Varsity Tiebreaker

by Ginger Scott

  Varsity Tiebreaker

  Varsity Series Book 2

  Ginger Scott

  Contents

  1. Tory D’Angelo

  2. Abby Cortez

  3. Tory

  4. Abby

  5. Tory

  6. Abby

  7. Tory

  8. Abby

  9. Tory

  10. Abby

  11. Tory

  12. Abby

  13. Tory

  14. Abby

  15. Tory

  16. Abby

  17. Tory

  18. Abby

  19. Tory

  20. Abby

  21. Tory

  22. Abby

  23. Tory

  Epilogue

  Preview of Book 3 in the Varsity Series

  Acknowledgments

  Also By Ginger Scott

  About the Author

  Copyright 2020

  Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-952778-01-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-952778-04-9

  For Tory’s biggest fans.

  Y’all are gonna have to fight Ana for him.

  1

  Tory D’Angelo

  I’ve never really gotten the appeal of flowers. I mean, one, they’re super fleeting. Every time my mom’s gotten flowers, I swear they’re dead within three days. Feels like a major waste of money. Of course, my mom’s flowers probably came from the man she was having an affair with, so it’s entirely possible my perspective is tainted. Even so, what do flowers say about a person’s feelings for someone else?

  I like you enough to pop into the grocery store and pick up this pre-arranged bundle of plant clippings wrapped in plastic.

  I mean, yeah. Flowers are pretty and shit, but there are a lot of things that are pretty. Cakes are pretty, and you can eat those. A perfect three-pointer drained within seconds, nothing but net . . . that’s a thing of beauty. Art, a really hot red dress, or hell, a puppy! All of that is as aesthetically pleasing as a bundle of flowers. Yet here I am, clipping the stems off some weedy-smelling plant shit over my kitchen trash while my best friend June tells me what a good idea this is.

  “She’s going to love them,” June assures me while she reaches toward my bundle, tugging on the stem of something. She pulls it free and dumps it into the trash with the stems I chopped off at an angle because “angles take in the water better” or whatever.

  “She won’t love that one?” I cock a brow and laugh. I’m still not sold on any of this.

  “That one’s dead.”

  I form an O with my mouth and drop my chin to stare at the drooping flower where it lies in the trash.

  “Huh.” I nod.

  June giggles then wraps her hands around the bouquet, holding it steady so I can slip the giant band around the stems again. I never thought my best friend would be a girl, let alone June Mabee. I’ve pretty much picked on her since she got boobs, probably before that if I’m being honest. I still call her Maybe Mabee. June and I collided in epic fashion a couple of months ago. We kicked off our senior year on a strange note, going through some really awful shit together. We’re kinda honeymooning at the whole best friend thing, I guess, but she’s not sick of me yet and turns out Maybe Mabee doles out some pretty solid advice. Though, I’m not totally sold on the whole flowers thing.

  “You sure this isn’t stupid? I feel really stupid.” I’m sweating, and I’ve already showered from basketball practice, changed my shirt twice and put on a whole lot of deodorant. This is strange territory for me. To put it succinctly, I have a fucking crush. It’s bizarre because hooking up with any girl at Public High—or in our whole town of Allensville, really—has never been an issue for me. June says it’s because I’m used to being chased, and maybe that’s true. But I also think it’s because the girl I’m trying to impress has never, not once, shown an ounce of interest in my presence. In fact, if I had to make a guess, I would bet on her hating me.

  “Abby is going to die . . . in a good way!” June’s said that a lot, that little add-on of in a good way. Feels like a hedged bet to me.

  Abby Cortez is June’s other best friend.

  Fine.

  She’s her real best friend, and I’m the new guy June hangs out with sometimes while she waits on her boyfriend, Lucas. My real best friend. Along with my twin brother, Hayden, we’ve become our own clique. Except for the little part about me being pretty sure Abby hates me. Oh, and me wanting to kiss her candy lips and wrap her legs around my waist just before I lay her back on the hood of my car.

  This is complicated. But flowers is the key. June swears by it.

  “You look amazing,” June says, stepping into me and brushing something from the shoulder of my shirt. I went with a button down, mostly because this shirt is snug on my arms and chest, making me look a little bit beast-mode. I don’t need June to tell me how much Abby likes man candy. She was digging on the new guy, Cannon, for a while, and she noted his arms and chest a few times. Apparently, though, he’s moody as fuck. Thank God!

  “Where’s your brother?” June asks.

  “Job interview,” I answer, bending down to catch my reflection in the glass front of the oven. I actually have product in my hair. Who am I?

  “Wow. D’Angelo boys are going to work?” June mocks.

  I shrug as I stand and face her.

  “It’s hard to be around here, and Hayden’s had a harder time than I have. I think he wants something to fill the free time.” June’s eyes soften, but she’s careful not to let them dip into pity. We don’t do that around here.

  My dad moved out a month ago. It’s still pretty fresh for all of us. My mom was having an affair with Lucas’s dad, and when it all came out, it basically blew up both of our families.

