The coaches file out and the remaining air sags into the locker room’s corners. Last week, we convened after the game around the benches. But this time—away from home, after a loss—this room feels the safest. We should follow to the buses and head home. But alone, we all hesitate, maybe waiting for one of us to say something.
Maybe me. I’m not a captain, but I was the quarterback. The leader.
I steel myself and hop onto a bench so that I’m a head above everyone—even Topps. “Tigers, we’re going to make this right. This team is going to win every single game through the end of the season.”
Through the forest of man-boys, I get some nods and turn up my inner Danielle. I’m not nervous or anything, but I’m sure not used to a bunch of boys staring back at me during a pep talk. Danielle, though? She could motivate a pack of polar bears to hula.
“We’re going to take our 1-1 record and wear it like a badge of pride. When we make it to state, we’re going to say, ‘Hell, yeah, we’re imperfect. And that makes us all the harder to beat, because we’re not planning to lose another game this season.” I pause. “This loss is our fuel. We use it or it burns us. Our choice, Tigers.”
“Hell yes,” Grey says, backing me up.
“That’s right,” Topps says before picking me up and setting me down on solid ground.
Others are nodding, too, a second behind. Even Brady. Even Kelly, way in the back.
But Jake takes a step forward, his jersey pristine for once. “Bullshit. It’s not our choice. Our choice was to win tonight. We should have won. And we didn’t.”
He spits off “we,” but the cut of his eyes says I didn’t. I didn’t win. The quarterback. The leader. I let him down.
I don’t break eye contact. Just absorb his words and move on. “No, we didn’t win. But that doesn’t affect our choices from here on out. We learn, we move on. End of story.”
But it isn’t. Not with Jake. This Jake is the same bluster and fire I saw that first day at practice; that I saw last night picking a fight. The boy who offered apologies and admiration is stuffed down deep below the bruises and disappointment.
“A story is exactly what that sounds like,” Jake insists, his beautiful dark eyes flashing. “This is reality. And the reality is that we got beat by shitty-ass Central because we weren’t good enough tonight.”
He’s right. But that attitude’s going to get us nowhere. I smile at him. “Oh, good, then you’ll feel inspired when we lose to fantastic-ass Jewell Academy. That’s when we’ll make our upswing. First two-loss team to ever win league. Let’s do it.”
There’s a tittering of laughter as I clap my hands together, faux-pumped. I swear I spy a hint of a smile from Jake before his competitor’s armor slides back into place. “I’m not planning on losing any more games this year.”
“Good, then we’re on the same page.”
Head held high, I turn and walk out to the bus.
27
I TRY BUT FAIL TO WASH THE LOSS OUT OF MY HAIR—Garnier Fructis can only do so much. Still, I’m back at Northland, clean after five minutes of furious scrubbing, and it must say a lot about how I feel about Grey that for once after a loss, I don’t want to crawl into the fetal position, rehashing what I could’ve done differently.
In my defense, it took Danielle twenty-five years to truly believe the sort of stuff I said in the locker room. Growing up, she was the queen of postloss moping. So: role model. It didn’t help that before he was promoted to detective and started working a million hours per week, Dad had a tendency to drill us on how we could’ve improved that mistimed throw or the whiffed tag.
So, yeah, breaking it down until we know exactly what went wrong is a Rodinsky family specialty. Letting go? Not so much.
This feeling isn’t going to go away, but somehow that’s okay, because I know Grey is outside the locker room at this very moment, waiting for me.
And even though this time I’m expecting him, it’s still a shock to see him there, clean and patient. His hands are in his pockets and that little half smile makes an easy spread across his face, despite the stench of defeat that followed us back to Northland.
“Hey, beautiful, wanna get out of here?”
I cock a brow. “You know that line doesn’t really work when I’m the one with the keys, right?”
“No. I was literally asking,” he deadpans.
“Of course you were.” I roll my eyes and try to sock him in the shoulder, but he palms my fist before I can make contact and uses it to draw me into him, his lips catching mine midsmile. All my forward momentum stops, my free hand landing just above his hip, and the only thought in my brain is suddenly OBLIQUES.
