Twenty heads snap toward the front.
Out of the spotlight, Grey’s shoulders soften, and my earlier question is answered.
It has been this way all day for him, too.
Good.
34
I MAKE IT THROUGH CALC. I MAKE IT THROUGH THE day.
Now, just two-hundred-plus more days until Grey’s and Jake’s graduation and the reprieve of summer break. Gotta survive and advance. It’s like state, but life.
But first: Coach Kitt.
Her door is wide open, NPR whispering into the hallway. There’s also the shuffle of papers and the fizzy pop of a newly opened La Croix. In a word: comfortable. She’s comfortable even though she’s about to see me.
Me—Hurricane Liv. Bringing the drama on one-hundred-mile-per-hour winds to her team, then to her school, then to her son.
Heart quickening, I tell myself she wants me here. She invited me—with a smile. Last time, I was the one to invite myself in. It’ll be different this time. Even if I have exactly zero defense for my attitude Friday night that wouldn’t inadvertently throw her son under the bus.
“Coach?” The word feels thick and strange on my tongue, as if I haven’t used it every day of my life.
Her eyes flash up and again, she smiles. “There you are—come in. I won’t keep you long.”
I sink into the chair opposite Coach Kitt. Her smile has vanished, something friendly but serious in its place.
“I know you have places to be, but I wanted to make sure you understand how much I appreciate the work you did Friday night in helping Kelly control her emotions.”
WHUT.
It’s only by the grace of Danielle’s training that I manage to keep my features smooth.
“I know you might have thought about letting Kelly learn a lesson by allowing her to rush into that fight, where she might have gotten hurt, but you showed great maturity in making sure she didn’t.”
I suppose I did. But shock still zings up my spine that Coach Kitt noticed it. I figured she’d have been in the stands searching for Grey during the whole brawl.
“What you did showed incredible dedication to the Northland softball team,” she continues. “And at the personal expense of the opportunity to defend someone important to you.”
Grey. Jake. The team.
I watch Kitt’s face for any sign of trepidation about the way I feel—how I felt—for her son, or for a hint that she’ll bring up the yelling match in the parking lot. But there’s none—she’s already moved on.
“And though you aren’t on the team yet, I really appreciated your thoughtfulness in the midst of the chaos.”
Yet. She said yet. There’s hope in that word.
I decide to stick with the simple truth. “I just did what I thought was right.”
A single brisk nod from her and I know it’s time to move on. “Yes, you did. And I wanted to let you know your actions didn’t go unnoticed.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
The word feels a hundred times easier than when I entered her office. As I rise, she smiles again. I’m glad to see it, but it still feels weird to have that thing aimed at me.
So weird, in fact, that I feel the truth start to spill out onto my tongue. The truth about Grey’s concussion. That he should see a doctor to be cleared. Just in case.
“Coach—” I start. But then the words die in my throat.
It’s his future.
It’s his decision.
It’s his body.
Not mine.
He wants to play. So I just need to be good enough that he doesn’t hit the field until I’m sure he’s healed. And I do care about his safety, even if he’s not exactly my favorite person right now.
Coach Kitt is looking at me and so I finish the thought with another truth.
“Grey’s going to need to get another ride home after practice—I can’t this week.”
I run my prepractice laps with the other quarterbacks in complete silence—Grey in my periphery, setting the pace. His eyes keep flashing my direction, lashes shading them in a way that he thinks will keep me from noticing.
He wants to talk to me.
Maybe he wants to ask about the obvious hitch in my stride—stupid bruised knee. But mostly he wants to know if I’m going to rat on him. I purposely take a knee next to him after laps, just like old times. Grey’s lips drop open to say something, but I hold up a hand to stop him. Then I lean in and whisper an inch from his ear.
“I was just alone with your mother and I didn’t say a single thing about you-know-what. I’m not going to say anything to the coaches either, so you can stop looking at me like I’m radioactive.” Then I turn away and refuse to look at him for the entirety of Coach’s prepractice speech.
