Coach checks his hands on his hips. His eyes drop to the ground for a moment before he looks up.
“Last season, we were 10–2. League champs.” We nod again. “That’s pretty good. Hell, any other year, I’d take any of those things and call it golden. But this year, I want all of that and more.”
He pauses. There’s weight to it—a heaviness. A cool finger sweeps down my spine, and I’m right back in that family restroom at state, waiting for bad news to tumble out of Principal Meyer’s mouth.
“Tigers, this is my last year as head coach at Northland High.”
No one breathes. No one moves. Even the sun seems to pause in its ascent, everything frozen except for the words rushing from Coach Lee’s lips. Next to me, Grey has turned granite-stiff.
“I didn’t expect to tell you kids this until the end of the season. But that seemed like a coward’s move, and I’m no coward. And you kids aren’t kittens.”
He cracks a smile, and a few people exhale. I don’t, though, completely stunned by the fact that I’m not just a novice on this team, I’m a player whose coach wants to ride off into the sunset a champion.
“Sharpen those claws, Tigers. We’ve got winning to do.”
8
GREY’S TRUE BACKUP IS A SO-BLOND-IT-HURTS FRESHMANnamed Brady Mason. He’s number seventeen, and a legacy in Northland football because his older brother, Cooper, was starting quarterback before Grey arrived.
Like my brother, he’s spindly—puberty slow to smack him across his hairless cheeks. Like Grey, he’s far too smiley. His parents must’ve paid a small fortune in middle school orthodontia because his teeth are almost beauty-queen pretty.
I’m not sure if he’s smiling so much because he doesn’t know what else to do with his facial muscles or if he’s just awkward around girls, but he looks like a toothpaste commercial as we warm up, passing balls in tandem, him to Grey and me to Coach Shanks.
He’s also totally checking me out. Not in a romantic way. The kid’s watching my arm, catching my form for a split second before passing his own ball. He’s left-handed, so we’re turned toward each other as we draw back and aim.
I can’t tell if I should be embarrassed or flattered. Because either he thinks I’m a hot mess or competition for the number two spot.
Which is kind of hilarious either way.
“Nice warm-up, folks.” Coach Shanks blows his whistle. “Routes.”
Shanks pulls over a pair of wide receivers, Chow and Gonzalez, and lines them up. As Grey fires off five different numbered routes, I study a multipage play chart binder with Brady. It’s got moreXs andOs than a Valentine’s card, but I think I get it.
As I line up, I get a clear view of the fence separating the practice fields from the stadium. And there, not even remotely pretending to be exercising, is Addie, long limbs pressed against the crosshatch of chain link.
She is trulythebest friend.
Feeling Addie’s eyes at my back, I line up the balls and dig into the turf, my softball cleats doing a fine job despite being designed for a completely different sport, just like the rest of me.
Chow and Gonzalez—who turn out to be Timmy and Jaden, both seniors—are swallowing huge gulps of air while waiting for Coach to call the same five plays.
Orange Five. White Two. White Ten. Orange Nine. Orange Three.
I only miss once, overthrowing Gonzalez. But to be fair, he was gassed and it was the last play.
They walk off, replaced by two tight ends—Smith and Tate, aka Trevor and Zach—who take turns running short routes.
By the time we’ve run through that, my arm is starting to gripe at the restriction of the shoulder pads. Not that I’m about to complain. Because that is something Olive Rodinsky never does.
“Nice work, folks.” Shanks smiles, but there’s something evil in it that I recognize from when Danielle has cooked up something especially… epic. “Now go rest up, because this afternoon is going to be fun.”
After postpractice laps, I change back into my outfit from this morning, running shorts and a tank top, in a quiet locker room free of Kelly and any cheerleaders or volleyball players who’ve been banging in and out of the door since seven, heading to and from various practices. Besides the pad marks across my shoulders, I’m pretty sure I don’t look like I just came from football practice. Hopefully Mom will agree when she sees me after I get home from taking the boys for burgers.
I push into the parking lot, expecting to spot Ryanand Jesse right away, burger lust glowing stronger than the noontime sun. Instead, there’s just a single figure. The unrelenting brightness blinds me, and at first I think it might be Addie or Grey waiting for me, but the proportions are all off.
Jake.
He’s in a T-shirt and cutoff sweats, pads and jersey probably airing out in the locker room like mine.
