Rather than whipping around—which would put our mouths way too close together—I side-eye him with a little smile.
“Yes?”
“Seen a Martian yet?”
“Very funny, Captain Kirk.”
His lips tip up at the corners. “Don’t worry. It happens to everyone. It used to happen to me even.”
“What did?”
“That posttouchdown buzz.”
My smile widens. I can’t help it. “How do you know I’m not always like this when I win? How do you know touchdowns make it different?”
“Because I know enough about your softball career to know that if you were like this every time you won or scored, you’d probably be permanently high.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yes. You going to actually accept it?”
“I do believe I will.”
“Oh shit,” Addie screeches. “Liv, curfew.”
My head whips around to where she’s sitting across the table, stack of pancakes vanished in a sad swirl of used syrup and melted butter. Her eyes are wide, and Nick looks as surprised as she does that everything has come grinding to a halt.
I glance at my watch. Crap. It’s now a quarter to eleven, which is pumpkin time in both our houses. Cop Dad is one thing, but Mrs. McAndry, Johnson County district attorney, is also not a person you want to defy. Neither set of parents is going to be happy if we’re late, even if they think Addie and I’ve just been bumming it at the mall or movie theater tonight. Which is totally what they think—Ryan even asked Danielle to drop him and Jesse at the football stadium because I was “with Addie.”
“I can take you up to Northland,” Nick offers. He pulls out his wallet to pay. “Rogers, you drive Kell home?”
Jake nods, which doesn’t help the fact that I’m still not thinking clearly, because I shut that shit down. “I’ve got to drop Grey off at Northland, so I can take Addie, too,” I say.
Something passes between Nick and Grey. “I can take her,” Nick reiterates and stands, dumping cash on the table. His blue eyes ghost to Grey’s again.
Grey’s hand drops from the edge of my chair to my shoulder. “I didn’t drive to school. Would you mind taking me home? Nick’s got this.”
I share a glance with Addie, whose eyes are pleading with me to stop being an idiot. Pleading is the wrong word—they’re screaming, “You go with your cute boy and I’ll go with mine, dummy.”
Because I’m a total genius right now, I manage a super-smart, super-sexy, “Okay, then.”
17
GREY’S HOUSE ISN’T FAR FROM THE DINER. IT ISN’T FAR from Northland either. I would say it isn’t far from Danielle’s house, but that would be an understatement.
It’s practically in our backyard.
He lives next door to the house that butts up against ours. If there weren’t a wall of trees along his fence line, I could see the back of his house from my bedroom window.
Not that I would try to look later, for the record. Okay, I might. But what I’d see then can’t compete with what I’m seeing right this second.
Grey is inches from me again, leaning in after taking off his seat belt as I coast to a stop in front of his house. Unlike my driveway, his isn’t filled with cars. Instead of a pile of parental and kid vehicles, his three-car swath of asphalt is completely pristine. Just like the house, which has the same manicured feel as his mother. If a brick colonial could wear lipstick, this one would. I mean, Danielle and Heather have a nice house, but it’s on the smaller side for the neighborhood and needs some major renovation, so it isn’t this by a long shot.
The house is quiet, too. Not a single light is on. Which makes the proximity of Grey’s face to mine even more heart-stopping.
“Why are you giving me that death glare?” he asks.
Because we’re so far apart, even though we’re almost neighbors.
My brows shoot up immediately as I try to remedy my expression and shake from my head the fact that he’s got triple the space for half the people, and I have to share a closet with my brother. “Oh, sorry.”
Grey breaks into a wide smile. “Don’t be sorry.” Again, he catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re pretty even when you look like you want to burn me to the ground.”
I snort. Real sexy, I know. “Is that what I look like? An arsonist?”
His smile collapses into its most comfortable half shape, but somehow he looks even more pleased. “Enough that I’d never hand you matches.”
“Ouch.”
His thumb grazes my lower lip. “Did you even hear the first part of that sentence?”
