But I can go forward.
I’m five minutes early, but when I walk into the weight room, everyone is there, save the coaches. The boys are hanging on benches, looking as shitty and rundown as I do, and when they see me, they go dead silent, like someone stole all the sound in the room.
Grey. Jake. Nick. Topps. Brady.
Everyone.
I simply find a seat right up front by the mirror and take a sip from my water bottle.
Addie was right.
These boys look like they just metaphorically peed their pants.
The coaches march in, Kelly with them. Her eyes bug out of her head at the sight of me, eyeliner sweeping into a big round O. But other than that, nothing happens. If Coach Lee knows what went down in the parking lot last night, he’s not showing his cards, nor commenting on the fact that the room is very much everyone versus Liv. Instead, Coach Lee accepts a clipboard from Napolitano and starts naming off stations without a preamble.
“Squats—offensive line.”
“Deads—defensive line.”
“Pull-ups—secondary.”
“Bench—quarterbacks and running backs.”
Great. Fantastic. Ideal.
I keep my game face on, of course. Coach doesn’t need to know how I feel about these boys. He just needs me to lift some goddamn weights.
On bench, we’re supposed to pair off—one to spot, one to lift, then switch. But I’m not about to pick any of these people, so I go to the bench on the end and start racking my weights. Napolitano has written the set scheme on the mirror—ten reps, four sets for this station.
Grey starts in my direction, in his calm, relaxed way, and my eyes threaten to roll right out of my head, but then Jake appears and shoulders between Grey and my bench. They exchange a few whispered words… and then Grey starts racking weights two benches away. Brady partners with him, moving to the head of the bench, ready to spot.
And Jake joins me.
His swollen eye looks only marginally better than the night before, but the bruising is now so deep it’s as if he painted Windsor Prep purple over the entire socket. The gash above it is covered with a bandage, a slice of white drawn sharply over his brow, the only visible signs of his mild concussion.
Still, even with the mess of his face, he looks… reserved? Nervous? I’m not sure what to call it, because I’ve never seen such a look on his face. Jake chews his bottom lip and takes a deep breath, which weirds me out even more. How hard did that Tetherman kid clock him?
Then he speaks.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me, or anyone. And I don’t blame you, but I have something I need you to hear.” I slam the weights onto the rack. He’s standing on the other side of the bench from me; less than a foot separates us. His back is to Grey, who is side-eyeing us as he runs through some dynamic warm-ups none of us ever take the time to do. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He looks relieved when I manage a smile back. “Thanks. Spot me?”
Then I lie down and flip my ponytail over the end of the bench so it won’t jam me in the skull as I complete my set. Jake takes his place behind the bar.
And I lift.
“Can I come in?”
I knew this would happen.
Danielle has been keeping a close eye on me ever since I came home crying Friday night. Now it’s Sunday after dinner and she’s finally taking her chance.
Danielle never passes up an opportunity to dig in. Make progress. Needle at a sore spot until it goes butter-smooth.
I punch out a breath. “Yeah.”
The door taps against the frame and Danielle crosses to my bed, stacking three notebooks and a giant copy ofModern Physicsto make room before squeezing in next to me on the comforter.
