“Um, yeah, he’s hot in that Peter Kavinsky way. Like a surfer with a side career as a newscaster. Serious face, great hair.” God, I sound all weird. “But I’m not joining the football team because Grey is hot, it’s because—”
“Wait, his name is Grey?”
“Grey Worthington. He’s a senior.”
“You definitely need to check out the validity of this guy. That name alone makes him sound like he’s a secret duke, or a type of tea or something. You’ve googled him, right?”
I probably should have, just to make sure he was who he said he was. But Coach Shanks backed him up. And he’d have no reason to lie to me, or to be twisted into helping Jake pull one over on me. So, I fib to Addie. But it’s only a small lie, because I’m going to google Grey the second we hang up. “Yes. He’s legit.”
Addie can probably see right through me, just like she can read a pick-and-roll. I hear the whoosh of nighttime air as she exits Windsor Prep and enters the parking lot. “So, I’m guessing you have practice tomorrow?”
“Two-a-days. First one’s at 7:00 AM. Guess it’s a trial by fire to see what it’s all about.”
“And Jake will be there.” There’s a smile in her delivery. She’s totally thinking of the revenge possibilities. “But you’re on the team no matter what, right?”
“As far as I know. The quarterbacks coach already signed off on it.”
“That’s insane.”
“Possibly. But I really think it’ll work. Coach Kitt wants to see teamwork. What better way to show that than by being the only girl on a boys’ team that includes her ex?”
“I can’t think of one,” Addie admits.
“Right? I’ve still got to get Dad to sign a waiver, but I can do a pretty mean Eddy Rodinsky John Hancock.”
She snorts. “You said ‘cock.’”
I roll my eyes. “Public school is already ruining me. I’m a social misfit.”
“Admit it, you miss me.”
“I do.” I sigh. I really, really do. I wish Addie were going to be with me at practice tomorrow. “You sure you can’t just show up to Northland to jog laps tomorrow at precisely seven to see this all go down? I need a wingwoman, even if you’re a hundred yards away.”
“I’ll have to clear my schedule, but maybe.”
“I’d love you forever.”
“You already do.”
“True.”
I can hear her car dinging and know she’s about to drive away. I know we need to hang up.
“Okay, lady,” I say. “Drive home. Eat dinner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I’m about to hang up when she catches me. “Hey, Rodinsky?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. Please. With Jake. With getting hit. With all of it. You know what I mean.”
“Don’t worry, McAndry. You know I can take care of myself.”
“I know. That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t need to bail you out for assault.”
I smile back. “Don’t worry, Cop Dad will do the deed if necessary.”
“Or leave you in there to rot.”
“Or that. Love you.” I hang up the phone, more optimistic than I’ve been since May.
7
“WAIT. YOU WANT ME TO LIE FOR YOU?”
I scrunch my nose as Ryan belts himself into the back seat of my ancient Honda, Helena, like I’m his freaking chauffeur. Which I am, taking the young mister to morning practice. I’m going to pick up Jesse from down the street, too, and it’ll just be ten straight minutes of them giggle-snorting freshman boy secrets like I can’t hear them. “I don’t want you to lie,” I tell him. “I just don’t want you to rat me out.”
“Until when? Until Dad finds your helmet and decapitates you?”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel—all I want to do is survive practice before telling Dad and Mom what I’ve done. “I’m going to tell him. Just not now.”
In the rearview mirror, Ry smirks over the bottle of blue Gatorade he’s got balanced precariously on his knee. “Uh-huh.”
I really will tell Dad and Mom about football. Danielle and Heather, too—I don’t keep stuff from my family. But there’s no point in telling any of them if I can’t hang past the first day.
“Just let me deal with it, please?” I say, frustration creeping into my tone.
I watch his eyes narrow in the rearview mirror. “Fine. But you owe me.”
“I’m already carting your butt around like Jeeves. I think that’s enough.”
Drunk on power and Blue No. 1, my little brother coughs out a laugh. “You were doing that anyway, sis.”