Grey gets the hint because we practice our routes in silence, Brady following our lead. After an hour, the receivers vanish and Coach Shanks pulls us over to one end zone, something in the lines of his face. He wasn’t there for our argument Friday night but it’s clear he’s noticed something’s off between us—or maybe he knows the whole story. Whatever. Raised as we were, Grey and I are both members of the “do the work” school of thought, so we’ve been professional for the last hour. But professional isn’t much of a cover when we were basically glued at the hip for the past few weeks. Now Topps could easily fire off jumping jacks between us.
Coach reads our faces one final time—we’re sweaty as hell, even with the threat of autumn creeping into the air. Humidity never really dies in Kansas. “Time for some three bar.”
I have no idea what that is, but I know not to ask, either. Following Grey’s lead, I hover around the ten-yard line and remove my helmet.
“Want to start us off with round one, Worthington?”
Grey shifts on his feet. “What are the stakes?”
“Frozen Snickers of Power to the last man or woman standing.”
If there’s chocolate involved, I am suddenly even more motivated to kick ass. These curves don’t shape themselves.
Grey’s lips pull up in his patented half smile—probably the first time I’ve seen it since Friday. And I wonder if this is what Coach thinks we need—to bond with a little friendly competition, the start not on the line. “Best out of three?”
Shanks nods and places three balls in the dead center of the five-yard line. “Right, left, center.”
Grey takes a step back and drills the first ball straight into the right goalpost. In a single bend and step, he’s scooped up the second ball and drilled it into the left post. Another step and scoop and he spirals the final ball into the exact middle of the lower bar that makes up the U shape of the upright.
I watch as Brady resets the balls and then fires in the same right, left, center pattern—missing the center target despite it being literally right in front of his face. His jaw tenses and he stomps heavily into the turf like a little kid.
I mean, I’m not surprised, but sheesh.
Grey shifts his eyes my way. I raise an eyebrow.
You’re on, Worthington.
I collect the balls, having to jog past the field line to pick up Brady’s miss. As I’m coming back, I catch Coach Lee watching from the opposite end of the field.
Fire right. Hit.
Fire left. Hit.
Fire center. Hit—directly where the post meets the bottom of the U, the dead center.
Grey shifts his weight and Brady’s jaw tenses yet again. “Round one goes to Worthington and Rodinsky.”
The angles of Grey’s face go serious as he preps at the line. Within ten seconds, he’s done—bam, bam, bam—perfection. Brady matches him and then it’s my turn.
Right, left, center. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
“Round two, draw. Worthington and Rodinsky still in the lead.”
Grey lines up, all business. He wants more than the Snickers. He wants the start after our bye week. He knows Coach Lee is watching, too.
Predictably, he doesn’t miss.
Brady stomps i
nto the sod while lining up the balls for his turn, now sure there’s absolutely no way he’s getting a frosty postpractice treat unless he’s paying for it himself. That knowledge, or maybe exhaustion, settles in because he misses two of the three bars, both end throws going wide before he carefully lines up for a parting shot.
Royally pissed off at himself, he takes his helmet and chucks it downfield.
Which Coach Shanks does not appreciate.
“Hey, now.” Shanks’s voice goes grumbly hard. “Go cool off, Mason. Ten laps. Now.”
Brady scoops up his helmet and huffs off.
“Miss Rodinsky,” Coach says by way of invitation.
I swallow and set up the balls, feeling more eyes on us. A quick glance confirms it—Jake and the other running backs are watching to my right. Kelly’s standing next to Coach Lee.
Grey and I are a sideshow. Whatever. I can still do my job.
I swallow. Take a breath.
Right. Left. Center.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
Coach Shanks nods. “Good thing I stocked up on Snickers.”
After our postpractice laps, Grey and I silently follow Shanks into his office, leaving Brady to sulk on his own.
Shanks’s office is right next to Coach Lee’s, and from the looks of it, he shares it with Napolitano. There are two desks shoved clown-car-style into an office built for one, a minifridge wedged into the minimal breathing room between.
