She waves an arm in a grand gesture toward the other row of booths and I glance over, wondering if this poor soul knows what exactly he’s in for. My heart immediately hits the floor when I recognize the curls and lantern jaw in profile.
Then it stops beating completely when a pair of steel-gray eyes meets mine from across the pizza-scented dim. Addie realizes exactly who “that boy” is without the football gear about .002 seconds later. “Is that—”
I move my head in some semblance of a nod. “Number sixteen, in the flesh.”
A few words to the blond woman across from him—Coach Kitt—and he’s walking our way. Hands in his pockets—he’s the perfect, terrifying mixture of nonchalant and confident.
“Liv.” He says it with his customary half smile. Which looks nice when paired with jeans and a golf polo. I’ve never seen him in real, nonathletic clothes, and that thought is so distracting that I totally don’t answer him.
So my best friend does it for me.
“Hi, I’m Addie.” She sticks out her hand for a shake.
“Grey Worthington,” he says, taking her hand. “I’ve seen you play.”
Addie blinks at him. “Volleyball, basketball, softball, or all of the above?”
He laughs. “Just softball, sad to say. Base hit to beat Northland at state.”
He was there. He hadn’t just heard about my infamous game, like Coach Shanks. He had been there in person. But of course he was.
I should’ve known. Of course he’d seen my arm in person before that day on the track. Of course he’d been there to see with his own eyes the kind of arm I have—not just the one that can sling a deadly accurate softball, but the one that can pull back for a mean right hook.
Again, Addie’s confidence rescues me.
“Too bad,” she says. “Softball’s the weakest of the three.”
“I’ll have to see you play the other two sometime.”
“Liv will update you on my schedule.” Her eyes flip to mine, all wide. “Won’t you?”
I nod, trying to get my head back in the game. “I’m the keeper of the official Adeline McAndry performance calendar.”
Grey laughs again. “So, while we’re talking games, I’m assuming you’re coming Friday?”
“Friday?” Her eyes skid to mine for a hot second, but I’m not exactly sure what Grey’s getting at.
“Liv’s first game.”
I shrug, immediately brushing off everything—his enthusiasm, Addie’s surprise, the whole idea that I’m actually going to have playing time. “I’ll just be riding the bench. It’s no big deal.”
I laugh but Grey doesn’t. “Just because Brady’s starting doesn’t mean you won’t play.”
My stomach rolls a hard left, garlic knots and all. Embarrassing myself in the privacy of practice is one thing. Being sat on by a two-hundred-pound behemoth from another school in front of a couple thousand people is quite another. “Sure. I guess if he gets hurt, I’ll be ready to go.”
Grey half grins at Addie. “She’s being modest. Brady’s scared shitless that he could get benched in favor of her.”
Usually my confidence in my athletic abilities rivals Addie’s, but the second Grey finishes speaking, I start cracking up. “Yeah, right.”
Sure, I look good when we’re doing routes, but in an actual scrimmage? I suck. Hard-core. Granted, that’s my own estimation, but given my elite status in one sport, it’s pretty easy to see my general suckitude in another.
The giggles keep coming… until Grey shoulders his way into my side of the booth. I immediately shut the hell up, surprised by the sudden warmth of him next to me.
Grey’s face sharpens to an edge as he looks at me. “Why is that so funny?”
“You’ve seen me play, right?” I glance across the booth for backup. But Addie’s face is tabula rasa–level blank. I guess she’s pretty freaking surprised, too. “I’ve spent more time facedown on the turf than right side up.”
Grey’s head is already shaking, corners of his lips tipped up. “You’ve also made about 90 percent of your plays since Thursday. You’re deadly accurate. And, despite the fact that, yes, you’ve taken a few body blows, you’re extremely mobile. Brady can’t move his feet to save his life. And that means he throws the ball away at least a third of the time.”
I had no idea how Brady played. I hadn’t been watching him scrimmage because I’d been busy enough trying to remember my own plays and stay upright. “If you say so.”
