I half tackle Dad in a hug, squeezing my eyes shut against the nape of his neck.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.
“Save that hug for Danielle—we’ll talk more at home.” Dad extricates himself from my grip and stands,tight-lipped smile on his face. He tips his chin to Coach Lee and steps toward the door. “I have to get back to work.”
“So do we.” Coach Lee stands and they collide in one of the firmest handshakes known to man—the veteran coach and the veteran cop. I stand to follow but Coach waves me down with a glance and shuts the door with a rattle and swoosh of the blinds as Dad leaves.
He looks at me sternly. “Rodinsky, why do you want to be a Northland High football player?”
He doesn’t want a Miss America answer. I straighten up in my seat. “Because I want to be a Northland High softball player.”
I could’ve couched it—could’ve said that I already love being part of the team. That Friday night was amazing. That I’m having fun. But I don’t, even though all of that is true.
Half of Coach Lee’s mouth quirks up. “And you think playing a ruthless contact sport will make Kitterage think you’re less of a hothead?”
His delivery is so direct and deadpan that I cough out a laugh, surprising even myself. “When you put it that way, I seem like even more of an idiot.”
Coach stands. “I don’t think you’re an idiot, Rodinsky. I think you love a challenge.”
“Guilty as charged,” I say, my confident old softball smile perking up.
Lee turns to his coatrack and collects his cap and whistle. When he’s facing me again, he’s got a real smile spread across his face, though his eyes are dead serious. He pats me on the shoulder.
“Good, because you’re starting Friday.”
23
I’VE NEVER BEEN SO THRILLED OR TERRIFIED BY FIVE little words in all my life.
The feeling is so overwhelming that I do something I’ve never done in my athletic career: I pretend it isn’t happening.
I don’t call Danielle. I don’t text Addie. I don’t squee at my locker in glee.
I simply make the decision not to say a peep until Coach Lee does.
I’m trying to be logical. To protect what I have with Grey. He was supposed to start this Friday, and stealing his starting quarterback title wasnotpart of the deal.
He’s a senior who wants to play college ball.
He needs all the games under his belt he can get.
I know he’s been dying to get out there.
And so logic tells me to keep my mouth shut until the coaches realize their mistake and start a fully healed Grey on Friday instead of me.
But the problem with logic is that ambition is deaf to it.
And my ambition is shooting through my belly, yelling at the top of its lungs, “Starterrrrrrrrr!”
That night, Grey and I scrimmage with the A team, switching off every five plays. By the end of it, I still have absolutely no understanding of why I’m starting at all. This should be his comeback game.
Grey’s wearing his old form like a glove, rolling back smoothly on each play. Releasing the ball with unhurried confidence and connecting 90 percent of the time. And 90 percent of his misses are definitely the fault of the receiver. I think. He stops to sneak some Tylenol midpractice, but to my undertrained eye, he looks great.
I run through his form in my head as I change into street clothes, just-showered skin sticking to my jeans. I get them up over my butt and my back pocket vibrates with a text.
Road game tomorrow, volleyball ended early. In the Northland parking lot with Nick. Grey’s here, too. I hear we have stuff to celebrate because you’re back on the team. So, dinner? Burger Fu on the line.
I smirk.And if I say no?
