Twenty minutes late to the start of practice means it’s twenty minutes I have to stayafterpractice to make amends.
Luckily, it’s just twenty minutes of running.
Unluckily, the person making sure I complete the laps is Kelly Cleary.
For the most part, she’s sitting on her duff, ignoring me. Playing on her phone. Scratching out notes on her clipboard. Checking her silver-painted nails.
Basically, doing anything other than interacting with me.
Eight laps in and fresh perspiration crowds my hairline and rests under my eyes when the door to the boys’ locker room clangs open. Out comes Jake with a few of the A team guys. Keys stuffed in their hands, pristine sneakers on their feet, and tank tops clinging to hungry muscles. They’re laughing at something that feels a lot like they’re two seconds away from high fives. Still, Jake notices us and waves an arm through the air.
My hand automatically shoots up in response as I scream around a turn. But as it’s returning to my side, I see that Kelly’s hand is up, too. I stop on a dime.
Her eyes catch mine. “That wasn’t for you.”
Ugh. I take three steps, but the second I find my stride again, it hits me.
Kelly brought me my jersey and I had to put it away.
Oh. God.
I stop and turn around. Kelly’s messing with her phone. “Are you and Jake a thing?”
She doesn’t look up. “Keep running, Rodinsky.”
A subtle hint of satisfaction hangs in her answer, her cheeks pinking atop her freckled skin.
Goddammit.Kelly definitely did something with Jake last night that required the removal of his jersey. Wonder how Stacey feels about that.
I step away from her, glance at my Timex, and get back at it.
Two more laps and Kelly stands up and walks away without saying a word. Fine. Whatever. I don’t care. I decide to do a cooldown lap before grabbing my gear and running off to spend my allowance on brother bribery. When I finish and head toward where chain link separates the stadium track from the locker rooms, there’s someone standing there.
Grey.
The sunglasses are back, his hair is wet, and the smell of soap hits me almost as hard as the fact that I must totally stink. He holds a hand up, an iPhone generations newer than mine in his big palm. “Your number?”
I put my hands on my hips. “So you can give me shit for being late between now and this afternoon’s practice?”
“No, so I can make sure you’re not late again.”
He unlocks the phone and hands it to me. I see he’s already filled in the contact information—“Olive Call her Liv or Else Rodinsky.” I’m blushing, likeinstantly blushing, and I furiously hope he can’t tell postrun flush from heart-flutter flush.
With shakier fingers than I’d like to admit, I type in my number as we meander toward the girls’ locker room.
When I hand the phone back, my fingers brush his. And goddammit, I’m blushing again. But I look back up athim like there’s nothing wrong and my face is always beet red.
“My mom’s waiting,” he says, gesturing toward the parking lot. They must have carpooled; Coach Kitt seems like the type to be in her office at any available moment. “See ya.”
He leaves and my heartbeat slows as I push into the empty locker room. I grab my stuff from my usual locker and fish out my phone, ready to add him the second his text buzzes through. But, to my surprise, I’ve already got a text from a new number.
I click it open and it’s a copy of the team’s day-to-day schedule. And a winky smiley face.
Of course.
11
“HESATON YOU?” ADDIE CACKLES, SHOULDERSquaking. “Like he just thought you’d be a good place to rest?”
