Still not buying it. “Both your arms look just fine.” And they do. Tan enough that the hair on his forearms has been rendered blond, almost completely mismatched with the light brown shag on his helmetless head. I glance over at the football team, still deep in practice, running suicides in a whir of orange and white. Only one other kid is wearing red, and everyone has a helmet. My mind searches for any tidbit Jake ever mentioned about football practice, but I can’t for the life of me reconcile the way this guy looks—no helmet, no pads,sunglasses—and the words “starting quarterback.”
“My armsarefine. But I still need yours.”
Sweat drips into my right eye with a sting. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you in a second.” He stuffs the ball to my chestand backpedals down the track, dodging a power-walker in a Royals cap, his long shorts whooshing. The sunglasses slide back to his nose. “Just throw the ball, Liv.”
“It’s not even the same motion as in softball,” I shout over to him.
A smile tugs at his lips. There is no denying Grey spied on Ryan and me yesterday when he says, “You throw a balleveryday.”
God, I’m blushing—my own words to Ryan tossed back at me with a softball-appropriate edit. I’m so flabbergasted I can’t even say anything.
Grey pushes on. “Yesterday, you spiraled this ball twenty-five yards like you’d been playing for years. I’m over here at thirty. Just throw the ball.”
“Fine.” Before the word is out, my arm is back and the ball is gone, a wobbly spiral headed straight toward his big, fat overconfident mouth.
“Sh—” Both hands come up, shielding his pretty-boy face at the very last instant. The ball smacks into his palms with a hugewhoofand falls flatly end over end to the track.
When Grey’s hands drop to his sides, I expect at least a full “shit”—maybe something worse. But instead, I get nothing but another cool smile. “Try to hit me on a route.”
Tossing the ball back at me, he backpedals another ten yards and cuts toward the infield. Cleats churning on the turf, he hauls butt toward the opposite sideline as I aim again for his stupid, half-smiling head. Grey has to leapabout three feet in the air, but the ball lands safely in his big, outstretched hands.
He holds it triumphantly over his head. “Perfect.”
I swallow a smile of my own—God, I miss being told I’m awesome—and give him the full-on game-day glare when he finishes jogging back to me. “Now spill. Why the hell am I throwing a football to some dude who totally trashed my daily cardio?”
He palms the football and points one end straight at my nose. “How does ‘Liv Rodinsky, backup quarterback’ sound?”
I laugh. “Sounds like you’ve been hit in the head one too many times.”
The perpetual lazy curve of his lips dies. “Actually, that’s not too far off from the truth.”
I roll my eyes. Whatever. “Look, I have two more miles to run before my brother needs a ride home, so…”
He pops the ball up and I catch it out of complete habit.
“See? You look like a natural.”
I shove the ball between the one and six on his chest. “And you’re starting to look like a creeper.” I really am so good at making friends these days. “Cut the crap. What do you want, Grey Worthington, nonlanded gentry?”
He shoves the sunglasses back again and smiles for real. There’s a glint in his eyes, which I’ve suddenly realized are a shade of steel worthy of his ridiculous name. While I’m distracted, he lines up his pitch, straight and fast and right over the plate.
“I want you to be my backup. Yes, I know you’re a softball player. Yes, I know you’ve never played football. And yes, I do realize you’ve got two X chromosomes. But here’s the deal: I broke my collarbone in June. Nonthrowing arm, but it’s still a problem. I’m not cleared for contact until the second game of the season. We’ve got a freshman who can start, but there’s nobody after him who can hit shit.” Those steely eyes shoot away for a second, sneaking a peek of the football field over my shoulder. “That’s where you come in. Just suit up, do your awful scrunchy-scowl thing from the sidelines, and buy me some time. Once I’m cleared, you can still ride the bench if you want, or you can leave the team.”
He’s just mocked my glare, therefore I can’t turn it on him, so instead I start poking holes in his pitch. “First of all: You’re a player, not the coach. You don’t call shots like this. Second: Why the hell should I help you?”
At this, he smirks and tosses the ball at me. “Go long, Liv!”
This is so stupid. He’s stupid. Nobody short of a mall mannequin with mashed potatoes for brains would want to make me into a football player. Grey sails into the end zone, arms extended, begging for the ball. So dumb. Oh, so dumb.
But I still bomb it in his direction. And the ball drops right into the cradle of his outstretched hands.
Now I’m smiling for real.
From behind me, a slow clap begins. My heart sinks. It was a setup. Of course. And I know,just know, that when I turn around, Jake will be there with the rest of his stupid buddies, and for the next month I’ll be the girl dumb enough to think for two seconds she could play with the boys. Not that I want to.
“Nice work, Grey.” The voice isn’t Jake’s. In fact, it doesn’t even sound like someone our age.
