Love Won (Winning at Love book 1) Read online

  But then he has to go and open that damn mouth of his again. “Looking sharp, Sprinkles. And it was good to see you, too,” he says, a satisfied look on his face. And I remember. I remember it all…

  McCoy Graves was a jerk…and apparently that hasn’t changed.

  My name is Eastlyn Hatfield, and I am now officially un-addicted to Açaí Bowls.

  3

  Two Left Feet

  May 2003

  “It’s all right, Eastlyn. You’ll be okay,” our school librarian, Ms. Masters, says. She and my best friend, Kami, guide me and my aching ankle into the school’s main office. “I’ll grab some ice for you, then I’ll call your parents. I’m pretty sure it’s just a sprain, but better safe than sorry.” She offers me a kind smile and a quick nod before marching off for the ice.

  “Maria, can you please call Mr. Nguyen to the office for some first aid? Eastlyn Hatfield has taken quite a tumble, and I’d like her looked at,” I hear Ms. Masters calling down the hall.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” I say, shaking my head as Kami helps me prop my very sore and swelling left ankle on a stool. “Did that crash-landing look as bad as I think it did?” I stare at my best friend since kindergarten, hoping she’ll soothe me by saying that my tumble into the hurdles wasn’t as mortifying as I think it looked, and felt. There’s always a chance I might have pulled it off gracefully, like a top-notch Olympian…

  She pauses a beat too long, I already know before she speaks that my fall was not as elegant as I hoped.

  “It was pretty bad, East, I’m not gonna lie. You could probably win the grand prize on AFV with that one,” Kami laughs, referring to her favourite television show.

  “Great,” I mumble. “I guess it’s just too bad no one was around with a video camera, or that the show is called America’s Funniest Videos. Good thing we’re in Canada, Kami.” I wince as a sharp pain shoots through my foot when I wiggle my toes, testing myself.

  “Nah, they accept videos from all over. You coulda had your fifteen minutes, but it’s all a pipe dream now,” she sighs, and I shake my head.

  “Maybe next time,” I joke. Not going to happen.

  “You know you’re supposed to jump over the hurdles, East? Not crash into the first three and take them all out as you flail down the track. How did that one get so tangled around your legs?” she says, trying to hide a laugh behind her strawberry-blonde hair.

  “I hate you,” I joke, trying to change positions. “But you better get back out there. Tryouts will be done soon. I don’t want you to miss your chance,” I say.

  Kami is dying to be on the track team. She’s been training for the long jump and the 400 metre relay race all year; the last thing I want would be for her to miss out on a place on the team because of me. She and my older brother, Keaton, have been working so hard—training together since forever—so she’ll no doubt be a shoo-in for a spot this year. Now that we’re in the seventh grade, we’re allowed to try out for senior track team. It’s a spot Kami has coveted since we were in Grade Three, when she started running with Keaton. I, on the other hand, hate running. Loathe it, actually, but as far as best friend duties go, this is the kind of crap we do for each other, so I’d agreed to try out for the track team, too. I probably should have trained a bit more, and maybe looked into what exactly hurdles were before today…but, whatever, I’ll know for next time (not that there’ll be a next time, but you know what I mean).

  “No way. Keaton will kill me if I leave you here, especially with him away on a field trip all day. What if it’s broken?” she says, rolling her hazel eyes.

  Keaton’s class got to go to some sports camp thing at McMaster University for two days this week—a trip solely for the Grade Eights—one I can stand to miss, unlike many of my seventh grade track peers who can’t wait for it to be next year so they can go themselves.

  “No, he won’t,” I say. “He’ll be more pissy if you miss tryouts. And I’m fine. It’s definitely not broken. It would hurt a lot more, and I’m pretty sure the teachers would be moving a lot faster if it were. Besides, one or both of my parental units will be here soon to take me to the doctor, or wherever,” I say, just as Mr. Nguyen walks into the office.

  “Ahh, the ever-coordinated Miss Hatfield.” The gym teacher chuckles to himself as he teases me.