  "Have you guys talked to your dad lately?” June asks. Our pops said we could go to Indianapolis with him if we wanted to, but this is our senior year. We’re primed to win state this basketball season, and we both decided we couldn’t give up on that. Staying here means sticking out the next few months in a house with a parent we pretty much have lost all respect for.

  “Our first family therapy session is next week, with both of them. It promises fireworks,” I say. June grimaces in response.

  “You sure it’s not weird, me forcing some double-date with you and Luc?” I squint through my question, and a small part of me wants her to let me off the hook. I’ve never been afraid of rejection, but with Abby, I put it at a solid fifty-fifty that she kicks me in the nuts when I ask her out.

  “Stop,” June protests, laughing at my nervous behavior. “It’s sweet. And it will make you both more comfortable. Plus, it’s Eight Lanes. Bowling is the easiest first date ever.”

  “Says the Eight Lanes employee who bowls a two-hunny,” I say, one brow arched.

  June’s laughter ticks up but stops when we’re interrupted by the familiar rumble of Lucas’s truck in the driveway. I start to jump in place because he is supposed to bring Abby to the house with him and suddenly I’m full of enough energy to power a lightning bolt.

  “It’s go time,” I say under my breath. June squeezes my arm and offers me a reassuring smile.

  Lucas bus
ts through the door first, and I puff out my cheeks to indicate how stressed I am. But something about the look in his eyes freezes me to the floor. My jumping stops, and my heart does too.

  “Abort. Mission,” Lucas says, pointing at me then staring intently into his girlfriend’s eyes.

  “What the—” My protest is cut short when Abby follows Lucas through the door in a rush, her hand gripped firmly in my brother’s. My eyes see nothing else. I’m blatantly staring at the place where my crush and my twin are fused together.

  What the actual fuck?

  “I got the job, yo!” my brother says. At least, it sounds like his voice. I couldn’t testify he said the words because I’m not looking at his mouth. I’m looking at the way Abby is holding his elbow with her other hand, bouncing with excitement. That’s two hands she has on him now. Two. Hands.

  “Did you hear me, bro? I got the job!”

  I shake my head—literally shake my head—and force my gaze to meet Hayden’s. We are nearly physically identical, but our personalities are vastly different. Where I’m loud, he’s quiet. My confidence is offset by his reservation. I believe I can make any girl fall in love with me. And Hayden . . . he’s never had a girlfriend. Ever.

  Until—

  “You’re looking at the new host at Two-fers,” my brother says, holding up his new work shirt. It’s bright red with two weenies embroidered on the pocket. It’s ridiculous, and my natural instinct is to make fun of it, but I can’t seem to find a single funny thing to say.

  “Wow,” I say, over-exaggerating this terribly small word.

  “Right?” He pushes at my shoulder, pressing the shirt into me to take. I unfold it and stare at it while I fake laugh. I toss it on the counter and hold my hand up for him to slap, and we grip each other and pull in for a hug. My eyes catch June’s over my brother’s shoulder, and they are full of pity. Motherfucking pity!

  “I hope it’s cool that I invited Hayden to come with us?” Abby asks from somewhere behind me. I can’t bear the thought of turning around and looking at her.

  “Of course. Yeah, totally,” I croak out. I cough to cover my weak-ass voice.

  “I just gotta change, and we can go. What’s with the flowers, dude?” my brother asks, pointing to my fisted palm that’s nearly choking the bouquet to death with my grip.

  “Oh,” I say, lifting them and feeling suddenly numb. “I—”

  “He lost a bet,” June says, coming to my rescue.

  Hayden nods, accepting her answer, then dashes up the stairs, leaving the rest of us here in this instantly shrinking space.

  “That a new thing there?” June says to her friend in a half-whisper I wish I didn’t hear.

  “We’ve been talking a lot, with everything they’re going through, and I don’t know, it just sorta . . .” Abby’s head waggles side-to-side, but it’s the blush that colors her cheeks that has me defeated.

  Just sorta.

  The sudden need to rush from the room hits me, and I march across the kitchen toward June. “Here you go, a bet’s a bet,” I say, shoving the flowers I knew were a bad idea into her chest. She hugs them and lets out an “oof.”

  I keep walking, making eyes at Lucas on my way out, knowing he’ll follow me to his truck so I can scream obscenities and feel like a fool with only him as my witness.

  “Wow, someone’s a sore loser,” Abby teases from over my shoulder.

  I huff out a laugh, not even able to lob one of my normal comebacks because she’s so dead-on. I am a sore loser. I’m also done catching feelings for some girl.

  2

  Abby Cortez

  It’s not that June was quiet on the way to the bowling alley. It’s that she’s still quiet now that we’re inside. Things between my best friend and Lucas mended quickly, and very dramatically. I mean, yeah, they’ve been meant for each other since grade school, but a whirlwind romance like they had, right on the tail of the unraveling of so many lies—I just hope their honeymoon period hasn’t hit a brick wall so soon.