I blink at him, thoughts a jumbled mess on the cutting-room floor. Nothing seems adequate with his thumb on my lip.
“Pretty—I think you’re pretty,” he says. “Beautiful, actually.”
My heart slows, just coasting on fumes until I’m staring at him with the whole of me—blood, breath, mind—still.
“Beautiful, smart, funny, and you’ve got one hell of an arm.”
I sort of expect him to wink, but he doesn’t. His thumb hasn’t moved, and I struggle to give a straight answer. “You’ve made no secret of liking my arm.”
“What if I said I liked more than just your arm?”
Something about the nature of his face softens, and my lungs collapse. “That would probably back up the beautiful comment.”
Grey closes the space between us, his lips warm against mine. They’re softer than I imagined, but the scrape of stubble pressing into my chin is 100 percent rough-and-tumble boy.
We stay like that for I don’t know how long—one of his hands is cupping my cheek, but the other stays primly in his lap while my fingers grip the steering wheel—until a flash of light hits the backs of my eyelids. I open my eyes to see the light on his porch suddenly lit.
Grey’s eyes spring open, too, but rather than freak, he rubs his thumb across my lower lip one last time and winks.
“See you in eight hours, Liv Rodinsky.”
That smile doesn’t leave my lips during my ride home. Thank God I only live around the corner and a boomerang block back up, because I seriously don’t recall a single thing about that short ride. It’s like the type of runner’s high you get where you black out until you hit the front stoop and just then realize you’re finished.
The past week has been an F5 tornado, with the last few hours the most dizzying part of the ride.
I kissed Grey.
I kissed Grey hours after scoring my first-ever touchdown. I kissed Grey and scored a touchdown without knowing either was a possibility just over a week ago.
I am in every way a different girl than the one who was running at the Northland track, earbuds canceling out everything other than my own pitiful thoughts.
I exit Helena with my eyes on the trees lining Grey’s backyard. There’s a light on in the back, spilling through a window on the second floor of the house and winking through the trees. It’s got to be his room. A small voice tells me it probably smells of boy soap and just-washed basketball shorts.
A shadow catches my eye, interrupting my thoughts. I glance up the drive and my heart plummets.
Dad.
Eddy Rodinsky has a finger to his wristwatch, tapping at a ticked-off rhythm. The porch light backlights his dark hair, perfectly placed silver sparkling at the temples. I’m in deep shit. My dad prefers a tight ship, even if he’s not around to steer it.
I’ve barely seen him since last Sunday’s dinner, thanks to the case he’s been working, so it’d be just my luck that he’d be home and awake the first time I’ve missed my curfew in six months. Awesome.
“I’m late, I’m sorry,” I say—though a confession never works with Cop Dad. He’s heard too many. “I was out with Addie—”
“And the team?”
My breath catches and the blood in my veins slows. The silvery patches at his temples blur.
“Dad—I—”
“You were going to tell me, I know.�
� He crosses his arms over his starched button-up, dark eyes reading me. I don’t know if it’s learned or a parental instinct, but Dad always seems to know exactly what I’m thinking. And right this moment, I’m thinking about what he’d most hate about this situation—my deception.
“I didn’t lie.” It’s the truth, and I hope he can hear it in my voice. I made Ryan lie, but I never lied.
“You did. You told Danielle you went out for cross-country.”
Oh, shit.
“And before you ask, Ryan didn’t snitch. The boy spilled his guts an hour ago, but I already knew. He didn’t tell me.”
I gape at him. If Ry didn’t tell, then who? Addie?
Dad knows a stumped face when he sees one. “Sarge’s grandkid plays for Rural. Better believe he was pissed that I hadn’t told him about your new position. Called me up as he was filing out of the stadium to congratulate me—to congratulate you.”
The way he makes it sound, the lilt of his voice, gives me hope that he thinks it’s cool. That I did something smart and grown-up and he won’t decapitate me for repeatedly sticking my hands an inch from Topps’s junk all week.
