“She never does,” Addie calls out, and we watch him saunter—yes, saunter—back to his parents’ booth. His mother’s blond head is rigid enough that I know she’s been spying on us.
Before I can think about if this is a good or bad thing, Addie snags my wrist, long fingers gripping the bones with all their three-sport might.
“That boy can sack me anytime. Ilovehim.”
The giggles come back. “Quarterbacks don’t sack people. They’re the sackees.”
“Okay, who sacks them?”
“Linebackers, mostly.”
“Then I’ll mostly be a linebacker. And he’ll be mostly on the ground.”
I cut off my laughter and give her a chin tip. “How are those hormones doing now, McAndry?”
“They’re well fed, but still hungry for more.”
I rip a corner off my slice of pizza, grease immediately coating my fingertips. “Too bad you weren’t the one who punched out Stacey Sanderson.”
“Damn right. You’ve got all the luck, O-Rod.”
I grin. “Something like that.”
12
IT’S SUNDAY MORNING AND GREY’S WORDS TO ADDIElast night won’t quit running through my head, swirling around and around like a nervous goldfish.
Brady’s scared shitless that he could get benched in favor of her.
Her.
As inme. The only “her” with a helmet.
I’m here as a backup. As a teammate. As a means to an end. Not as a starter.
I don’twantto start. I’m not even sure I would want game time if offered it.
But even though I am a much better third baseman than quarterback, I still want to be the best I can be. Even if I’m third-string, I don’t want to be a distant third.
Which means Brady Mason has a freaking bull’s-eye on his back.
I steal a glance at my target as Brady, Grey, and I take turns trying to hit an orange traffic cone Coach Shanks has whipped out and is repeatedly setting up at various locations downfield each time one of us knocks it down. We go like that for a solid hour, Shanks changing it up by moving the cone left and right, stationing it anywhere from point-blank range to sixty yards downfield, just to see what we can do. It’s not a perfect drill because usually we don’t aim to hit something a foot off the ground, but it’s definitely a challenge in accuracy.
It’s also something we’re pretty equal at as a trio.
But what comes next has my eyes shooting straight at the too-blond back of Brady’s head.
“Okay, gang, great job.” Coach is smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s got sweat staining stripes down the back of his Northland polo as he turns to dump the orange cone next to his piles of gear. Still bent over, he picks up a bag of miniature cones, the kind Ry uses in our backyard for soccer drills. “Footwork time.”
Brady’s face hardens as much as it can with baby fat still clinging to his cheekbones. The dude feels called out. And based on Grey’s description from last night, he should.
“Seven-step drop-back, five-step drop-back with a rollout, and then we’ll do some resistance work.”
Grey’s face doesn’t melt into the same despair that Brady’s has. I don’t let mine change either. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re both a few years older. Or maybe it’s having coaches in our families. But Grey and I are most definitely on the same page.
Just do the work.
No moping. No fear. No excuses.
