Page 3 of The Dysasters

Tall grass tickled Foster’s bare ankles as she stepped out of the car and onto the makeshift parking lot. “Whereverhereis.”

“Go Panthers! Woo!” A gaggle of maroon-clad girls squealed as they jogged past.

Foster craned her neck to peer around the monstrous truck. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She shot an annoyed glance at Cora. “A football game. Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Cora pulled her bag out of the backseat before locking the doors. “Now, kill the attitude. I’d like to try and make a good first impression.”

“Ugh,” Foster groaned, trudging behind her as she tugged at the ridiculous sweatshirt. “But it’s going to rain.” She tilted her chin toward the sky and studied the swollen, charcoal clouds. “And quite possibly tornado. The sky’s all sick-looking and green.”

“I’ll get you whatever you want from the snack bar,” Cora offered.

“Snack bar? Well, why didn’t you say there’d be food?” With a little more pep, Foster looped her arm through Cora’s and headed toward the stadium entrance.

Pockets stuffed with boxes of sour candy and an extra-large bag of popcorn in hand, Foster stood on the sidelines and studied the bleacher’s section signs.“One fifteen, no. One twenty, no. Ah, there it is! One twenty-five.” She tipped the bag to her lips and shook a few kernels into her mouth. “Ouch!” A sharp shove spun her around, knocking a box of candy and the bag from her grip. Popcorn spilled around her feet like salty snow. “Damn! You made me ruin the best thing about coming to this barbaric display of testosterone.”

“I’m the best thing about this barbaric display of testosterone.”

Foster looked up, and then up some more at Mr. Stereotypical Jock towering above her. He was, of course, perfect. Dark hair, ridiculously blue eyes, cheekbones for days, and lots of long, lean muscles—though he would’ve been way cuter if he’d had on jeans and a T-shirt and had been carrying a book, instead of wearing that stupid plum and gold jersey and carrying a football.

He grinned, displaying perfectly straight, white teeth—of course—and handed her the box of Sour Patch Kids she’d dropped. “Call me Tate Nighthawk Taylor.”

Foster rolled her eyes so hard she almost lost her balance. “Wait, I’m sorry,” she said with mock innocence. “Did you say Night Douche?” She shook her head. “No,” she cringed. “That sounds too much like some kind of medical procedure. My mistake. You must have said Douchehawk. Yeah, that’s what it was.”

“What? No. That makes me sound like an ass, and I’m not. Seriously. Ask anyone. I am not an ass.”

“I see anatomy is not your strong suit.”

A column of uniforms jogged by, their cleats crunching on the track ringing the football field. “Nighthawk! Let’s go, bro! Coach will shit if we’re not huddled up soon.”

“Yeah, I’m coming!” Tate called to the players as he started jogging slowly backward, following the rear of the pack. “Hey, Strawberry, let me show you how not an ass I am.”

“Jesus! Don’t call me Strawberry.”

“Then tell me your name!”

She sighed. “Foster.”

“Well, Foster, there’s always a party after we win. And as long as I’m out there, we’re winning. How ’bout I give you my number, so you can find out where it’s at, and so I can show you how much of a non-ass, nice guy I am?”

“Answer a question first.”

“Shoot, Strawberry!”

“What’s your favorite book?”

“Sports Illustrated!” He winked.

“Yep, exactly what I thought.”

Pink bloomed in his cheeks.

I’d be embarrassed, too. Maybe he realized he sounded like a total douche—hawk or not.

Then he started to speak again, and she decided it was probably sun and not sense coloring his cheeks.

“My number’s really easy to remember. It’s just—”

Foster held up her hand. “No. Just no. Not if my life depended on it. But good luck out there, Douchehawk.” She gave him a salute, spun on her heels, and headed to section one twenty-five, her feet clomping noisily as she trudged up the aluminum bleachers.