I turn around and see a Dad-age guy standing there in a Northland Football T-shirt. A black knee brace pokes out from below his shorts, and a visor shades the beginnings of crow’s-feet on his warm brown skin as a distinctively coach-like whistle rests around his neck.
“Liv Rodinsky, softball star, I presume.”
He knows my name—the way I prefer it—and who I am. Or who I used to be, at least. When I don’t answer, he smiles at me.
“You think half my squad sees the pinnacle of all girl fights and I don’t get a play-by-play?” My cheeks begin to burn. Getting my GED seems like a really smart move right about now. He sticks out his hand. “Manny Shanks, offensive coordinator and quarterbacks coach.”
I shake it hesitantly “Uh, nice to meet you, Coach.”
Shanks is wearing the same pre–pep talk stare of appraisal I’ve seen on nearly every coach I’ve ever had.
“Liv Rodinsky, we need you.”
My eyes flit over to the practice field where the otherred-clad player and the rest of his teammates are on bended knee, listening to some final instruction from a grandpa-age dude who I assume is the head coach. Helmets off and backs to us, they almost appear to be in prayer, rather than man-boys gaining instruction on how to plow other human beings into the ground. Before I realize it, my eyes settle on Jake’s number thirty-two.
Of course.
I glance away. “I think you’re mistaken, Coach.”
“Oh, but I’m not. We need acapablebackup quarterback behind our freshman, and you’ve got one hell of an arm. We’re a running team, but in the event he’s injured while Worthington’s out, we still need someone calling the plays and chucking the ball to our running back.”
I frown.Ourrunning back. Aka Jake Rogers.
Nope. Nope. Hella nope.
“Not interested.”
I’m surprised when it’s Grey who speaks next, not Coach Shanks. “I think you are. Because if you play with me, I’ll make sure you have a fair shot with Coach Kitt.”
I blink.
Coach Kitt. I think back to the figure standing outside her office, to the cleats on linoleum. And I swallow when I realize those were big-ass cleats. Much bigger than any girl would need.
The same cleats that are on his feet.
But, also, the same cleats that every Northland footballplayer wears. A horribly annoying shade of orange. And as much as I’d like to believe that Grey Worthington, starting quarterback, has the magical ability to make my craptastic life disappear with a single word to Coach Kitt, something here just doesn’t add up. No kid would be able to make a coach do anything she didn’t want to do. “Why would Coach Kitt—”
“Or, as I like to call her, ‘Mom.’”
I swallow.
Grey is half-smiling his heart out, football cradled in his hands. I can see it now—the square jaw, wavy hair, long eyelashes—Trudi Kitterage’s features chiseled in masculine relief. Even without Coach Shanks’s nod of confirmation, it’s suddenly completely obvious that Grey Worthington is most definitely Coach Kitt’s son.
Over on the field, the players are done and walking away—helmets off, patting butts and all that machismo crap signaling another practice down. Jake is right there in the middle of it all, sweat glinting off his brand-new buzz cut. My heart drops at the loss of his dreads, perfect as they are in my memory against his dark brown skin—as he laughs. Probably at the farce going on over here on the track.
“There are fifty kids dressed out in jerseys over there,” I say. “I’m sure at least one of them played quarterback at some point before getting booted to another position.”
Grey hangs his head in a nod. “Sure did.”
Coach nods, too. Wow. Maybe the other possibilities really are awful.
“What about the baseball team?” I ask. “Surely there’s a pitcher you could harangue.”
Grey serves up another half smile. “My mom’s the softball coach. You think I don’t play baseball?”
Duh, Liv. Duh. “Starting quarterback and ace in the rotation, eh?”
He shrugs, face still deadpan. “Outfielder.”
