“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.
Grey’s fingers graze my forearm as if to keep me from pivoting away from him, moment over. His hand slides over my skin, coming to rest on my wrist, his head slightly bowed, his lips in my ear where the four dozen pairs of eyes surrounding us can’t hear.
“Are you sure?” There’s a hesitation in his voice like I’ve never heard from him before. “You trust me?”
There it is again. All that swagger and perfect hair and newscaster stoicism gone. The inner Grey laid bare.
I kiss him once more. When we part, I give him my serious, on-the-field face. “Take that as a yes. And you’re myboyfriend again.” I tilt my head toward the full weight room behind me. “You people can handle kissing in football, right?”
Around us, the boys nod in a chorus of yeahs, Jake’s voice booming louder than others—a relief. Even Kelly chimes in. Good. They’ve already weathered our breakup and everything that came after—I believe them when they say they can survive us publicly liking each other.
I can’t help but grin back. While adjusting my ponytail, which slipped when we kissed, the coaches appear at the door. Lee doesn’t miss a thing—it’s clear by the set of his jaw he knows something just went down. Shanks eyes the distance between Grey and myself, back to the few inches of practices pre–parking lot fight. Napolitano checks his clipboard. After a long, awkward pause, Lee addresses the room. “Do I even want to know?”
All the bravery has fled my body, my lips sealing themselves shut. Everyone is dead silent for a few beats. But then Grey clears his throat. Oh God.
“Your top two quarterbacks are dating,” he says, grabbing my hand.
I want to dissolve into the padded floor. Somehow, him telling Coach both validates my love for Grey and makes me want to absolutely murder him. It’s so much more embarrassing than what I forced myself to do just five minutes ago.
Coach Lee cocks a brow, dark eyes sliding from Grey’s face to mine.
“That’s a relief. I thought it’d be at least three more weeks before you two came to your damn senses.” As my jaw drops, Coach Lee simply refers to his clipboard. “Quarterbacks and running backs at the squat racks, both lines at bench, secondary and special teams at the TRX…”
39
MONDAY AT PRACTICE, GREY IS WAITING FOR ME OUTSIDEthe locker room. Brady, too, though I’m fairly certain that’s just because he has nothing better to do. Or maybe he likes me now. Maybe I really should set him up with Barbie Villanueva back at Windsor Prep—he’d love me forever. Plus, she might distract him enough to clear his head of the attitude that’s holding him back.
Grey bumps his shoulder to mine, our pads clicking at the contact. “Hey, babe.” That’s new, and I kind of like it. He grabs my hand and we walk like that to the practice field, with Brady as our silent third wheel.
It’s all very obviously on display. And, damn, does it feel good.
Grey squeezes my fingers and then we separate, ourfeet picking up the pace into a run. Five laps in the falling temperatures, the sun suddenly something that won’t be around much past the end of practice.
As we run, Grey dishes what he knows about our opponents this week, Jewell Academy, the reigning state champs. The all-boys sibling school to Windsor Prep. The team that ended Northland’s season last year in substate.
“The Jewell linebackers are tough as nails andfast. We need you as mobile as possible. If the coaches want a simulation, you’ll be seeing a lot of Cleary and Sanchez this week.”
Oh, great, I love to be sat on.
“But you’ve got legs. Just keep moving and you’ll be good.”
My knee is better—the day off on Sunday helped immensely—but the ache’s there, the bruise’s placement wonky for how much running we have to do. I’m limping right now, the hitch in my stride impossible to hide. Something I know Grey’s noticed, his eyes skirting down to my knee just like they did all last week, even when we weren’t talking.
We finish our laps and drop to kneel—the sun low enough to slice straight into our eyeline. Nick drops in next to us, having survived Mrs. McAndry on Saturday night—Addie’s texts on Sunday were epic enough that I think he should frame them, or maybe screenshot them forhis college applications—Emma McAndry’s endorsement will definitely go far.
Kelly’s up by the coaches, finger bobbing as she tallies us all. Shanks and Lee are having a conversation up her way, talking with their clipboards fanned over their mouths like they would on the sidelines, discussing plays.
“Rodinsky!” Lee calls. My head swings his way; so do Grey’s and Brady’s. “Up here. Worthington, you, too.”
Grey and I exchange a glance and jog up to where the coaches are huddled, leaving our helmets back on the turf with Brady.
“Coach?” I say, Grey echoing.
Lee glances between us, his lips thinned out. Shanks has his arms crossed over his barrel chest, his eyes hidden by his ever-present visor.
“Your knee,” Lee says without inflection. Just a damning statement. “What’s wrong with it?”
Shit. I nearly glance at Kelly, but her back is turned. Coward.