But the taint of disapproval sits heavily in his body language. So I wait.
Dad rolls his shoulders and sighs, his eyes never leaving mine. “Would you like to explain why you lied to Danielle and neglected to tell your parents about your latest athletic endeavor?”
I know this is a kindness. Dad giving me a chance to share my story rather than weather his questions. My dad is strict, but that doesn’t mean he’s not fair.
“Ryan didn’t tell you?”
“I want to hear it from you.”
I keep my voice low, trying to prove I can be an adult and not throw a hissy fit just because he thinks I will. I can be calm. I can be better than the girl who lost her cool and punched Stacey. Or threw her helmet at Jake. I can be more.
“I went to talk to Coach Kitt about softball and she told me I needed to prove to her that I’m a good teammate and can add value to the Tigers beyond my talent. So, I told her I’d join a fall sport—probably cross-country.”
I can’t tell if he knows this already, but I figure it’s as good as any place to start.
“And I really was planning to try out. But then the next day, the starting quarterback caught me on the track. He’d seen me with Ryan the day before, throwing around a football, and suggested I go out for backup quarterback. He’s getting over a broken collarbone and the team needed an extra backup and he thought I’d be good at it. I laughed at him and told him it was a dumb idea, but he sold me on it.”
“How?”
“Um, well, the quarterback, Grey, he’s Coach Kitt’s son.”
Dad’s jaw stiffens. “Did he tell you you’d have a spot on his mother’s team if you went out for football?”
“No, not exactly. I mean, it was more of I help him out and he makes sure his mom knows—”
“That’s coercion, Liv.”
I shake my head. It’s not like that… it’s not criminal in the way Dad makes it sound. I can still feel the outline of Grey’s lips on mine—and it’s probably visible, too. “It’s a favor for a favor.”
Dad frowns. “You’re doing a way bigger favor for him than you could ever possibly get in return.”
“That’s not true! The football coach signed off on it and—”
“That coach should’ve known better. And it’s not his decision to sign off on. It’s mine. It’s your mother’s. We know what’s best for you.”
Tears sting my eyes. “If you know what’s best for me, then why am I not at Windsor Prep?”
“You know exactly why you aren’t at Windsor Prep, young lady.”
“I was stupid, yes. But you guys could’ve talked to Principal Meyer. Danielle could’ve—”
“Talking you out of trouble is not going to teach you to be responsible for your actions.”
“But I’m being responsible here,” I say, my voice breaking. “I went to Coach Kitt. I asked what she wanted to see from me. And then I took an opportunity to show her exactly that. I made those decisions. Me. I did.” I could keep going, but my voice rises dangerously high and I have to stop or it’s going to crack.
Dad shakes his head. “I’m glad you tried, but you’re sixteen, Olive. Not an adult. You’re a great kid and a smart girl, but your decisions since May haven’t been the right ones. Football is dangerous. You need to trust your mother and me on this—”
“I need to trust you, but you can’t trust me?” I feel like a bitch cutting him off, but I can’t let him go on. “You tell me to be responsible for my actions in one breath, but in the next you’re telling me I can’t make decisions without parental consent?”
Everything about Dad goes rigid. To me, it’s so obvious and the truth, but to him I’ve gone too far.
“To make decisions, you have to have the ability to think things through.” His voice is leaden with disappointment. “And punching that poor girl at state is the perfect example of you acting before you think.”
“I have thought football through.” The words are a whisper—much weaker than I mean them to be.
“Have you?” Dad takes a step toward me. “What happens if you get hit?”
“I’ve been hit.”
He doesn’t blink or pause or acknowledge in any way that I’ve said something. He keeps going—snowing me under in examples of my shortsightedness.
“What if you get a concussion? Tear your ACL? Smash your collarbone in two like this Grey kid?”
With each scenario, his eyes flash and it’s almost like he’s not seeing sixteen-year-old me anymore, but his youngest daughter, all dolled up in white for her christening. I’ve regressed to babyhood with one simple decision.
