“Boyfriend,” he says with a grin that makes me wonder if I’ve ever actually said that word to him. How could I not? Grey sits up off the wall and turns to me, and I swear I see the muscles shifting under his white polo in a way that I’ve never seen under his jersey—the pads most definitelyget in the way. He runs a finger under my chin and then slips a lock of still-wet hair behind my ear. “I know I’m the one who nixed kissing in football, but I’m fairly certain Jake’s real reason for being so pissed Thursday was because of how I look at you.”
It shouldn’t, but this gives me a little thrill. Right in the darkest corners of my heart, the part that still aches, that’s stitched with that final text from Jake—Can’t deal with the crazy. I’m out.
I close the distance between us, twisting to push up onto my knees, draping my arms over his shoulders. This is a position I’ve never had with him—the kind Helena the Honda doesn’t allow. I’m looking down on him, my chest touching his, the ends of my hair pooling against his collarbone.
“Keep looking,” I say. And then I kiss him.
28
DAD IS WAITING UP FOR ME WHEN I KILL THE IGNITIONexactly two minutes until eleven, sitting on the cooling concrete of Danielle’s front stoop, beer in hand.
I get out of the car with my head hanging, furiously trying to remember how I felt back in the locker room. Before Grey made me forget everything. My lips are pink enough to give me away—my head hangs further. I’m actually upset somewhere deep down, but still, I have to work to be the sore loser Dad expects me to be right now.
“Ah, hon, everyone loses.” Dad sets down the bottle and hotfoots it my way. He takes me in for a hug, and despite the beer, he smells of sandalwood and the cinnamon disks he keeps in a bowl on his desk. I melt into him, arms limp at my sides, face buried in his shoulder. “So you lost. But noone can take that performance away from you. Running, leaping, throwing—you were outstanding.”
I sigh into him as he rubs my back. My muscles ache from being drilled to the turf too many times, but it still feels good.
Hearing him say those things feels good, too, especially after months of feeling like nothing but a disappointment.
Dad kisses my hair. “Next week is your week, Livvie.”
And I almost think he’s right.
The next week is as close to my new normal as I allow myself to hope. A steady blur of school, practice, a few stolen moments alone with Grey, dinner with the fam. I miss Addie’s match again, but I make it for a few minutes of Ryan’s, so maybe I’m not totally a horrible person.
By Friday night, the weight of the loss is gone—the bulk of it eaten alive by good old hard work during the week. I’m tired but jazzed by the home crowd, the night air filled with the scent of popcorn as we take the field. There’s a hint of crispness there, too, fall clearing its throat. It’ll be here soon enough. Next week we have a bye, also known as an entire week off from competition. Which means I’m fairly certain by the time we’re on the field again—homecoming, against last year’s state champs—I’ll be blowing into my frozen fingers before every snap.
Tonight, though, there’s just enough humidity to makethe ball slick in my fingers. Despite the loss, I’ve gotten the start. Again. I don’t know if Coach Lee is benching Grey because I’m actually better than him or because he’s worried his collarbone still isn’t healed. I don’t force Grey to speculate. We just don’t talk about it.
Whatever the reason, Coach Lee has decided to go for a mix of plays against Tetherman, trying to break through a defensive line that’s been giving Jake a literal headache the whole game. Frustration sits heavy on his broad shoulders, and I know he’s getting pissed when he starts mouthing off to guys who easily have fifty pounds on him.
“Dude, shut it. We’ll get them,” I say, cuffing his wrist. “Show, don’t tell.”
Jake meets my eyes and does a Grey-style deadpan I didn’t know was in him. “You’re one to talk.”
I just smile. “Learn from my mistakes. Jawing gets you nowhere.”
By halftime, we’re tied 10–10, and Jake is still livid, stalking to the sideline for a word with Coach. So I’m not surprised when the first call out of the gate in the second half is yet another rushing play. Jake badly wants to break through this line like he’s mowed over everything else.
We push into the huddle.
“Orange Five, Tigers.”
We throw our hands in the middle and break.
At the snap, I turn and cover the ball just enough so that the defense thinks I’m running for it, but not so muchthat Jake can’t sprint past and snag it. With the ease of a pickpocket, he tucks the ball under his arm and hurtles through the tiniest crack in a wall of bodies.
Jake breaks free on the other side and becomes a blur of orange, the white three and two on his jersey jumbling together under the lights as he speeds in the direction of the end zone, forty yards downfield.
With two white-and-silver bodies in worthless pursuit, he flies into the end zone in a sweeping arc and spikes the ball so high it sails up and over the goalpost.
All that frustration gone in a rush of satisfaction that comes with a breakthrough. And damn, if I don’t feel better, too. Relieved we’ve figured out how to score on the ground.
The crowd feels it, too, becoming a stream of noise. There’s a chant rising above the general screams of people too excited to realize they should join in.
“Tigers! Tigers! TIGERS!”
Jake swoops back downfield, helmet off, soaking it up. Arms raised to the star-speckled sky, he insists the crowd go louder.
