Addie sputter-sighs into her drink. “We’d be looking a whole lot better if Barbie and I weren’t the only ones to hit the court this summer.”
“I mean, to be fair, you get bonus points because you hit the court with me, and I can’t even keep the ball in play seventy percent of the time.”
“God did not make you a volleyball player, that’s for sure, but you were excellent target practice.”
We both laugh, because that’s totally true.
“And what about the rest of Windsor Prep? How’s your schedule?”
“Well, I got into Danielle’s Honors English section, so that won’t be weird or—wait.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re avoiding talking about it.”
I poke at my plate. “I am not.”
“Oh, yes you are, Olive Marie.” She pauses, eyes narrowing further as if she’s trying to read my mind. Then her whole face lights up. “It’s him, isn’t it? Grey?”
I feel the sudden urge to stuff my piehole with ten garlic knots—I barely have the energy to eat, let alone manage Addie’s expectations on what isn’t happening with my teammates and myself. “Um, it’s him what?”
Addie doesn’t skip a beat. “You know what. You’re being antidescriptive because you’re afraid of describing something. And that something is Mr. Surfer Newscaster.”
And suddenly I’m blushing because… yeah.
Just then our server materializes with an eighteen-inch monstrosity fashioned from mozzarella, cured beef, and stinky miniature fish. Oh, and carbs. Glorious carbs. The nectar of the gods. Or at least the nectar of athletes ambling through two-a-days.
Addie and I each yank a slice onto our plates and dig in. She takes a giant-ass bite and launches back into her assault—she clearly has it in for me.
“Seriously. You’ve been at practice. With boys. For hours.” She presses both hands into the Formica tabletop on either side of her plate. “In case you’ve forgotten, there are no boys at Windsor Prep. None. Zero. Zilch. Feed my hormones, Liv. A girl’s gotta eat.”
I’m not exactly sure what to say. Yes, I’ve spent hours with boys. One of whom happens to be Jake. He’s been fine since apologizing to me in the parking lot. I’m neither a stalker nor the girl who has somehow won back his heart. I’m just there. Even though I really do wish he weren’t so stinking pretty. As for Grey—oh, God, he’s pretty, too. And kind. And smart. And so damn good at what he does.
Addie chucks a burnt hunk of crust down on her plate and picks up another slice, her eyes never leaving my face. “You seriously have to think about this? What is there to think about?” She sighs. “If you don’t start talking in about two seconds, I’m going to get up from this table and go assault that boy over there in front of his family, just to hear about his day. Information: I needs it, preciousssss.”
She waves an arm in a grand gesture toward the other row of booths and I glance over, wondering if this poor soul knows what exactly he’s in for. My heart immediately hits the floor when I recognize the curls and lantern jaw in profile.
Then it stops beating completely when a pair of steel-gray eyes meets mine from across the pizza-scented dim. Addie realizes exactly who “that boy” is without the football gear about .002 seconds later. “Is that—”
I move my head in some semblance of a nod. “Number sixteen, in the flesh.”
A few words to the blond woman across from him—Coach Kitt—and he’s walking our way. Hands in his pockets—he’s the perfect, terrifying mixture of nonchalant and confident.
“Liv.” He says it with his customary half smile. Which looks nice when paired with jeans and a golf polo. I’ve never seen him in real, nonathletic clothes, and that thought is so distracting that I totally don’t answer him.
So my best friend does it for me.
“Hi, I’m Addie.” She sticks out her hand for a shake.
“Grey Worthington,” he says, taking her hand. “I’ve seen you play.”
Addie blinks at him. “Volleyball, basketball, softball, or all of the above?”
He laughs. “Just softball, sad to say. Base hit to beat Northland at state.”
He was there. He hadn’t just heard about my infamous game, like Coach Shanks. He had been there in person. But of course he was.
I should’ve known. Of course he’d seen my arm in person before that day on the track. Of course he’d been there to see with his own eyes the kind of arm I have—not just the one that can sling a deadly accurate softball, but the one that can pull back for a mean right hook.
Again, Addie’s confidence rescues me.
“Too bad,” she says. “Softball’s the weakest of the three.”
“I’ll have to see you play the other two sometime.”
“Liv will update you on my schedule.” Her eyes flip to mine, all wide. “Won’t you?”
I nod, trying to get my head back in the game. “I’m the keeper of the official Adeline McAndry performance calendar.”
Grey laughs again. “So, while we’re talking games, I’m assuming you’re coming Friday?”
“Friday?” Her eyes skid to mine for a hot second, but I’m not exactly sure what Grey’s getting at.
“Liv’s first game.”
I shrug, immediately brushing off everything—his enthusiasm, Addie’s surprise, the whole idea that I’m actually going to have playing time. “I’ll just be riding the bench. It’s no big deal.”
I laugh but Grey doesn’t. “Just because Brady’s starting doesn’t mean you won’t play.”
My stomach rolls a hard left, garlic knots and all. Embarrassing myself in the privacy of practice is one thing. Being sat on by a two-hundred-pound behemoth from another school in front of a couple thousand people is quite another. “Sure. I guess if he gets hurt, I’ll be ready to go.”
Grey half grins at Addie. “She’s being modest. Brady’s scared shitless that he could get benched in favor of her.”
Usually my confidence in my athletic abilities rivals Addie’s, but the second Grey finishes speaking, I start cracking up. “Yeah, right.”
Sure, I look good when we’re doing routes, but in an actual scrimmage? I suck. Hard-core. Granted, that’s my own estimation, but given my elite status in one sport, it’s pretty easy to see my general suckitude in another.
The giggles keep coming… until Grey shoulders his way into my side of the booth. I immediately shut the hell up, surprised by the sudden warmth of him next to me.
Grey’s face sharpens to an edge as he looks at me. “Why is that so funny?”
“You’ve seen me play, right?” I glance across the booth for backup. But Addie’s face is tabula rasa–level blank. I guess she’s pretty freaking surprised, too. “I’ve spent more time facedown on the turf than right side up.”
Grey’s head is already shaking, corners of his lips tipped up. “You’ve also made about 90 percent of your plays since Thursday. You’re deadly accurate. And, despite the fact that, yes, you’ve taken a few body blows, you’re extremely mobile. Brady can’t move his feet to save his life. And that means he throws the ball away at least a third of the time.”