Coach dumps his clipboard on the desk nearest the door, barely missing a half-dozen picture frames, all containing photos of two adorable little girls who are definitely in love with their dad.
The full photo-collage effect is as telling as Napolitano’s completely bare desk. And when I say bare, I mean spotless. Coach Napolitano is clearly the kind of person who irons his jeans. Which is interesting, given he has the messy task of organizing a defensive effort.
Knees cracking, Shanks crouches down and pulls two Snickers ice-cream bars from the minifridge’s freezer. He holds one in each hand. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but this better sweeten you both up.”
We can’t just take the chocolate in silence, so both of us say, nearly at the same time, “Thanks, Coach.”
Shanks’s eyes crinkle under his visor like he’s trying to read the weight between us but can’t quite get there. Finally, he relents and hands over the Snickers.
Grey turns and I start to follow, but Shanks calls me back. “O-Rod, a minute.”
I halt and Shanks pulls his door shut.
“Liv, I don’t know what happened with you and the boys on Friday, but I want to make sure you and I are clear on a few things.” His dad voice is in full force. “It’s imperative you understand this, especially in your current situation.” He pauses and draws in a deep breath. “Teenage boys say really stupid shit to teenage girls.”
I want to laugh, but his face is drawn up, tight and serious. So I don’t. Okay, I still snort a little. Teachers don’t cuss. We all know that. Just like they don’t go to the bathroom or have bad handwriting. My mom was a teacher, my sister is a teacher, and I still believe that.
He doesn’t register my laugh, just looks at me as serious as before. “I know this because I was one once. And I work with them every day. So I know that the stupid shit they say hasn’t changed much in twenty years.” Shanks tugs at his visor. “I’m going to tell you what I tell my daughters.”
I can’t help it, my eyes skip to the heart-shaped faces in the frames on his desk—kids who I hope, deep down, would like the fact that I’m playing for their dad.
“Boys say stupid things to girls because girls scare the crap out of them. The more they think about a girl, the faster their IQ numbers plummet. And you, my friend, are terrifying.”
Thank God he’s smiling as he says this.
“First of all, you’re a girl with a pass to a sacred boyhood space—that’s horror show material right off the bat. And then you come along playing almost as well as them with zero background. You work your tail off alongside them without a single complaint, and when you take off your helmet, they’re reminded again and again that you are who you are.”
This time I laugh for real but it’s only because otherwise I might cry. Coach smiles.
“So whatever they said—remember that you’re better than it. And I’ll be sure to remind them they’re better than whatever they said, too. And if any of them is idiotic enough not to listen to either of us, you tell me. It’s not snitching—I need to know if they’re up to something I won’t tolerate. Understood?”
I suck in a breath, wincing as it shudders. Tears ping in my eyes, but I squint them off like the freaking pro I am. “You got it, Coach.”
35
THE BYE WEEK ISN’T JUST A BREAK FROM HAVING A game, it’s a break from our regular routine in general. We get out half an hour early on Monday night, and Tuesday night is more of the same, which means one thing: I can actually make it to one of Addie’s volleyball games.
It’s at Windsor Prep, but I love my Addie and damn if I won’t be there.
I clean up as quickly as possible in the Northland locker room, baby-wiping the sweat from my body and spraying dry shampoo into my hair before brushing it into a fresh ponytail—clean enough for a life without Grey.
My heart is pounding as I park Helena in her old spot in the student lot. Walk my old route to the gym. Open the Eagle-crested doors.
Sound pours out, the gym alive with the screechy euphoria of a volleyball game in full swing. I slip onto the nearest bench, finding a spot by the door and up a few rows—the place is packed with students, alumni, donors, and fans in Windsor Prep purple. There are a few scattered flecks of Wyandotte Rural powder blue dotting the pine, but most of it is swallowed by regal grape.
Not shockingly, Addie’s dominating on the court—it’s a fraction of a second after I sit before an Adeline McAndry kill crashes to the boards, icing the second set.
