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She looked at me like I was stupid. “Yeah. You kind of need to if you’re going to be alone in the woods with bears, wolves, and giant bucks who will happily maul your ass to next Christmas.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I’m Kennedy.”
“Yeah,” she said dryly. “I gathered that when you wrote ‘Kennedy’ at the top of the paper.” She jabbed her pen where she had written her name.
“Right. Hi, Marne.”
Marne rolled her eyes and went back to the assignment.
My next class was an elective: videography. As soon as our teacher, Mr. Frankie, handed me the camera I got to use for the entire semester, I decided this would be my favorite class. My mom never really believed in hobbies or spending money on things like cameras, so I was immediately fascinated. Compared to my dinosaur of a phone—a flip phone my mom had got for herself at the beginning of the cell phone era and then passed on to me—the camera in my hands was state of the art.
I held it up, snapping a few pictures around the room as I messed with settings. Once the bell rang, Mr. Frankie went over an assignment that was going to be fifty percent of our grade.
“You’ve each been assigned to a player on the football team,” Mr. Frankie explained.
Two girls sitting next to me silently screeched at each other and fanned their faces. I wanted to projectile vomit on them. I knew what the football players were like at this school, if the fucktastic four were any indication. Note to self: I still needed a much catchier name for them.
“Your job,” Mr. Frankie continued. “Is to help them make an effective recruitment video for colleges. This is a big deal, okay? Do a good enough job, and you might seriously help some of these guys get noticed. So, I don’t want you filming one random practice, slapping a soundtrack behind it, and calling it a day. This should be a comprehensive experience. In other words, you’re going to get to know the player you’re assigned to pretty well over the next couple weeks.”
I swallowed hard. How many guys were on the football team? My mind was racing, trying to calculate the odds of a worst-case scenario unfolding. Fifty, maybe? I wasn’t sure.
“I want you all to come check the list at my desk, find out your assignment, and make time after school today to introduce yourselves. If you already know the player, great. If you don’t, be friendly. Some of them may not be thrilled to get dragged along for the project, but we’ve got the coaching staff’s full cooperation. Basically, they either work with you, or they don’t play. So if you get any pushback, just let me know.”
I waited until the line had calmed down around Mr. Frankie’s desk before maneuvering my chair up there. I’d watched girls do silent celebrations or slump their shoulders and walk back to their desk. Most of the guys hadn’t seemed to care, except one who went completely white and went back to his desk with wide eyes.
I swallowed hard, then scanned the list for my name.
Kennedy Stills: Tristan Blackwood - QB
It felt like a hollow spot opened up in my chest, threatening to suck all the air out of my lungs.
I went back to the table they set up for me in the back corner of the room and wanted to lay my head down and cry. Except I didn’t. I did a little mental rearranging and decided to look at it another way. Tristan had done his best to make me miserable this summer. But now I had the keys. Either he worked with me, or he didn’t get to play his precious game, right?
I didn’t doubt he’d still find ways to make me hate my life, but I could at least look forward to seeing his face when he found out he was partnered with me.
People like me had to take the small victories where we could find them.10TristanToday’s practice felt good. We were done with most of the slow shit and the conditioning of the offseason. Now, it was time to get our pads on, get hit, and play the game. I dropped back, scanned the field, and fired off a pass to Logan, who played running back and tight end for us. When Cassian was in, Logan went out as a receiver, and when Cassian was on the bench, Logan was our back.
Logan caught the ball, spun away from a defender, and easily walked it into the endzone.
Someone shoved me hard from behind, bumping me with their shoulder pad. Reflexively, I turned around, shoving back. I realized it was Cassian. He was leaning in, his facemask just inches from mine.
“Hand the fucking ball off next time,” he emphasized his point with another push to my chest