“Don’t push it.”
“You don’t push it,” he shoots back. “You’re the one wanting me to lie for you.”
Ughhhh. “Just don’t say anything, okay?”
He goes quiet. Which is annoying, because I didn’t mean to not say anything now, I just mean to Mom and Dad in general. And he knows that.
“Okay? Ryan, okay?”
“Fine.” He takes another swig of Gatorade so loud I can hear it as I back out of the driveway. I know he’s not done. “I still don’t see how Dad would let you play. He won’t even let me play.”
I do a double take. “Wait, you totally sucked at field goals—but you asked him anyway?”
“I did.” I coast to a stop in front of Jesse’s house. “When you were in the shower last night. It—it did not go well. Even Mom freaked out. So now there’s no backup plan for me once Coach posts the roster Monday.”
Great. If Ellen and Eddy Rodinsky won’t even let their son play the safest position, they most certainly won’t be thrilled about their daughter playing quarterback, even third-string. Softball and soccer aren’t without their chances at a horrific injury, but football is another beast altogether. Anyone who has spent a minute watching a game knows that. Dudes knocked unconscious, spinal cord injuries, knees bent the wrong way—all life-changing injuries. And given the fact that both Ryan and I need to keep our bodies healthy to play other sports well enough to go to college, my parents’ reservations aren’t a surprise.
My eyes go straight to the parental consent form that’s still sticking out, unsigned, in my bag. I’d been half joking when I’d boasted about my signature reproduction skills to Addie, but now I’m not so sure I won’t have to use them.
Jesse gets in the back, bringing with him the smell of dryer sheets and, oddly, strawberry shampoo. “Duuuude, what’s up?”
Ry raises a brow and I catch a wolf’s smile in the rearview mirror. “Liv says she’ll take us to Burger Fu after practice. On her.”
“I would kill for a burger, man.” Jesse’s eyes light up as I pull away from the curb, my brother’s silence apparently purchased with Kobe beef and waffle fries.
“What’s the deal with the red jerseys?” It’s the first thing out of my mouth as Grey comes out of the boys’ locker room and zeros in on where I’m standing off to the side, helmet in hand. I figured I’d pounce on either him or Coach Shanks, whoever I saw first. Coach left my uniform in the girls’ locker room with a note. Ryan’s two fields over, warming up. A quick glance at the track tells me Addie isn’t here yet—all I see are some power-walkers and a mommy boot camp group. No six-foot-two black girls with legs for days.
“Good morning to you, too,” Grey says. It’s 6:59 AM on a nonschool Thursday and yet Grey is still all half smiles, gooey and infectious.
We fall in step and head toward the practice field, just on the outside of a huge throng of giant bodies. One of which probably belongs to Jake, though I haven’t seen him yet. Heck, other than glimpses through the fence, I haven’t seen him since he was in the stands at state, cheering me on. Haven’t talked to him either—the guy broke up with me over text like a real man.
I’ve taken only about five steps, but I can feel dozens of eyes on me with each one. And not in the way I like, when I’m the star on the field and people can’t look away. Nope. This is the kind of attention an outsider gets.
&
nbsp; I turn back to Grey. “No, seriously. Is red code for quarterback?”
“Sort of. It means ‘don’t hit.’”
“Oh.” Addie will be pleased. So would Dad and Mom, if they knew.
Grey’s excited to educate. “We don’t want anyone purposefully laying out our quarterbacks in practice. That’s what games are for.”
This makes me wonder exactly how Grey managed to get injured so early in the season. But I don’t get a chance to ask, because Jake Rogers has decided to wander over and block my sliver of sun.
“Olive,” he says, all formal.
“Jacob,” I reply stiffly, knowing he hates being addressed by his full name as much as I do.
He looks different, even though his jersey is exactly the same as the last night I saw him. On close inspection, his hair isn’t just buzzed, it’s razored to within an inch of its life, giving him a five o’clock shadow from forehead to the nape of his neck. Jake’s face is different, too—not open and excited to see me, the girl whose curves and dark hair used to make him weak. Rather, he’s stoic as shit.