“If you get hurt, then where will you be?” He stares at me as if he expects me to answer. But I don’t have one. And anything I throw out won’t be good enough. The tears spill over as he answers for me. I grit my teeth and force myself to keep looking at his face. “Not on the junior national softball team or in college, that’s for sure.”
“I won’t be on either if I don’t do this! Coach Kitt is never going to let me on her team without extra brownie points—”
He cuts me off with a line so similar to Danielle’s from the other night that I wonder if she told him everything we discussed. “Olive Marie, any coach worth her salt isn’t going to look talent in the face and turn it away.”
“This one will!”
I can see words forming on Dad’s face about my club team, but we both know we don’t have the money to pay for a premier travel team. “I need the kind of press that comes with a major run at state. The games I played this summer? They were fun. Were they enough to keep me on scouts’ radar for an entire year? Probably not.” My voice cracks and I draw in a big, shaky breath. “You know that.”
I’m going to need both school and club seasons this year—junior year—to secure the only type of college ride I can afford: a free one. We both know it. And we both would do anything to make sure those scholarships and Olympic team accolades happen. Or I thought we would—apparently this method, my choice, isn’t common ground.
Dad purses his full lips, hands on hips, the rest of his body perfectly still. After a moment, his mouth drops open and the words come out at a precise pace.
“No more football, Olive. It’s too dangerous. I know you’re trying to prove a point, but if you get badly injured, you can kiss softball goodbye altogether. You have a much better chance of making the team healthy and repentant for your actions than injured and proud.”
“Dad—”
“No more football.”
“But—”
He holds up a hand and I go quiet, leaving my next words unsaid. But I can’t get a full ride without being on a team. And I can’t be on a team without proving I’m teammate material. And the only way to do that is to play football.
“No. More. Football. Do you understand?” I squeeze my eyes shut and nod.
“And you’re grounded this weekend. No cell, no computer, no car.”
He presents a palm for my phone and keys. When I hand them over, he gives one last stoic Dad look before turning to go inside, no doubt to retrieve my laptop.
Conversation over. Concluded. Done.
But I’m not.
My lips quiver as I shoot words at his back.
“Dad, please.”
He keeps walking. But I’m rooted to the spot. I force myself to be louder. Not to yell, but to make sure he hears me.
“Dad. Please. Please listen to me. I’m good at this. I’m part of the team. I won’t get hurt.” The tears are still spilling over my face. “I’ll play. And Coach Kitt will see. And I’ll play softball in the spring. I promise.”
But he doesn’t turn around.
18
I WAKE UP IN A STATE OF EMOTIONAL WHIPLASH—head pounding, eyes throbbing, the early morning sunlight too much. In basically five hours last night, I went from a stratospheric high full of touchdowns, applause, and kisses with Grey (not sure that’s the right order, honestly) and then all the way to the lowest of freaking lows, with Dad effectively killing all those things with a single sentence.
I want to believe it didn’t happen. That I’m going to be headed to practice in a few minutes where I’ll see Grey, he’ll kiss me (preferably in front of Jake), and we’ll lift weights until Coach Lee calls a break to congratulate us all on a job well done.
But with a single open eye, I know that’s all wrong.
The clock says 7:38 AM. An hour later than any time I’ve woken up in the past two weeks, and thirty-eight minutes past when I should’ve been in the weight room. Even Ryan is up and gone, his bed a still life: Wrestling Match with the Sheets.
My desk is bare—no computer there. And my phone charger is limp on my nightstand, phone-free.
Ughhhhh.
I step out of bed with a creak of the floorboards and give myself a once-over in my cheapo full-length mirror. My skin is mottled with bruises of varying sizes and colors. Dark purple on my thigh. Yellow in the middle of my upper arm on my nonthrowing side. Brownish-green on both shins.
Throw Like a Girl Page 10