  “I told you, gym and organized sports aren’t my thing, sir,” I joke back. He’s taught me enough Phys. Ed. over the years to know that me sitting here injured shouldn’t be a shock whatsoever.

  He crouches in front of me and begins assessing my foot.

  “Ouch. Go,” I tell Kami.

  “You sure?” she asks hesitantly.

  “Kami, go kick butt.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you later,” she says, then bolts out the door.

  “Good luck,” I call, with another yelp as Mr. Nguyen moves my foot in a way that makes me want to kick him in the teeth.

  “I think you’ll survive. It looks like a bad sprain. I suggest you get it looked at by a doctor to be sure. I’m going to check if they’ve reached your parents. I’ll be right back.” He stands, after placing the bag of ice Ms. Masters has brought around my swollen ankle. He gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then walks back down the same hall Ms. Masters took moments before.

  “I figured it was just sprained…” I mutter to myself, as I hear the door to the office open again. I’m about to give Kami heck for coming back, but the words get lodged in my throat. It’s not Kami. It’s that new kid, McCoy Graves. Word is, he and his family just moved to Guelph because his grandfather passed away and his family wanted to be closer to his grandmother.

  Suddenly, I feel hot. A little sweaty, too. I haven’t talked to the new boy yet, but I’ve seen him, though, that’s for sure. He’s sort of hard to miss, with those piercing blue eyes, that short brown hair—styled perfectly—that rivals the haircuts of the coolest boy bands, and, of course, that lopsided and dimply smile. Not that I’ve been on the receiving end of it or anything. No, I’ve only seen it from afar. But there’s something about him that definitely makes me perk up whenever I’ve seen him. Even if he is a year ahead of me, and even if this is only his second day here at Rickson Ridge Elementary, I’ve definitely taken an interest. Along with every other girl here.

  “I hate this stupid place.” He’s seething. He takes a seat, not noticing me. His face is red and he’s breathing heavily. Tiny beads of sweat grace his forehead. I wonder what happened, besides the obvious of him being the new kid with only a month of the school year left to go. It can’t have been easy on him leaving his old school and coming to a new one this far into the year.

  McCoy should technically be on the trip to McMaster along with Keaton, since he’s an 8th-grader, too. Rumour has it that it was too late to get his permission form in, and the school had to give final numbers for the trip two weeks ago. I suppose having to stay back from the trip would piss off an athletic guy like him, especially because it’s a sports camp where some of our city’s best trainers work with the students for two full days. And he’s definitely athletic. I know, because I was keeping a keen eye on him—over in centre field where he was playing soccer shirtless—when I should have been leaping over the massive hurdles that jumped up and attacked me. Something I will never admit to anyone, of course.

  I decide to announce myself. McCoy’s language is getting worse as he mutters to himself, and I don’t think he needs any more grief, especially if our principal, Mrs. Lubicks, were to walk in and hear him. Taking a deep breath, I open my stupid mouth and let the words—the wrong words—fall out.

  “You shouldn’t swear so much. You might get into trouble,” I say.

  He tilts his head, saying nothing, so I smile and continue to make it worse.

  “How do you like it here so far, McCoy?” What the heck is wrong with me? Hello, Captain Obvious, listen much?

  Thankfully, he gives me nothing. He simply stares, silently running those piercing blue eyes up and down my bo
dy. It’s unnerving, and it ignites a strange sensation within me. I’ve never been under such intense scrutiny, especially not from someone like him: a boy.

  Finally, our eyes meet. He cocks his head and puts his dimples on display in what my mom’s Cosmo magazines (that I steal) would describe as a “sexy, crooked smile”. He’s even cuter up close than I thought. Well, until he opens his mouth…

  “Oh, yeah. I’m just loving every second.” He shakes his head, clearly irritated with me, before adding a dig of his own. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? Two left feet? You know you’re supposed to jump over the hurdles, not crash into them, right? That was a disaster. You’re lucky if you don’t end up in a cast for the whole summer,” he says, jutting his chin towards the ice on my foot.

  Oh. My. God. He saw me fall.