Jake’s eyes—dark brown and delicious—stay on me. The stares I felt earlier are still weighing in from the shadows, which makes the seconds tick by at a snail’s pace as we stare each other down.
Finally, Jake’s lips kick up. He looks cocky as hell—he’s here to perform. He’s the showman running back, bullying through anything in his way. Most currently his ex-girlfriend. “Missed me, huh?”
“Not for a second,” I reply, way too fast.
Grey throws up his hands and steps between us. “Liv is here because she’s got one hell of an arm for us to use while mine’s out of commission. You can’t hold up our offense with your legs alone, Rogers.”
Steely, Jake eyes Grey and says, “Yes, I can.” Something passes between them. Then he turns his attention to me, his voice amused yet annoyed. “So you thought it’d be a cute idea to enroll in your ex-boyfriend’s school and join his football team for shits and giggles? Stalker much?”
Jake turns away and says loudly to his buddies, “Such a joke.” He starts to laugh and a few of the dudes snicker along. I think of Jake’s friends in the stands that night at state. They’re just blurry orange blobs in my memory, but now they’re real orange blobs. Blobs that probably know way more about me than I know about them. Especially considering Jake never really introduced me to any of his friends. And considering even Stacey knew I was dating him, he most definitely didn’t keep his mouth shut about his Windsor Prep conquest.
With the laughter, something inside me snaps—the same something that made me take a swing at Stacey’s schnoz. My helmet donks him right between the three and two on his back before anyone blinks.
When Jake turns, mouth agape, I point to my jersey. “No joke.”
Grey picks up my helmet, which has rolled into his cleats. “See? Great arm.”
A choice finger springs up on Jake’s right hand and I grin at him. Just so he knows I don’t give a crap.
“Hey now, this ain’t rugby—what the hell’s with the scrum?” a voice calls through the mass of bodies.
Coach Charlie Lee, in the flesh.
I’d googled him along with everything else I could about Northland football last night—right after I made sure Grey was who he said he was. A small-but-mighty black man in his sixties, Coach Lee wears his Northland hat lightly on his head, not bothering to push it down all the way. There’s a whistle around his neck and a general air of authority that surrounds him like a cushion. He makes eye contact with me for the briefest second before eviscerating Jake.
“Put down that hand, Rogers, or I’m taking that finger as a sacrifice to the god of high school football. Might take that senior captain title, too, for good measure.”
Jake complies, a mixture of anger and sheepishness crossing his face. It’s an incredibly handsome look for him, and that fact steamrolls me even though he’s been a total dick for the past few minutes.
Coach moves on. “All right, Tigers, five laps around the complex and then meet me at the fifty.”
I half expect him to call me back. To say hello or warn me not to cause trouble. Or maybe to tell me I can’t do anything until he has my signed parental consent form in hand. But maybe he’s not much for paperwork, because he lets me go and I fall into line with Grey, jogging lightly as the pads skip across my shoulders. It’s a strange sensation, one that’s going to take some getting used to.
“You sure know how to make an entrance, Rodinsky.”
I’d elbow Grey if I knew him better. But I don’t. Still, he’s the closest thing to a friend I have at this school, and I’d better take what I can get.
“Just sticking up for myself,” I say.
He winks so hard I can see it out of the corner of my eye. “And sticking it to Rogers.”
We do a loop, and the crowd starts thinning out. Jake is about three yards in front of us, his offensive line buddies falling back so far that I’m sure we’ll lap them by the time we’re done.
It’s then that I realize Grey is dressed differently from yesterday—in full pads. Not the jersey-and-basketball-shorts look I saw on the track. “Are you supposed to practice?”
“We’re going to see how today goes. I’ll probably just do drills alongside you. Nothing big. Just think of me as a helpful shadow.”
“That works, with your name being Grey and all.”
He grins. “I totally set that up, didn’t I?”
“Well, you’re an easy target.”
“I’m a quarterback—I make the targets.”
