I had no idea how Brady played. I hadn’t been watching him scrimmage because I’d been busy enough trying to remember my own plays and stay upright. “If you say so.”
“I do. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.” He slaps me on the back, winks at Addie, and slides out of the booth. “See you bright and early. Don’t leave the awesome at home.”
“She never does,” Addie calls out, and we watch him saunter—yes, saunter—back to his parents’ booth. His mother’s blond head is rigid enough that I know she’s been spying on us.
Before I can think about if this is a good or bad thing, Addie snags my wrist, long fingers gripping the bones with all their three-sport might.
“That boy can sack me anytime. I love him.”
The giggles come back. “Quarterbacks don’t sack people. They’re the sackees.”
“Okay, who sacks them?”
“Linebackers, mostly.”
“Then I’ll mostly be a linebacker. And he’ll be mostly on the ground.”
I cut off my laughter and give her a chin tip. “How are those hormones doing now, McAndry?”
“They’re well fed, but still hungry for more.”
I rip a corner off my slice of pizza, grease immediately coating my fingertips. “Too bad you weren’t the one who punched out Stacey Sanderson.”
“Damn right. You’ve got all the luck, O-Rod.”
I grin. “Something like that.”
12
IT’S SUNDAY MORNING AND GREY’S WORDS TO ADDIE last night won’t quit running through my head, swirling around and around like a nervous goldfish.
Brady’s scared shitless that he could get benched in favor of her.
Her.
As in me. The only “her” with a helmet.
I’m here as a backup. As a teammate. As a means to an end. Not as a starter.
I don’t want to start. I’m not even sure I would want game time if offered it.
But even though I am a much better third baseman than quarterback, I still want to be the best I can be. Even if I’m third-string, I don’t want to be a distant third.
Which means Brady Mason has a freaking bull’s-eye on his back.
I steal a glance at my target as Brady, Grey, and I take turns trying to hit an orange traffic cone Coach Shanks has whipped out and is repeatedly setting up at various locations downfield each time one of us knocks it down. We go like that for a solid hour, Shanks changing it up by moving the cone left and right, stationing it anywhere from point-blank range to sixty yards downfield, just to see what we can do. It’s not a perfect drill because usually we don’t aim to hit something a foot off the ground, but it’s definitely a challenge in accuracy.
It’s also something we’re pretty equal at as a trio.
But what comes next has my eyes shooting straight at the too-blond back of Brady’s head.
“Okay, gang, great job.” Coach is smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s got sweat staining stripes down the back of his Northland polo as he turns to dump the orange cone next to his piles of gear. Still bent over, he picks up a bag of miniature cones, the kind Ry uses in our backyard for soccer drills. “Footwork time.”
Brady’s face hardens as much as it can with baby fat still clinging to his cheekbones. The dude feels called out. And based on Grey’s description from last night, he should.
“Seven-step drop-back, five-step drop-back with a rollout, and then we’ll do some resistance work.”
Grey’s face doesn’t melt into the same despair that Brady’s has. I don’t let mine change either. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re both a few years older. Or maybe it’s having coaches in our families. But Grey and I are most definitely on the same page.
Just do the work.
No moping. No fear. No excuses.
Just do the freaking work.
Shanks uses the soccer cones to set up a pocket-size square at the ten-yard line and calls over Smith and Tate, the tight ends we worked with on Thursday and straight A teamers.
Coach demonstrates what he wants—a conscious seven slide-steps back and then a zigzag through the far end of the box before planting a foot and releasing to one of the guys in the end zone.
Grey lines up, ready to go, but Shanks waves him off.
“Let’s go youngest to oldest today.” He holds the ball out for Brady, who has a look on his face I would never, ever give a coach. It’s dripping with disdain. The glare my sister would give me if she caught me with his expression would singe my eyebrows to ashes.
“Why don’t we do ladies first?” Brady offers, gesturing to me, though that’s obviously completely unnecessary.
Shanks frowns. “Excuse me?”
Amazingly, Brady thinks there’s room for an actual conversation here. “I think Rodinsky should have to do something first for once.” It’s suddenly very obvious that his shitty agility isn’t the only reason Shanks bought into my recruitment.
Shanks purses his lips, anger deepening on his features. I’m not sure if Brady is smart enough to know he’s about to get yelled at or dumb enough to think that his power play here is opaque. Or all of the above.
“Coach, it’s fine, I’ll go first,” I say. Shanks glances at me, but I’m glaring at Brady. “I don’t care when I go. I just want to get the job done.”
After a pause, Coach hands me the ball. For an instant, a winsome look crosses Brady’s face, but as he lines up next to Grey, it seems to dawn on him that he might not have tasted victory there.
I start at the top edge of the box, launching myself backward.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Slinging myself forward, I cross around the cones in measured steps, eyes up the whole time, watching the receivers shoot back. The second I’m back to the top of the box, I plant my foot and release, aiming to strike Smith straight in the heart.
When it makes contact, the ball thumps off his chest before bobbling into his hands.
Caught.
I have to bite my lip to keep down a smile as I stalk past Brady’s bowed head.
The angels have smiled upon me, because our afternoon practice runs short. Which means I’m home and hopping into the shower by six o’clock.
Which is of supreme importance because it’s Sunday night. Aka Rodinsky family dinner night. When we had a house of our own, my parents would host, Danielle and Heather making the trek across town to our place. Now that we’re all together, we still do it—it’s literally the only way to guarantee all of us are at one table at the same time. Mom still insists on cooking, but if that’s more than warming up pizza, it’s too much for her, even though she’s crap at admitting it. So, for pretty much the entire summer, Heather’s made up some excuse about having a new recipe she wants to try, or wanting to make something she’s already bought the ingredients for. Mom plays along, “making salad,” but not trying to do much more. It’s a game and we all know it and it sucks.
But it works. So we go with it.
Tonight’s meal is pot roast, something Heather culled from a compilation of recipes from the 1970s. Which means dessert is probably elaborately molded Jell-O, because she loves to go all out on a theme.