“I do. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.” He slaps me on the back, winks at Addie, and slides out of the booth. “See you bright and early. Don’t leave the awesome at home.”
“She never does,” Addie calls out, and we watch him saunter—yes, saunter—back to his parents’ booth. His mother’s blond head is rigid enough that I know she’s been spying on us.
Before I can think about if this is a good or bad thing, Addie snags my wrist, long fingers gripping the bones with all their three-sport might.
“That boy can sack me anytime. I love him.”
The giggles come back. “Quarterbacks don’t sack people. They’re the sackees.”
“Okay, who sacks them?”
“Linebackers, mostly.”
“Then I’ll mostly be a linebacker. And he’ll be mostly on the ground.”
I cut off my laughter and give her a chin tip. “How are those hormones doing now, McAndry?”
“They’re well fed, but still hungry for more.”
I rip a corner off my slice of pizza, grease immediately coating my fingertips. “Too bad you weren’t the one who punched out Stacey Sanderson.”
“Damn right. You’ve got all the luck, O-Rod.”
I grin. “Something like that.”
12
IT’S SUNDAY MORNING AND GREY’S WORDS TO ADDIE last night won’t quit running through my head, swirling around and around like a nervous goldfish.
Brady’s scared shitless that he could get benched in favor of her.
Her.
As in me. The only “her” with a helmet.
I’m here as a backup. As a teammate. As a means to an end. Not as a starter.
I don’t want to start. I’m not even sure I would want game time if offered it.
But even though I am a much better third baseman than quarterback, I still want to be the best I can be. Even if I’m third-string, I don’t want to be a distant third.
Which means Brady Mason has a freaking bull’s-eye on his back.
I steal a glance at my target as Brady, Grey, and I take turns trying to hit an orange traffic cone Coach Shanks has whipped out and is repeatedly setting up at various locations downfield each time one of us knocks it down. We go like that for a solid hour, Shanks changing it up by moving the cone left and right, stationing it anywhere from point-blank range to sixty yards downfield, just to see what we can do. It’s not a perfect drill because usually we don’t aim to hit something a foot off the ground, but it’s definitely a challenge in accuracy.
It’s also something we’re pretty equal at as a trio.
But what comes next has my eyes shooting straight at the too-blond back of Brady’s head.
“Okay, gang, great job.” Coach is smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s got sweat staining stripes down the back of his Northland polo as he turns to dump the orange cone next to his piles of gear. Still bent over, he picks up a bag of miniature cones, the kind Ry uses in our backyard for soccer drills. “Footwork time.”
Brady’s face hardens as much as it can with baby fat still clinging to his cheekbones. The dude feels called out. And based on Grey’s description from last night, he should.
“Seven-step drop-back, five-step drop-back with a rollout, and then we’ll do some resistance work.”
Grey’s face doesn’t melt into the same despair that Brady’s has. I don’t let mine change either. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re both a few years older. Or maybe it’s having coaches in our families. But Grey and I are
most definitely on the same page.
Just do the work.
No moping. No fear. No excuses.
Just do the freaking work.
Shanks uses the soccer cones to set up a pocket-size square at the ten-yard line and calls over Smith and Tate, the tight ends we worked with on Thursday and straight A teamers.
Coach demonstrates what he wants—a conscious seven slide-steps back and then a zigzag through the far end of the box before planting a foot and releasing to one of the guys in the end zone.
Grey lines up, ready to go, but Shanks waves him off.
“Let’s go youngest to oldest today.” He holds the ball out for Brady, who has a look on his face I would never, ever give a coach. It’s dripping with disdain. The glare my sister would give me if she caught me with his expression would singe my eyebrows to ashes.
“Why don’t we do ladies first?” Brady offers, gesturing to me, though that’s obviously completely unnecessary.
Shanks frowns. “Excuse me?”
Amazingly, Brady thinks there’s room for an actual conversation here. “I think Rodinsky should have to do something first for once.” It’s suddenly very obvious that his shitty agility isn’t the only reason Shanks bought into my recruitment.
