Danielle frowns. “She’s a coach. She’ll take talent over teamwork any day.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Make her sure.”
“I’m trying,” I say, biting my lip.
Her eyes narrow. The woman is all about the execution. “How?”
“She wants me to prove I can be a teammate, so I’m doing that.” My sister’s eyes narrow further. Vagueness is not a favorite of hers. “By running cross-country,” I clarify.
“You are?”
I haven’t officially looked into it or anything, but I kind of make it seem like I have. “It’s not really ateamsport, but it’s what I can do. I mean, you know I suck at volleyball. And I wanted to show her I could dosomething.”
Danielle’s lips press into a thin line as she mulls theoptions. “It’s not exactly going out on a limb, but at least you’re showing that you’re taking her request seriously.”
“I’m trying.”
She sighs. “You always do.”
The door slides open and Heather’s face pops out. “Dinner. Come and get it before Ryan eats it all.”
That’s enough of a warning. She doesn’t have to tell us twice.
5
THE NEXT DAY, I’M ON THE TRACK AGAIN, EYES PINNEDto the pitted white lines, earbuds struggling to drown out the thought that school is less than a week away.
I’d hoped running on this track during Ryan’s practices would help acclimate me to the new environment, but I still don’t feel any more at home. I’m my own little island in a sea of activity, surrounded by soccer players, cheerleaders, cross-country waifs, and the football team.
Even without setting foot in a Northland classroom, it’s far too easy to imagine what it’ll be like to be the new girl, drifting through a sea of fifteen hundred other students who’ve known each other for the past eleven years.
Sure, I’ll recognize some faces (including the one I used to kiss,ughhhhh) but the chances of me eating my lunchin the bathroom still seem to be ridiculously high—the mythical 110 percent. I’m sure Mom’s famed turkey and Swiss will taste extra delicious when consumed within spitting distance of a pink toilet cake.
Something solid bumps into my shoulder and my head pops up.
“Crap, I’m sorry, I—” I glance over and see a tall white guy in a red football jersey, basketball shorts, and sunglasses going stride for stride with me.
“Olive Rodinsky, star infielder and sometime pitcher, I presume?”
“Liv,” I say slowly, tapping pause on my hand-me-down iPhone. “And you are?”
“Grey Worthington. Yes, it’s a family name—we’re not landed gentry but we sure sound like it.” Even with the half smile, he’s so deadpan that I stop moving for a second, stutter-stepping as he angles his giant body toward me, heels lapping at his hamstrings as he bounces in place. There, in his left hand, where I couldn’t see it before, is a football. “Starting quarterback.”
And so it begins. One of Jake’s buddies, here to make my life hell.
“Say no more.” I pointedly hitPLAYon my phone screen and take off.
Though I’m going at about 70 percent full speed—fast enough that it doesn’t look like I’m obviously sprinting the hell away from him—the dude’s right by me as if I didn’tmove at all. In fact, in two long strides, he’s in front of me and stopping on a dime. Despite my supposed athletic prowess, I nearly smack into the white number sixteen on his chest.
“You have horrible manners, Grey Worthington.”
Instead of recoiling, he pushes his sunglasses into his hair and honest-to-Godwinks. Who the hell winks in real life, other than serial killers and George Clooney? Yet, somehow it appears to be a natural movement for Grey Worthington. “Yes, I know who you are,” he says. “But I’m not here for Stacey. Or Jake. I’m here for your arm.”
“My…?”
“Arm. You have an arm, and I need one.”