  Abort!

  Abort!

  Abort!

  He continues talking, but all I can hear are alarm bells going off in my head as something beyond mortification takes over. I sit in silence, waiting for someone to come and save me. Thankfully, twenty minutes later, my dad comes charging into the office to give me a rescue.

  *

  Later that night, after the doctor confirmed my sprain, instead of gossiping to Kami over the phone about my run-in with the new kid, I decide to open the pink skull-covered diary my mom recently bought me that I hadn’t yet touched. Little did I know that “May” would soon become the special place where I shared every single McCoy incident, fantasy and feeling for many years to come.

  May 8, 2003

  Dear Diary,

  Is that the right greeting? I’ve never had a diary before. My mom bought you for me as a “Welcome to Puberty” gift thingy. She got one for my best friend, Kami, too. Who I’m sure you’ll hear all about, if I actually write in here again after today. To be honest, this feels kind of dumb, like I’m talking to myself. My mom says this is the best way for us girls to speak freely, and that you’ll be the keeper of my secrets, especially as I’m starting to grow and change. Mom promises that she and dad won’t ever read you.

  Either way, you’re going to need a name if we’re gonna be friends. How about May? Seems fitting, since it’s the month of May and we are about to start this journey together—me the secret giver and you the keeper.

  I’ll tell you my first secret: I sprained my ankle today trying to do hurdles. I was sooo embarrassed, and it really hurts. And now for the second secret: OMG! Today I talked to the cutest boy ever!!! I didn’t even think I would ever say that, but May, this boy was CUTE! He came in all huffy and puffy into the office where I was sitting with my sprained foot. He was actually the one I was watching when I fell over the hurdles. His name is McCoy and he’s in Grade 8. He just moved here last week, and I guess today was only his second day at our school. Even his name is dreamy, and he’s got deep, deep blue eyes and the coolest hair: it’s all buzzed on the sides then is longer on the top, and the way it falls onto his face is perfect.

  Okay, so this might work out between us, May, because so far telling you all this feels good. But here’s the thing about McCoy tho’, and please don’t tell anyone…I think he is a big fat jerk! I was hurt and he made fun of me. Who does that? Even though he’s cute, I hope I never have to talk to him again.

  Okay, TTFN, I think this was a pretty good start. Thanks for listening,

  Your new friend,

  East (that’s my name, by the way)

  4

  I Really Do Hate Cake

  Once out of the store and back in the safety of my car, I rush to lock the doors and slouch down as far as possible into the driver’s seat. I can’t let him see me while I try to catch my breath and calm my stupid racing heart down.

  After rising from the floor with as much poise as one can have after impaling themselves on so many boxes of Ritz, I had basically just turned and walk-ran right out the exit. I probably looked like some kind of mime-in-training as I flailed my way out of the store to my car and said absolutely nothing to anyone. I didn’t even apologize to the manager for the mess I made. And I’d definitely said nothing to McCoy, the man I secretly gave my heart to so long ago.

  Starting my car, I take one last glance toward the store and decide it’s time to get the heck out of here before he does come out and possibly see me again. I seriously contemplate driving to my older brother Keaton’s tattoo shop, Inkredible, where I’d have every right to storm in and demand he tell me what the hell McCoy Graves was suddenly doing back in town. But, of course, that would only make things worse. And let’s be honest, I am so not that girl. Sure, I’m a bit shellshocked, but there’s no need for any more theatrics—not just yet, anyway.

  You see, my brother and McCoy have always had the ultimate bromance. Both a year older than me, they’ve been almost inseparable since forging their friendship when McCoy moved here for Grade 8. So, my marching into Keaton’s shop now and fishing for information about Coy—after I’ve successfully dodged all of Keaton’s attempts to keep me posted about McCoy and his successes over the last few years—would only add fuel to Keaton’s ongoing witch hunt. The hunt where Keaton has tried in vain, since we were young, to get me to admit that I am secretly obsessed with his best friend.

