out.

“That’s my man!” Mary Beth yelled back as she parked next to us. She got out and shared a passionate greeting with Davey. We all had to look away—way too much tongue was involved.

“Avery, come over here and give me a hand with the food and chairs,” Lottie called over her shoulder.

I’d never been more grateful for a task in my life.

Davey and MB’s love was palpable, and a seed of envy rooted in my stomach.

I had to force myself not to glance at Lucas and to forget those feelings from our last kiss.

I hopped into the truck bed and scooted the cooler to the edge, and Red wordlessly lifted it and carried it over to the field.

There were two duffel bags, one containing both Lucas’s and Davey’s gear for the tournament, and the second, two thousand mini flyers we had printed for the fundraiser.

Lottie at first said she wasn’t planning on coming to the tournament, but since there had been a slew of showings on the property today, she opted to come with us.

So, we had to get the word out stealthily.

I hated the deceit, but it felt like begging for forgiveness when it was too close to the date to cancel was better than asking for permission—especially knowing how stubborn she was in general.

I looped the handles of both duffels around each of my shoulders and moved to hop off the truck. But before I could dismount, a strong, sturdy, and work-rough hand clasped mine, steadying me.

My Golden Goose–clad feet landed on the dusty ground and that simple touch left me feeling off-kilter as Lucas took his duffel from me and headed to the field. I shouldn’t have watched him go. His hand flexed as if it were in pain. The hand that had helped me.

Mine throbbed too.

“Earth to Avery.” Lottie snapped her fingers in front of my face.

I shook the thoughts and feelings from my mind and smiled at Lottie. “Sorry about that, guess I need more sleep.”

She harrumphed and proceeded to follow the guys toward the field and other groups setting up to spend a day watching stickball.

Men and women in athletic wear jogged to the center of the field carrying their sticks.

Everyone had two, whereas Davey, with his one arm, had one.

The men eyed him and his single stick warily, as if the players with two sticks were really the ones with the disadvantage.

Davey flipped his stick in the air, winking at Mary Beth, who was sitting in her camping chair blowing him kisses.

Lucas and Davey wore blue shirts while their opposing team wore red ones.

Some even had red headbands and sweatbands.

Lucas and Davey kept it simple. Davey’s hair was shorn with no worry of it getting in his way.

I watched as Lucas swept his chin-length hair off his face with a headband.

Listen, I’d seen my fair share of hipsters walking around greater Los Angeles in beanies, man buns, and bandannas, but none pulled off an elastic headband the way Lucas Motherfucking Iron Eyes did.

Two shorter pieces fell out around his face and the sweat on his temple from the heat was already making those hairs curl.

“Avery, would you stop gawking and help me set up?” Lottie barked.

Dammit. Not again.

“Sorry, Lottie.” I hurried to set up our stuff next to where Mary Beth planted herself for the best view of the game.

I grabbed the other end of the big blue sheet Lottie was trying to spread out on the ground.

It was worn through on the left corner I held and there were a few bleach stains, but it was soft from the decades of washing it must have endured.

I set the duffel with the flyers on one corner, not that there was any breeze to lift the edges like you’d experience at the beach in Malibu.

“I hope this wraps up before the weather turns. I don’t like the look of those clouds,” Lottie muttered to herself. I looked up to the sky. It was just gray, but didn’t look too scary to me.

Red came back from his second trip to the truck and dropped our two camping chairs on the ground. I worked to take them out of their travel sleeves and set them up so that Lottie had a more comfortable place to sit while I sat on the ground.

All of our attention was ripped from what we were doing when a huge, lifted army green truck with the top off like those Jeeps in Jurassic Park screeched from the road and into the dirt parking lot.

“Ah shit,” Red mumbled.

We watched as a person jumped out of the monstrosity of a truck: a woman of short stature wearing a bright red cut-off tank, showing off rippling muscles, tight black bicycle shorts, and a fauxhawk.

“Who is that?” I asked as the woman’s friends hopped out of the truck and people started cheering.

“Bad news,” Lottie answered as she opened the cooler, unpacking the sandwiches.

“Damn co-ed teams.”

“Whoa, that’s some ass-backward thinking, Red. I didn’t expect that from you,” I said, shocked by the blatant sexism.

“Ain’t that. Molly Burright needs to stay on the all-women teams. Our guys stand no chance.

It’s gonna be a brutal and humiliating loss.

Her elbows are sharper than a brand-new bowie knife.

She just jabs left and right. Gloats too and it’s relentless.

Calls all the men babies. This is a hobbyist team trying to have fun and she takes it too far.

Terrible attitude, because she knows she is the best,” Mary Beth explained, disappointment coating her voice.

“She’s that good?” I asked.

“Mm hm. Molly is lethal. She is faster and stronger than any of the men out there. Even Davey. He got one tackle on her last year, and she said next time she would get revenge. Don’t worry, baby!” Mary Beth yelled to Davey.

Both Davey and Lucas broke off from the rest of the Blue Team huddled in the middle of the field and met Molly halfway, close enough for us to hear her taunting words.

“Y’all looked surprised to see me,” Molly called as she walked straight up to them, surrounded by her friends and admirers, then hocked a loogie onto the grass, barely missing Davey’s tennis shoe.

I turned to look at the rest of the players milling about and stretching on the field. The Red Team looked smug, while our Blue Team looked like the life had drained from every player’s eyes.

Davey and Lucas stood feet apart at attention, their backs ramrod straight to appear at their tallest.

“Heard you were recruited to play in the stickball World Series out in Mississippi.” Lucas crossed his arms over his puffed-up chest. This athletic posturing was a tad off-putting, but the stakes appeared to be great, given the tension that filled the field in only a few moments.

“The player I was subbing in for had a miraculous recovery, so now I’m here.” Molly turned to wink to the still-growing group of onlookers waiting for the game to begin.

“Aight. We gotta warm up. See you out there.” Lucas jutted his chin. Davey followed suit. Molly jutted her chin back.

“They won’t get hurt, will they?” I asked Red, Lottie, and Mary Beth.

“Not too bad. No one is allowed to whack sticks in faces and tackling isn’t really allowed unless it’s the person with the ball,” Red answered as he cracked open a beer from the cooler. “It’s gonna be an even more interesting game now.”

I nodded, taking a look at the field and the two tall poles that marked either end. It was maybe the length of a football field, not that I was all that familiar with sporting fields or arenas. There were no baskets or anything.

“How do you score points?” I asked.

“Stickball can be played many ways depending on the tribe. Usually you see a casual, fun social version with just one pole to score points on, boys versus girls. But this is tournament-style based on the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians. It’s more competitive with two poles.

They’ll toss a coin to see which goalpost is theirs, then they have to catch the ball or scoop it off the ground with their sticks—no hands are allowed.

Then they have to hit the post with the ball to score. The first team to reach twelve wins.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad. Sounds like a quick game.”

“Ha!” Red choked on his sip of beer and started coughing.

“Oh honey, this game can last hours. It used to last for days, historically. These players take it very seriously and will do whatever it takes to keep the opponents’ ball from touching their post. We will be here for a while.” Mary Beth patted my head like I was a child.

Okay, so we were going to be here for the long haul. That explained all the food and drinks we’d brought.