I can’t help it—I start reading his face. Baby-blue eyes. Rusty stubble. Very much a steak-and-potatoes Prince Harry.
Crap.
His identity registers in my eyes before I can stop it, and he smiles at what he sees there. “Don’t worry, Rodinsky, I’m not going to drill you into the dirt. I have much more restraint than my sister.”
“Lucky me.”
He doesn’t answer, just jogs back into formation.
Which means I need to do that, too.
Next: White Ten.
It’s a ten-yard shot straight downfield to either tight end.
I yell the play twice, pause for a second next to Topps’s back end, and then shoot back into the pocket. My target tight ends are tangled up by defenders and are slow toextract themselves and make it to their spots. Out of the corner of my eye, Nick is rounding in an arc toward me. On the other side, my throwing side, number fifty is already free of his defender and hotfooting it my way.
I have to get rid of the ball. I know it. But I don’t want to throw it away. I want to prove I can stay calm and make the play.
My feet start moving toward the right-hand line, eyes high over the complete chaos in the middle. I plant my back foot and bring my arm back to throw, but something both hard and soft hooks me across the bare patch of neck below where my helmet ends and my jersey begins.
Down I go, face-first into the turf. If the landing knocks the wind straight out of my lungs, what comes next ensures I won’t be getting any of that wind sucked back in for at least thirty straight seconds. Number fifty falls flat on top of me.
I’m immobile, my field of vision nothing but sun-dried turf and fresh dirt. Earlier, Shanks explained that if I get hit, the safest thing to do is to stay as still as possible while waiting for the pile to break up. So I stay still. But number fifty hasn’t moved yet. He’s taking his freaking time, and his girth is approximately equal to a Mack Truck lined with bricks.
“Hey, Sanchez. Get off her, man—she’s not a mattress.”
The voice is Coach Shanks’s, and I’m suddenly embarrassed that he’s noticed I’ve been squashed. Ten plays andthis is the first time I’ve truly taken something resembling a real hit. And, God, ithurts. My ribs shudder like they’re going to shatter. Efffffff.
“Just giving her a taste of what it’s like, Coach.”
“Red shirt. No tasting menu for her. OFF.”
Number fifty—Sanchez—rolls off my back and onto my legs, his butt pressing into my hamstrings before the weight is finally lifted. I get to my knees, and there’s a hand at the edge of my slightly blurred vision. Topps.
I snag it and stand.
“You’re doing good, girlie. Real good.”
I nod, words still impossible.
Topps shakes his head. “Sorry, you probably don’t like being called that.” He lowers his giant head like a freaking wild pony. “Do you have a nickname?”
I nod again. Swallow. Find my breath in three heaving gulps. “O-Rod.”
Topps smiles. It’s far too gentle for the mass of him. “Like A-Rod. I get it.”
“Yep.”
“You’re doing real good, O-Rod.”
I want to believe that.
10
FRIDAY IS MORE OF THE SAME. MORNING DRILLS WITHGrey—who totally got razzed by Shanks for trying to wear his sunglasses again—Brady, and select receivers, followed by an afternoon of scrimmage, aka Liv’s red shirt doingabso-freaking-lutelynothing to keep her safe. I trust my feet more than a stupid jersey, even though my footwork sucks. I’ve been training my whole life to run from point A to point B, not elude four dudes who each have a hundred pounds and years of experience on little old me.
By Saturday morning, all I want is to sleep in and then raid the noontime doughnut selection at Dillons.