The bleachers erupt and so do I, hopping to my feet and screaming, enough to catch Addie’s eye. My white shirt probably didn’t hurt. Turning with her whole body, she waves, long fingers blurring in front of her mile-wide smile.
It’s weird, but in that instant, my heart slows, my nerves fade, and my belly swells with the warmth of familiarity. I’m suddenly swept into the rhythm of all the home matches I attended last year. Huddling with the softball girls, passing around contraband Diet Coke (no food or drink in the gym!) and making up silly cheering chants in the front row.
I squint into the stands across the way and see that, yes, Christy, Mary Katherine, and Ava are there, tucked behind the Eagles bench, knees bouncing in matching pairs of running capris, probably as baby-wipe-clean as me after suffering through whatever “optional” (hardy har har) off-season workout Danielle programmed for today.
The three of them cheer as the Eagles line up for a Bobcats serve, and I wonder if they’ll notice me, too, in my fluorescent white. I don’t know if I should say hi or if we’re even still cool after a few months apart and a rocky end to the season.
After the punch heard round the world, I basically ghosted on everyone who wasn’t Addie or on my summer travel team. It was all just too royally embarrassing.
My heart thuds out a small ribbon of hope. Tiny enough that I wonder when I became so freaking timid. It’s not in my DNA, yet it’s been hanging around—
“Hey.”
My head whips around at the familiar voice. Light blue eyes and ginger hair greet me, the scent of boy cologne so strong that I can’t believe I didn’t smell him before I saw him.
Thanks for the warning, nose.
Nick Cleary, in the flesh. Hair still wet, protein bar wrapper peeking out of his letter jacket’s pocket. Here for Addie, straight from practice. Just like me—but showered.
I can’t tell if I should melt from the cute (he came for her!) or beat myself up for not realizing this would be a possibility.
“Hey,” I parrot back, because other words won’t come.
“She’s killin’ it.”
He grins and we both turn our attention to the court. I’m relieved after a minute when he pulls out his phone, aiming it toward the net, recording his girlfriend totally crushing it.
And she is.
Bump. Spike. Block. Kill.
She does it all with a graceful efficiency, pin-straight and wiry but panther-smooth. It’s as beautiful as it is mesmerizing.
Nick and I don’t speak during the final set of the sweep, watching in dull silence when we’re not screaming into the noise of a Windsor Prep crowd.
And when it’s over and the players are shaking hands, I’m surprised that Nick is the one who breaks our mutual hush. Even more so when I realize it’s an invitation.
“I usually meet her on the floor after they leave the locker room.”
Usually. He’s done this before. Because of course he has. But I’m her best friend and this is the first match I’ve seen all season. Ugh.
We wait a few minutes, and as the locker room door swings open, none of the players look twice at Nick, standing there, in full Northland gear. Nothing worth gawking about. Me, on the other hand… I stick out like the ghost of games past.
“OMG! Liv Rodinsky! Is that you?”
It’s unclear which Eagle squeals it first, but they’re on me in a flash—like they didn’t just sprint across a gym for an hour. Whatever the reason for the surge, a dozen girls surround me, game-day glitter in their hair.
“Uh, hi.” Their collective reaction is infectious, and I’m suddenly grinning.
“We miss you, Hot Roddy!” says Genevieve Suter, adding in deliberate vroom sounds that accompany the sometimes-nickname I inherited from Danielle.
“How’s Northland?”
“We heard you’re playing football!”
“Omigod, aren’t the guys there ON FIRE? HI, NICK.” Then, quieter yet somehow just as loud, “Do you have one for me?”
I laugh, not sure whom to answer first. So I answer them all. “I miss you guys, too! It’s okay. I am. They are, but not enough to ruin my A average.” (Insert hair flip.) I lean in to Barbie Villanueva, hopeful whisper-shouter. “And no, but I can be on the lookout.”
Throw Like a Girl Page 19