We stand like that for I don’t know how long, the starry night and yellow glow of the security lights flowing together into some sort of timeless vacuum. When we separate, I just grin at him and say, “I think you just made me miss curfew.”
He fishes his phone out of his pocket and the screen flashes up at us—10:06 PM.
Nearly an hour. We have an hour alone. With the loss, everyone’s bailed on pancakes at Pat’s Diner.
What Grey says next is something I most definitely don’t expect. “My parents are out of town.”
Grey’s house is pristine. I mean, I knew it would be, but seeing it is something else. Not rich, per se—two years of private school gave me plenty of access to people with houses like that. This is something classic.
Like Danielle’s house, his was built in the fifties. Brick colonial, but not supersize. Hers is smaller—an in-need-of-an-update dinosaur she and Heather scooped up for a steal. Grey’s house is magazine perfect, with glossy white trim, polished oak floors, and real wood furniture, heavy and refurbished.
As promised, it’s empty. Which makes my heart race far more than it did at any point during tonight’s game. Grey grabs a La Croix for each of us—no sugary soda in Coach Kitt’s fridge—and I follow him up the stairs.
We turn the corner and all the doors are shut but one, the silver light of the moon combed over the rug, his blinds obviously open to the night.
When I step in, his room isn’t far from what I imagined—a blend of sporty and serious in a preppy palette. The walls are a muted blue, but covered in orderly—and meticulously aligned—posters.
Classic Joe Montana taken during the blip of time he was with the Chiefs, and Patrick Mahomes in a more recent shot. Colin Kaepernick kneels over his dresser, Marcus Mariota and Drew Brees chill in smaller pictures around the room. Various Jayhawks are sprinkled around—“Mario’s Miracle” frozen in time and Danny Manning bookend his closet. There are baseball players, too, of course, mostly Royals players like Salvy, Moose, and Duffy.
The furniture is dark wood and everything matches, nothing stitched together as money allows. Place ribbons of every color hang from the window frame, a shot of personality layered over white wood blinds. Trophies line two open shelves placed over the pristinely made bed.
Grey shuts his blinds and turns on some Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness. As the chorus of “All Our Lives” hums to life, I suddenly find an interest in small talk I never knew I had.
“So, um… where are your parents?”
Grey sits on the bed. It’s not an invitation—it’s like he needs to sit down for what he says next. There’s a tick to his shoulders I’m sure I’ve never seen. “Touring the wineries of Hermann, Missouri.” The way he says it, the way he’s sitting, there’s something more. “Last-minute trip. Preemptively celebrating Mom’s fortieth birthday.”
Wait. Hold the phone. I’m suddenly doing math in my head, trying to figure out how old she was when she had Grey. He reads the mental gymnastics flipping across my face. “I wrecked her chances to make the 2004 Olympic team.”
I wince.
But that’s not the more in his voice—what comes next is. “Her birthday is actually next weekend, but I guess they figured they wouldn’t miss much with my butt on the bench tonight.”
Well, that’s shitty. I clai
m a piece of the bed’s corner and place my hand on his arm. “That’s not the vibe I’ve ever gotten from your mom. I mean, pride practically shoots from her eyeballs when she sees you.”
Through a wicked smirk, he sighs. “It’s not that she’s not proud of me—Dad either. It’s just… things have been different since this summer.”
The car wreck. A pang reverberates through my heart, and suddenly I have a lump nestled against my windpipe. We both made mistakes this summer. And the recovery keeps on going—relationships, trust, expectations—what we did bleeds over to all of it. “I know that feeling.”
I meant it as an aside of solidarity. That I totally understand what it’s like to disappoint those you love most. But then Grey reaches out and takes my hand, turning my palm over, his long eyelashes pointed down, examining the lines there—love, fate, life.
“Liv…” he starts, and then stops himself. There’s something heavy hanging off my name. Something substantial enough to hurt. Grey glances up at me through those lashes. “There’s more.”