  “I see the way you look at him, East.” Keaton had called me out one night when I got a little too excited—smiling and in an instant good mood—the second I’d found out McCoy was coming with our family to the cottage up in Haliburton for the week. God, I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was sixteen and so freaking excited to get to be in McCoy’s proximity every day and night for a whole week. Unfortunately for me, my smile was the slip of face that started the whole Eastlyn Loves McCoy debate with my brother, a battle which persists to this day. And my only defence? Deny, deny, deny. Which is stupid, really. Keaton isn’t an idiot, and like any good brother, he continues to tease me where the subject of McCoy is concerned.

  Still, if Keaton knew how far gone I really was, it might be another story. Rather than listen to Keaton fill me in about all things Coy during his absence from Guelph the last few years, I had taken it upon myself to try and keep privy. I had literally taken up stalkerhood as a pastime. I’d lurked all of McCoy’s social media pages a few times a week since the day he first left town. My sole purpose was to try and catch a glimpse into his new life once he’d gone, and on my terms. Keaton knowing this would not bode well for me, especially coupled with my constant denials. But Coy was never an avid poster, so that’s definitely toned down my lurking over the years. But—regardless of how much I’ve cut down—stalking is stalking, so this little habit is one I’ve kept all to myself (well…and Kami. She’d never judge me or want to have me committed like Keaton might.)

  After some more musings, I turn the wheel to veer left and hop back on the highway, having pushed the idea of going to Keaton’s shop far out of my head. I could go to my parents’ house, but then my mom would probably just try to coerce me into baking a cake together. Being a professional baker, she thinks the ingredients used to create her treats can solve any problem. I know with one look at me right now, she’d have us making enough for a bake sale while she tried to goad me into telling her what was wrong. And—though I rarely say this—this isn’t a time for cake. This is a time for something stiffer, and I’m not sure how my mom would handle my turning down one of her cakes in favour of alcohol. With my luck, she’d decide we could incorporate the two, and I’d be stuck in her kitchen overnight soaking ladyfingers in Grand Marnier. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom and her cakes, although she can be a little over the top—just like my grandmother. But if you knew Mildred, you’d know my mother never stood a chance. My mom would kindly say that her mother was “a woman who marched to the beat of her own drum.” If you ask me, though, I’ll tell you she was a little bit batshit crazy.

  Case in point: when I was seven—shortly after my grandfather passed away—I’d gone to my grandmother’s for a sleepover to keep her company. I think I’d always known she was a little eccen
tric, but that night I witnessed firsthand how the crazy gene expressed itself in my family. We’d been watching the news, sipping our nightly tea and crunching chocolate digestive biscuits, when the screen suddenly turned red, alerting us to a storm that was approaching. It was expected to have high winds and heavy hail, and there was a chance of a tornado. My grandmother had let out a high squeal and sprang into action…

  “Pet, I’ve got to save the yard. Looks like we’re in for a doozy. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She stood, spilling the remnants of her tea, long strands of grey hair falling across her forehead.

  “Okay, Grandma. I’ll help you,” I said, getting up to follow her.

  “No! I’m not sure how fast it will blow in. You’ll stay right inside, you will,” she said, her pleading hazel eyes so much like my mom’s.

  She wasn’t exactly a spring chicken, and although I was admittedly scared at her reaction to the news, I followed her to the backdoor and stood watch. She literally became her own tornado, storming outside and battening down every hatch, then spinning around and lifting large pieces of furniture from the yard into the safety of the garage—all the while engaging in what looked like a full-on conversation. Watching her, I was kind of surprised she hadn’t turned into the Hulk himself.

  “It will take more than a storm to get me gone, my dear Lord!” she howled at the sky as she marched up the back stairs, huffing and puffing, once everything was safely put away. I stood there, frozen, feeling terrified that my life might end in the coming tornado based on her behaviour and her babblings.

  Back inside, she gave me a flashlight and led me down into the musty basement. “We’ll wait out the storm here. It’s best we be underground with those big winds they’re calling for in case the house collapses. I won’t be surprised if the power and phone lines go down, too. Hurry, let’s get ourselves set up while we still have time!”