Shanks purses his lips, anger deepening on his features. I’m not sure if Brady is smart enough to know he’s about to get yelled at or dumb enough to think that his power play here is opaque. Or all of the above.
“Coach, it’s fine, I’ll go first,” I say. Shanks glances at me, but I’m glaring at Brady. “I don’t care when I go. I just want to get the job done.”
After a pause, Coach hands me the ball. For an instant, a winsome look crosses Brady’s face, but as he lines up next to Grey, it seems to dawn on him that he might not have tasted victory there.
I start at the top edge of the box, launching myself backward.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Slinging myself forward, I cross around the cones in measured steps, eyes up the whole time, watching the receivers shoot back. The second I’m back to the top of the box, I plant my foot and release, aiming to strike Smith straight in the heart.
When it makes contact, the ball thumps off his chest before bobbling into his hands.
Caught.
I have to bite my lip to keep down a smile as I stalk past Brady’s bowed head.
The angels have smiled upon me, because our afternoon practice runs short. Which means I’m home and hopping into the shower by six o’clock.
Which is of supreme importance because it’s Sunday night. Aka Rodinsky family dinner night. When we had a house of our own, my parents would host, Danielle and Heather making the trek across town to our place. Now that we’re all together, we still do it—it’s literally the only way to guarantee all of us are at one table at the same time. Mom still insists on cooking, but if that’s more than warming up pizza, it’s too much for her, even though she’s crap at admitting it. So, for pretty much the entire summer, Heather’s made up some excuse about having a new recipe she wants to try, or wanting to make something she’s already bought the ingredients for. Mom plays along, “making salad,” but not trying to do much more. It’s a game and we all know it and it sucks.
But it works. So we go with it.
Tonight’s meal is pot roast, something Heather culled from a compilation of recipes from the 1970s. Which means dessert is probably elaborately molded Jell-O, because she loves to go all out on a theme.
While setting the table, I catch Heather glancing at me and then twisting to lean into my sister’s ear, her moving lips barely disguised by Danielle’s wavy bob.
Something’s up.
And the only thing I’m keeping secret from everyone but Ryan is football.
Which makes me extremely nervous, even if it kills me to be keeping secrets from my sister. Because I don’t think there’s been a single thing about my life I haven’t told her. Okay, maybe not my entire life. Maybe just my athletic life. But up until boys started getting interesting, there was nothing we didn’t share.
Until now.
Part of me thinks Danielle might actually be proud of me if she knew I was playing football. But most of me doesn’t even want to attempt that conversation.
So, though present at dinner, I’m slightly off my game, letting conversation swirl around me.
Dad’s asking Mom about her doctor’s appointments next week, so he can make sure to be there. Heather and Danielle have gone from whispering to making eyes at each other. Ryan is on his third helping of pot roast and has totally splattered meat juice on his white T-shirt—that I can’t keep quiet about.
“Ry, what the hell? You look like pot roast Jackson Pollock.” I laugh and toss my napkin at him.
Danielle joins in. “They’re not going to let you into high school tomorrow looking like that.”
“What,” he whines at both of us, not even touching my napkin. “It’s not like I’m going to wear the same shirt. Jeez.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Danielle says. “You need to look nice in high school.”
“Oh, what do you two know about what a high school really looks like? There aren’t normal-people clothes at Windsor Prep.”
Danielle tosses back her head. “Fancy uniforms show stains just as well as stuff from Target, right, Liv?”
I’m supposed to laugh and agree, so I do. Like a champ. But my mind is stuck on the fact that tomorrow I won’t be in my Windsor Prep uniform. I won’t be with my friends. And even though I’m feeling slightly better about Northland after joining the team, it’s still everything I don’t want.
After the laughter dies, I grow quiet again. Maybe it’s the two-a-days, or the secrets, or going back to school. But I suddenly really need to be alone.