Not for the first time do I think that maybe he injured another person. But I googled the accident, and got nothing more than two sentences in the Star’s weekly off-season prep roundup about Grey’s collarbone. And it would’ve been something much more if he’d wrecked someone else’s life, along with his left arm. Grey hauls his legs onto the bed and crosses them, his bare knee grazing mine. Even through my jeggings, it’s warm. He leans back against the wall, his thumb running slow circles against my skin.
His mouth drops open, but he still can’t get the words out. I swear I can see fear churning in his eyes.
“What is it?” I ask. “You can tell me, whatever it is.”
The words rush out of him in a single breath. “I think I might have gotten a concussion.”
I blink. “In the car accident?”
His eyes shoot to mine, lips closing before immediately opening again. “Yes—well, I think so.”
“You think so—you don’t know?”
He pauses. “I don’t—I mean I feel like I did after I got one freshman year.”
As his words sink in, the signs solidify in my mind.
Sunglasses to practice when he knows better: light sensitivity.
Our exchange the first day on the track:
Sounds like you’ve been hit in the head one too many times.
Actually, that’s not too far off from the truth.
The Tylenol I’ve seen him pop when he thinks I’m not looking.
Even his half-step slowness during scrimmage—just like Jake, I thought that was Grey’s injured ego, but now it’s suddenly startlingly obvious that something else is.
“How bad was the concussion you got your freshman year?”
He clearly doesn’t want to say the words, but under my fiercest glare he finally does. “A grade three.”
Oh. My. God. I’m no medical professional, but I have been hit in the head hard enough that I know Grey Worthington lost consciousness in that car accident.
“Grey…” I say, and get to my knees, one hand on the wall, and press my fingertips to his temple, as if doing so can magically tell me if his brain is no longer bruised.
He sort of laughs and takes my hand in his, kissing my fingers. “I’m okay. I’m really okay.”
But I’m not fazed. “Are you really okay to play? I swear to God if you lie to me, I’ll knee you in the nuts.”
His eyes pointedly shoot to my knees, which are indeed pretty close to the crotch of his shorts. “I’m not cleared,” he says, and then looks up from my knees and straight into my eyes. “But that’s only because they don’t know either.”
“Who doesn’t know?”
Grey swallows. “Everyone. The coaches. Mom. Dad.”
Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. “Why don’t they know about it?”
“Because I don’t want college recruiters to find out.”
I’m absolutely stunned.
And the thing is, I understand. I get not wanting to be judged forever for something stupid in your past—that’s my summer on a plate.
Grey’s talking again. “Dad’s a lawyer, so we can swing college and all, but I don’t want to just walk on somewhere. I want to play. And I don’t want anyone passing me up my senior year because of it.”
I understand that, too—it’s part of why I need to make Coach Kitt’s team. Not just to get in front of recruiters for a full ride, but also so anyone interested in offering me anything won’t think twice about the reputation I dinged when I decked Stacey.
“How’d you keep it from them…? I mean, you had to be checked out after the car accident. I mean, your arm—it’s not like you refused medical attention. How could they not…? How did you keep it from them?”
Again, Grey looks down. Embarrassed or regretful or both. “I came to before the ambulance and cops arrived. They didn’t know I’d been out. And I don’t know how, but I made it through every test. They were way more concerned with not jostling my arm—someone recognized me as Northland’s starting quarterback.”
Wow. Luck and way more deceit than I ever expected from Grey Worthington add up to one big-ass secret.
“So… no one knows but me?”
Grey doesn’t break eye contact, the steel gray reaching into me. Pleading. “No one. Promise me you won’t tell. Please? I can take care of myself.”
The way he says it, I’m back on the stoop that night Dad found out about my secret football career, hearing my own voice as I beg him to listen. Trying to prove that I know what’s best for me. That I can handle it. That I know what I have to do for the future I want.
