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“Yep. Anyone in?”
“Who all is playing?” Sam asks, giving Weston a not-so-subtle look.
“Me, Maggie, Brooke, and Wes,” Maeve responds. She glances at Sam and winks. “You can be on Brooke’s team.”
She’s playing dirty. Sam’s crush on Brooke is common knowledge among our friend group, obvious to everyone except Brooke herself, apparently. Whenever we go to the lake, me and the rest of the guys usually end up playing football and the girls opt to swim or sunbathe.
If Weston Cole weren’t here, we would all be jumping on this—and Maeve knows that. It’s an ultimatum: play or keep ignoring Weston.
All the guys look to me.They’re following your lead, Liam.Maeve’s voice echoes in my head, backed up by the challenge in the green eyes that match mine.
“Fine. I’ll play,” I say.
Once I’ve spoken, all the other guys agree to play as well. We form a loose circle in an open stretch of sand away from everyone else.
“How are we deciding teams?” Sam asks. I read the subtext, along with everyone else.Who’s playing with Weston?These are my closest friends. Guys I’ve known since I was in diapers. But I can’t help but wonder if there’s some part of them excited to play with Weston, instead of against him. He’s broken countless records, both in Alleghany and at Lincoln. One year, and there’s pro buzz around him. Hudson and Sam are both receivers. I imagine every player in that position would love the chance to catch the sort of bullet Weston’s arm is capable of throwing.
“Let’s do shirts versus skins,” Hudson suggests. “Liam should captain one team.”
There’s a long pause as everyone waits to see if Maeve or Weston will suggest captaining the other team.
“Maggie and Sam should captain,” Maeve says.
It’s obvious to everyone in our group what she’s doing. Maggie lives in Alleghany. She and her mom moved there from Glenmont our senior year of high school. I have her to thank for my sister ever meeting Weston Cole, supposedly. She cheered for Weston, literally. And Sam is the easygoing, happy-go-lucky guy of our group. He takes football less seriously than Matt and I do. Out of everyone here, they’re the two most neutral options.
“Fine,” Hudson says. “Sam, go.”
“Why does he get to pick first?” Maeve asks.
Hudson rolls his eyes. “Maggie, go.”
“Wes.” Her response is instantaneous.
We all look at her in shock. Even Weston looks surprised as he leaves Maeve’s side to stand next to Maggie.
“You fucking serious?” Matt spits, vocalizing what we’re all thinking. It seemed like a sure thing Weston would get picked last. A not-so-subtlefuck you. A way to make certain he knows he’s unwelcome.
Maggie shrugs. “I want to win.”
The insinuation stings, and it’s not just an affront to me.
“Sam?” I say, doing my best to look unbothered. Not last would have been bad enough, butfirst? If it wouldn’t make me look like the worst sport, I’d call quits on this game right now.
“Maeve.”
Another surprise. I expected Sam to choose one of the guys. I guess he thinks Weston will go easy on Maeve. It’s another nod to what we all know—Weston is the best player here.
“Hudson.”
“Liam.”
Maggie and Sam keep choosing until we’re divided into two teams. We end up as shirts. I watch Weston pull off hisLincoln Footballt-shirt and toss it to Maeve. It’s fucking bizarre, seeing my sister with the nameCOLEon her back. Sam shakes his head too, but I think he’s more annoyed by the fact every girl in the immediate vicinity is currently checking Weston out. The guy is ridiculously in shape.
We move down the shore a little, to a spot closer to the rocks that is less busy. When we play on the beach, rules are usually loose. It’s basically one big game of catch with tackling and disputes over where the goal posts are.
Lines are drawn in the sand, and we line up in loose formation. Maggie hikes the ball to Weston and Hudson sprints down to our end. The football leaves Weston’s hand in a perfect, arcing spiral. It’s a beautiful fucking throw, and it’s headed exactly where it’s supposed to go. Hudson barely needs to move. It drops right into his hands like the opposite pole of a magnet meeting its mate. Two steps, and he’s across the line into the “end zone.”
“Fucking hell,” Sam mutters.
