Texts. Texts. Texts.
Missed calls.
All from the people who care about me enough to wonder where the hell I went Saturday. Addie, of course. And Grey.
A little flutter flips alive in my tummy when I think of Grey last night—of him grabbing my hand under the table and making a case to Dad, of him saying good nightwith yet another great kiss. The flutter swells for a faint second before I blink and see a slip of orange in my field of vision.
My game jersey.
Ready for return. The red practice one, too.
The flutter dies a quick death as I collect my stuff for a shower.
An hour later, Grey’s there on the Northland steps as I walk up to school. Foot kicked up against the faded brick, wet hair curling against his temples, signature half smile in place.
I will myself to look thrilled that he’s there. I mean, I am thrilled.
I am.
But all I keep thinking is that I won’t get to see him tonight at practice. It’ll just be our walk to Spanish, lunch, calc. That’s it. He’ll be at practice until seven, and I’ll be at home, probably working on my jump shot for basketball tryouts in a couple of weeks.
“Hey,” I say and he smiles in answer, his hand kissing mine as he holds open the door for me. I wish it were a real kiss, but I’ve never gone to the same school as my boyfriend, and I’m not sure of the etiquette.
“Liv!” I turn around and a freakishly tall guy I’ve never seen in my life is there, grinning like we’re BFFs. “Awesome game Friday.”
He fist-bumps both me and Grey and stalks off. WhenShaq’s body double is out of earshot, Grey leans down. “Micah Jellison. Starting big man.”
“Oh.” Okay. Basketball—so other athletes noticed. They also had no idea I didn’t show up for practice on Saturday.
We keep moving and, like the first day, Grey grabs my fingers and tugs me around the corner, his lips to my ear. “Jellison wasn’t the only one who noticed your kick-assery.”
And it might be true—the collective masses are parting for both of us this time, eyes lingering on my face before skipping to our intertwined hands and then up to Grey’s familiar features.
“Hope they savored their one and only chance to see Liv Rodinsky, backup quarterback, in action.”
His shoulder taps mine. Which feels approximately 3 bazillion percent more sexy than it did a week ago. “They’ll get an encore.”
When I enter the classroom and take my seat, Jake Rogers wastes exactly zero-point-oh-nada seconds before pouncing on me. The moment my butt makes contact with molded plastic, he’s snared my forearm, his eyes pinned to Coach Kitt’s turned back.
“Where the hell were you, big shot?”
I almost remind him he could’ve texted me. But instead I decide to take the high road.
“Good morning to you too, Jacob.” I wrench my arm free and turn away from him, digging through my backpack for my notebook. A ginger streak whips through myperiphery, and I know Kelly is spying from her seat two rows over. “I’m off the team.”
Jake’s eyes widen, his confusion plain. “You’re what?”
“Off the team.”
“I knew Coach would be pissed about your absence, but that’s super harsh, even for him.”
He’s trying to quantify it, but he doesn’t know the half of it. “Lee didn’t kick me off. My dad did. I didn’t tell my parents I was playing.”
Jake’s eyes go fuzzy as I let that sink in. He met my dad approximately twice while we were dating—that family dinner and my spring formal—and the memory of those meetings clearly has his spine stiffening beneath yet another issue of Northland orange T-shirt.
“Oh, shit. So… that’s it?”
I don’t even have to nod and still, his face softens enough that my heart pings with recognition of the Jake I like most.