I search Grey’s face again, doing the math in my head. It’s been more than eight weeks since his accident. I’ve had two concussions in my softball career—both grade twos at ages ten and fourteen—and I know that’s long enough to heal. Still, I have to hear him say it.
“I promise I won’t rat you out.” He smiles briefly, but I put a finger to his lips, ruining the expression. “But I need you to promise me that if you’re not okay, you’ll tell me and we’ll get you to a doctor immediately.”
“I promise.”
I sit back on my heels, appraising the whole Grey Worthington package. And it’s a nice one. “Good. I don’t want my boyfriend to have mashed potatoes for brains. I rather like your brains.”
“Boyfriend,” he says with a grin that makes me wonder if I’ve ever actually said that word to him. How could I not? Grey sits up off the wall and turns to me, and I swear I see the muscles shifting under his white polo in a way that I’ve never seen under his jersey—the pads most definitely get in the way. He runs a finger under my chin and then slips a lock of still-wet hair behind my ear. “I know I’m the one who nixed kissing in football, but I’m fairly certain Jake’s real reason for being so pissed Thursday was because of how I look at you.”
It shouldn’t, but this gives me a little thrill. Right in the darkest corners of my heart, the part that still aches, that’s stitched with that final text from Jake—Can’t deal with the crazy. I’m out.
I close the distance between us, twisting to push up onto my knees, draping my arms over his shoulders. This is a position I’ve never had with him—the kind Helena the Honda doesn’t allow. I’m looking down on him, my chest touching his, the ends of my hair pooling against his collarbone.
“Keep looking,” I say. And then I kiss him.
28
DAD IS WAITING UP FOR ME WHEN I KILL THE IGNITION exactly two minutes until eleven, sitting on the cooling concrete of Danielle’s front stoop, beer in hand.
I get out of the car with my head hanging, furiously trying to remember how I felt back in the locker room. Before Grey made me forget everything. My lips are pink enough to give me away—my head hangs further. I’m actually upset somewhere deep down, but still, I have to work to be the sore loser Dad expects me to be right now.
“Ah, hon, everyone loses.” Dad sets down the bottle and hotfoots it my way. He takes me in for
a hug, and despite the beer, he smells of sandalwood and the cinnamon disks he keeps in a bowl on his desk. I melt into him, arms limp at my sides, face buried in his shoulder. “So you lost. But no one can take that performance away from you. Running, leaping, throwing—you were outstanding.”
I sigh into him as he rubs my back. My muscles ache from being drilled to the turf too many times, but it still feels good.
Hearing him say those things feels good, too, especially after months of feeling like nothing but a disappointment.
Dad kisses my hair. “Next week is your week, Livvie.”
And I almost think he’s right.
The next week is as close to my new normal as I allow myself to hope. A steady blur of school, practice, a few stolen moments alone with Grey, dinner with the fam. I miss Addie’s match again, but I make it for a few minutes of Ryan’s, so maybe I’m not totally a horrible person.
By Friday night, the weight of the loss is gone—the bulk of it eaten alive by good old hard work during the week. I’m tired but jazzed by the home crowd, the night air filled with the scent of popcorn as we take the field. There’s a hint of crispness there, too, fall clearing its throat. It’ll be here soon enough. Next week we have a bye, also known as an entire week off from competition. Which means I’m fairly certain by the time we’re on the field again—homecoming, against last year’s state champs—I’ll be blowing into my frozen fingers before every snap.
Tonight, though, there’s just enough humidity to make the ball slick in my fingers. Despite the loss, I’ve gotten the start. Again. I don’t know if Coach Lee is benching Grey because I’m actually better than him or because he’s worried his collarbone still isn’t healed. I don’t force Grey to speculate. We just don’t talk about it.
Whatever the reason, Coach Lee has decided to go for a mix of plays against Tetherman, trying to break through a defensive line that’s been giving Jake a literal headache the whole game. Frustration sits heavy on his broad shoulders, and I know he’s getting pissed when he starts mouthing off to guys who easily have fifty pounds on him.
Throw Like a Girl Page 15