  I’ve been searching for the right time to tell her my big news, but ever since we left the twins’ house, June’s been oddly busy. Quiet, yes, but also busy. Like now, for instance. While the rest of us are sitting on the table at lane eight waiting for June to bring us our bowling shoes, she’s standing at the counter shining them. They’re ugly bowling shoes! Why would we care if they glisten under the neon glow of this dump?

  I’m dying to talk to my friend. I almost wish we hadn’t planned this bowling thing. I’d so rather be curled up across from her on her bed, jammies and all, while I spill my guts of the things I’m anxious about. This is my moment. It’s the one thing an actor hopes for, the big payoff after thousands of auditions. This deal means I might not be back for graduation, and prom is probably, definitely a no-go, but it’s a movie. Totally worth it . . . I think.

  It also probably means my dad’s legal pursuits will get even nastier, if that’s possible, but damn it! I’ve been wishing for this break since I was six years old and singing my ass off on the community center stage as Indiana’s first Latina Annie. I got a perm for that shit, so if all this movie role requires is that I miss the last three months of my senior year, well, fuck it, man. Prom dresses are ugly anyway.

  “Are we gonna bowl or open up a shoe store?” Tory shouts across the lanes toward June, who is still running a rag over the tops of the shoes on the counter. I knew I could count on Tory’s impatience to break the ice. As sweet as his brother is, he’s not a boat rocker. Tory D’Angelo, however, is the Ozzy Osborn of boats. He rocks things to the point of fire.

  “I know how important your footwear is to you!” June shouts back to him. I laugh, but Tory only grumbles and sinks into the chair attached to the scoring computer.

  “He’s just mad because I’m a better bowler than he is,” Hayden says, his voice crawling over my shoulder as he bends over the seat behind me. He lightly kisses my neck, then squeezes my shoulders. I exhale heavily, feeling my tension fall away with the pressure of his hands.

  Never in a million years would I imagine a world where I am dating Hayden D’Angelo. The only thing less likely is a universe where me and Tory are a thing. But Hayden is just . . . so easy. He called me out of the blue weeks ago, and we’ve talked every night. He needs someone who understands what a messy divorce feels like; someone who isn’t his brother, and isn’t his friend who’s going through the same thing with his own family. I’m that person. Kid of a messy divorce should be a bullet point on my resume. Nothing new to Hollywood, I suppose.

  “Nines, right?” June holds a pair of shoes out for me, letting them dangle from the tethered laces hooked on her finger.

  “Yep,” I say, followed by a tight smile. She hits me with a matching expression. Something is definitely off. Besides, she knows I wear nines. She wears nines. I wear her shoes all the time!

  Hayden’s body falls into the seat attached to mine, his large frame making me instantly feel crowded. I slip my foot into my shoe and glance to the left at his, noting the size before he puts his foot inside.

  Twelves.

  I finish tying my laces, then slide my other shoes underneath my seat. Tory has typed in our names, and he put me at the end. I’m glad about that because me and sports of any kind are not on the same page. I’m not even sure how this ball comes off my fingers when the time is right. June has worked here for more than a year, and in that time, all I’ve ever done is drink sodas and roll pool balls back and forth in the bar area while waiting for her to get off.

  Hayden leaves the space next to me and I glance up at him in time to catch his wink and smile. He’s adorable, the way his hair squiggles down over his forehead and one eye is always squinting just a little more than the other. I’ve often heard that twins try to differentiate themselves from each other as they get older, sort of a way to stand out and break away from their carbon copy. I see the evidence of that when I stare at the D’Angelo boys. Hayden is a little sloppy sometimes, but in a cute way. He
wears a lot of T-shirts, always half tucked under slightly wrinkled button downs, and his jeans are sometimes, maybe, just a little tiny bit too short. Again . . . in a cute way. He wears the beach boy look, if that’s a thing in Indiana. As good as he is at basketball, I wouldn’t flinch seeing him run by with a long board under his arm and board shorts slung low on his hips. I’m probably the only one who thinks that since basketball is religion in this state. The brothers share the same hazel eye color, the same light brown hair that’s sometimes amber, sometimes gold, depending on the season, and the same body type that oh-my-God! The twins have always been hot. And they are identical. But through their own efforts, they’re also very much not. Tory is polished. His hair is somehow always in the perfect place, even after a two-hour basketball practice or after pulling off a football helmet. His wardrobe looks like the ones I see on the commercial shoots I do. Things match, like the kind of match you see on department store mannequins or in catalogues. And he must time his shaving just right because where Hayden is always baby-face fresh, Tory is frat-boy stubble.

  He’s also frat-boy brash. In all the years we’ve known each other, Tory D’Angelo is the one person I can count on to always have something snarky to say, his own little flair for turning me off. Lately, though, he’s been tempered. Not quiet, but just not . . . Tory. I’ve spent a lot of time talking with Hayden about his parents’ fallout, and there’s no way Tory isn’t feeling it too. In his own way.