“May I be excused?” I ask, eyes directed at Mom. The second it’s out of my mouth and I’m looking at her, guilt pings through my stomach—I really shouldn’t pass up any time I can spend with Mom.
She smiles and says, “We’ve got dessert coming—”
“Oreo cheesecake,” Heather finishes, blue eyes flashing as she cuts off Mom. OMG, that’s so much better than Jell-O in any shape, and Heather is the queen bee of desserts.
Still. My stomach so can’t take that right now.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I say with a forced smile and stand up, hauling my plate and glass. “I’ve got to get ready for school in the morning.”
Heather cocks a brow. “Preparation is Oreo cheesecake. I read that on the internet, so it must be true.”
“SHHHH, Heather, I want her piece,” says Ryan, gripping his fork and knife like Wile E. Coyote.
“Like I wasn’t going to give you half,” I say, forcing out a laugh before disappearing to collapse onto my bed. My jersey, pads, and tights are there, stinking up things while mostly hidden under the covers, and I know I should sneak to the basement to wash them, but for now, it feels good to be stationary.
To just be Liv.
Not a brand-new junior. Not a backup quarterback. Not anything but Liv.
Okay, I can sit still for only about thirty seconds before I have to do something. So out comes my phone, and I cue up one of the bazillion YouTube clips I’ve found featuring quarterback heroics from games of yore, plus newer clips of Patrick Mahomes, Andrew Luck, Jared Goff, Marcus Mariota, and Sam Bradford. I even pull up a clip of Drew Brees decapitating a piñata, just because.
“Liv?” A knock comes on the door, my sister’s voice behind it.
I shove the phone under the comforter and make sure my stupid red jersey isn’t poking out, either.
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?” she asks. And she never asks. Usually she just barges right on in.
“Uh, sure.”
Danielle bursts in alone, Heather nowhere in sight. Probably distracting the rest of the crew with cheesecake. She shuts the door and turns slowly, a false smile plastered across her suntanned face.
It doesn�
�t work. It’s weird. I stare at her for a moment longer than I can stand, then blurt out, “Oh my God, what is it?”
Her smile falls and her face lands into its regular lines. I can breathe again. “You didn’t do anything, Liv. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Danielle’s eyes lift and meet mine—dark meeting dark.
“I’m fine. I just didn’t want cheesecake.”
“That’s not what I meant—you look like hell.” She sits on the bed and I half expect her to pull out my dirty jersey. It takes all the strength I have left after two-a-day hell not to glance down at the rumpled covers. Why couldn’t she just sit on Ryan’s bed? Well, because it’s a rat’s nest of jockstraps and shin guards—but still.
She sighs hard enough that I can smell the Trader Joe’s merlot on her breath.
“You don’t need to play tough, baby girl.” My lips drop open and I’m about to call for Ryan, just so I can give him hell for being a stupid snitch after all the crap I bought him. But then Danielle grabs my hand. “Anybody would be having a rough time starting a new school as a junior.”
I blink.
She thinks I’m only stressed about starting at Northland. Not because she knows about football and thinks I’m being reckless.
“Look, I know this year isn’t shaping up to be what you want—heck, it’s not exactly starting off to be what I want either.” I swallow, knowing that she means she’d much rather have me in the Windsor Prep weight room than across town. Maybe even in her Honors English section like Addie if Principal Meyer were cool with that. “You know me—I hate things I can’t control.”
Her fingers try to flatten the bumps on my comforter. Part of me would be fine with her discovering the jersey underneath. It would sort of be a relief to be found out. I think.
She stands but lingers by the bed, fingertips still grazing the edge of my comforter. “But really—are you okay? This new school thing is a big deal.”
“No—no, I’m not okay.” I take a shaky breath and press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying hard not to cry. When I pull my hands away, Danielle grabs one and squeezes. I manage to take a deep breath. “I’m not okay, but if this is what I have to do to survive and advance, then it’s what I’ll do.”
Throw Like a Girl Page 7