I drop my eyes to the big, fat white thirteen on my red jersey. “So am I.”
Again, Grey winks. “And you’re slow.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his eyebrows shoot up and he takes off for the last lap, legs churning in full sprint. I chase after him, dodging past Jake and up toward where the spindly, fast wide receivers and cornerbacks are leading the way.
We finish the lap and, breathing hard, I take a knee next to Grey as orange jerseys fill in, forming a rough circle around Coach Lee, who’s standing in the mouth of the growling tiger at midfield. At his side are two assistant coaches—Coach Shanks and a reedy man who I assume is Coach Napolitano, the coach in charge of defense—and a couple of managers, including a girl with a long auburn ponytail. It’s not until she looks up from her clipboard that I realize I know that girl and her cat eyes.
Kelly Cleary.
Because of course the girl who drilled me with a sixty-mile-per-hour fastball on the worst night of my softball career would be present for my first practice as a football player.
Awesome.
Now I don’t just have to do damage control on Jake’s bad attitude, I have to deal with her and her eyeliner addiction, too.
Kelly’s busy counting us all, a single finger bopping to its own beat in the air as she ticks off each player.
When the linemen rumble in and join us, out of breath and red-faced, Coach Lee finally looks up from his clipboard. His assistants stare out at us in tandem, arms crossed.
“Hello, Tigers.”
“Hello, Coach,” the boys echo. I rush in a second too late, but manage to say “coach” with the group.
“Tigers, our first game is coming up fast.” He grins at our impending doom. “Good thing we have three more chances for two-a-days after today. That’s right, folks, you’re mine through the weekend.”
As at least one dummy grunts out a sigh, I realize it’s not just today and tomorrow I need Ryan to cover for me, it’s this weekend, too. As far as I know, he won’t be having two-a-days this weekend because tryouts are over and the team is announced Monday, and Dad and Mom are totally going to notice if I’m gone for huge chunks of the morning and afternoon without explanation. Which means the kid has to lie hard-core for me. It’s gonna cost me way more than a trip to Burger Fu, that’s for sure.
“That better be the only lily-pants whine I hear for the rest of today or every single one o
f you is going to run twenty laps in pads to end practice, instead of five.” Coach Lee might be small, but his voice is tough as nails. “Don’t care who whines—you’re a team, and you’ll take the punishment together.”
I could be imagining it, but I feel eyes on me again. I grit my teeth.
Sorry, boys, but you won’t be able to blame this girl.
Coach pauses for a second to confirm everyone will stay silent. Then, “Tigers, I’ve got a compliment for you, and you know I’m not big on those. No point in blowing hot air up your backsides if you’re just gonna get the wind knocked out of you on the next play.”
Danielle would love Coach Lee.
“You kids have worked your tails off so far this preseason. Drive, focus, and determination have been high. Maybe the highest I’ve seen this side of the year 2000.”
A crack of energy shoots through the manly glob of bodies surrounding me, though no one is dumb enough to beg a high five or even so much as whisper excitedly. But the thrill is there, the hairs on everyone’s arms standing at attention.
“Will that translate to a winning record?” Coach shrugs his narrow shoulders, hands raised toward the sky. “That’s up to you.”
And it is. In softball and in football, the only control you have is how prepared you are. Everything else is in the hands of chance. And chance only sides with you if you worked for it more than the other guy.
Danielle might have been the first one to teach me that, but it’s a lesson I’ve had reinforced over and over.
“Would you like one more piece of motivation, Tigers?”
As a fifty-headed beast, we nod.
Coach checks his hands on his hips. His eyes drop to the ground for a moment before he looks up.
“Last season, we were 10–2. League champs.” We nod again. “That’s pretty good. Hell, any other year, I’d take any of those things and call it golden. But this year, I want all of that and more.”
He pauses. There’s weight to it—a heaviness. A cool finger sweeps down my spine, and I’m right back in that family restroom at state, waiting for bad news to tumble out of Principal Meyer’s mouth.
Throw Like a Girl Page 4
