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“Sierra,” I called with more authority this time. “Just leave it, will ya?”
She glanced back as if she’d only just heard me, allowing me time to catch up. Up close, I could see she had her ear pods in. She tapped at one and looked at me inquisitively, her big brown eyes wide and curious. “Did you say something?”
A sudden rush of heat came over me as I stared into her eyes, unblinking, like I’d been set on pause. I seemed to have frozen, a moment of paralysis, a well-worn cliché where time stood still. But time couldn’t stand still. It moved second by second, yet no part of me was doing so. I stood there like a piece of petrified wood.
“Cully?” She seemed annoyed at my inability to speak or respond, but I was digesting a whole bunch of things in that moment of stillness— like the pink glow of her cheeks and how perfect her teeth were now that the braces were off, and how she was one of the very few people who called me Cully. I didn’t like it—usually. It was the nickname of a seven year old kid, not a high school senior trying to establish himself as the number one quarterback in the state.
“What, yeah,” I mumbled, watching the arch of her eyebrows furrow. “Uh, leave that. You should go home and rest your foot.”
“I can manage, and my foot is fine,” she dismissed me curtly, barely a look in my direction, like I’d insulted her. She pushed the cart into the storage room and shut the door firmly, fake walking like her foot wasn’t hurting.
I could tell, because there was an unnatural gait, trying to compensate by leaning on the inner side of her foot. And I knew what it was like to show no pain. Knocks, bumps, bruises, we were always getting taken down, always a ligament, muscle or joint hurting. You had to play on, never show weakness—another of Dad’s famous mantras:Never show weakness, fear or pain—the opponents would pounce on your vulnerability.
Unless of course you had an obvious injury, like a dislocated shoulder or a broken leg.
Then you’d likely scream or cry in agony anyway.
That had happened to me in baseball practice. Isaac Kibble had swung the bat around so it flew out of his hands and hit me, the unfortunate kid who had been standing next in line. My forehead swelled and my eye was black and blue for weeks. And yep, I had cried.
You’d expect that of a ten year old kid, right? Especially when you thought your eye had been taken out. But no. Crying wasn’t acceptable for boys of any age. Not according to Abe Mercer.
Sierra’s arm grazed mine as she walked past, and again I momentarily went to into my own cocoon, a sweet scent surrounding me, a welcome change from the musky, woody, pine-scented shower gels and deodorants of the locker room. This was light and fresh, and I couldn’t understand my sudden attraction to all things Sierra.
Heck, she was Sawyer’s kid sister. I’d known her forever. She’d been there at every sleepover at the Huntington’s house since middle school. Making popcorn, getting snacks for us, playing card games, board games, video games, watching movies—she was always there, right up until Mrs. Huntington would send her to bed.
My blood sugar levels must have been low. That had to be it. My state of dizziness had to be because of a need for food. After the game I’d chugged a bottle of recovery drink and eaten a protein bar, but it wasn’t enough. I needed proper food.
“Hey, I can pick you up,” I said to Sawyer as we watched Sierra surge on ahead. The girl must have had a pretty high pain tolerance to be moving so quickly.
“Sure, whatever,” Sawyer said agreeably, not realizing that my motive was the chance to see Sierra again. Hey, I just wanted to check on her foot, okay. At home, she’d be less likely to play the role of martyr.
It was Sawyer’s text asking me how long I was going to be which made Dad finally stop on his analysis of the game. Our 38-7 scoreline was the biggest margin against Lake View, but apparently that wasn’t a big enough margin. Lake View’s touchdown had come off my wayward pass in the fourth quarter; that was shocking, totally unacceptable.
I knew to nod and agree and yes, I’d be up at the crack of dawn to work on my throwing arm. But he let me go, knowing that appearances were everything. The captain had to be seen with his team, the image that had been carefully cultivated over the years was one of unity and family and striving toward the common goal of making a state championship appearance. Careers were on the line here, Dad’s as much as my own college aspirations.
If the Chargers didn’t make the play-offs, Dad’s coaching career could spiral downwards instead of following the trajectory that he’d planned. He’d done the hard yards in the lower divisions and was eyeing up a lucrative college contract himself. I had to help him get there, and wobbly passes that got intercepted were not going to make it happen.
“Don’t be late,” Dad said gruffly as I pulled on my black jacket.
“I won’t,” I said.
“And keep an eye on the boys.” Yeah, I was not only the leader on the field, but I had to be the pillar of the community too. Make sure the boys stayed on the straight and narrow. No controversy, no drama. The Covington Prep Chargers had to maintain a squeaky-clean image at all times. That’s how the money rolled in for the team. No alcohol, no drugs, no smoking, and girlfriends, though not banned, weren’t encouraged. Not during competition season at least. Dad expected our focus to be narrow and intense.
You couldn’t concentrate on the game if your mind was elsewhere.
Tennessee’s mind was definitely elsewhere, though it hadn’t affected his ability to catch. Tenn had pretended to have no interest in Millie, the team reporter, but Sawyer and I had seen it unraveling before our very eyes. Yeah, the big Wide Receiver had fallen for the bookworm and tonight we were going to see it play out before our very eyes on a date at Peter’s Ice Cream Shoppe.
I couldn’t wait.
But I also couldn’t wait to see Sierra again. You know, just to check on her ankle. She might have made it worse by standing on it all evening.
Driving up the steep driveway to the Huntington’s front door, I quickly turned off the engine and lights in case Sawyer came rushing out. I hurried out of my car, knocking on the door at the same time that I opened it and announced my arrival. At the Huntington’s, I pretty much felt like one of the family.
I made my way into the large open plan kitchen which was the hub of the house.
“Hey,” Sawyer said.
“Hey.” I looked around, searching for Sierra, but only seeing Mrs. Huntington stirring something at the stove.
