Considering he and Lily Jane just shared three cans over lunch, I’d say he’s actually very serious about math.
“What’s the difference between algebra and calculus?”
Topps seriously freaking strokes his beard like a philosopher. Still, I’m literally holding my breath for the guy because that is most definitely not an easy first-day-of-school question, but Lily Jane is smiling at him like he’s a freaking rock star. When he answers, I see why. “They’re partners in crime. Calculus finds new equations, algebra solves them.”
Coach Lee writes Topps’s definition on the board and when he turns around, it’s with a smile like I’ve never seen. “Our district mathletics champ, ladies and gentlemen.” Topps takes a little bow from his desk, cheeks bright pink. “We’ve got forty-six minutes remaining today, so let’s see what new equations we can find.”
The rest of the day is a blur of faces and assignments and new, poorly planned classroom locations, and my mind is toast by the last bell. I head straight from my last class to the athletics wing, the team’s prepractice trip to the weight room so heavy on my mind that I don’t notice the mass of boys huddled near the line of coaches’ offices.
That is, until one of them peels off the pack, takes off down the orange-and-white checkered tile, and wraps me in a bear hug so strong that we plow into a nearby set of lockers. A metallic noise pings through my skull as it bounces off the empty steel box. The rest of me is stationary, pressed between a locker and this person. Who I now see is Ryan. A screeching, shaking Ryan.
“VARRRRRSSSSSITTTTY,” he whisper-screams into the crook of my neck, where his face has landed.
I realize the mass of boys is gathered around a bulletin board above the drinking fountain and that nearly every one of them is wearing adidas from head to toe.
Jesse was right. “Duuuuuudddde. Your sister is kind of an asshole.”
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own student-athlete drama at Northland High that I completely—and I mean completely—forgot about the team announcements today.
Football is a sport that needs bodies and cuts no one, the pecking order decided in a much more fluid A team and B team scenario of varsity and JV, plus the catchall C team. Soccer, not so much—there are far more bodies than spots. Tryouts matter, and if you’re cut, you’re not playing. Considering Ry’s placekicking doldrums last week, I should’ve been on pins and needles all day, and instead I’m half-clueless and pinned to a locker.
I am a total asshole.
“Varsity?!” I whisper-scream in response. “I thought the coach hated you.”
Ryan pulls back, cheeks flushed. “Turns out Coach Parsons is of the Danielle Rodinsky-Simpson ‘the more I hate you, the more I love you’ school of coaching.”
I mock-punch him in the gut. “Harsh, man, harsh.”
“You’re right, not fair to Coach Parsons.”
I shake my head and run a hand through his hair. “I’m so proud of you, Ry.”
He raises a brow. “Any chance you might want to express that pride in a double-dip waffle cone from Happy Cow postpractice?”
“It’s a deal.”
“Good, because I’m going to need all the calories I’m gonna get. Tonight’s going to be killer.”
I give him a knowing nod—I, too, was a freshman on varsity once. And, even worse, the coach was my sister in her first year. “Tough being a frosh on a squad of upperclassmen. Gotta work twice as hard to prove yourself.”
Ry finally releases me, tucking his thumbs into the straps of his backpack in one cool motion as those cheerleaders he chased after this morning exit the girls’ locker room in a fit of giggles and a swirl of plumeria body spray. He chin-checks them and then returns to me, right back to being dialed in to our conversation.
“Is this the part in the after-school special where I say, ‘But not as hard as being the only girl on a high school football team, huh, big sis?’ And you give me a wise smile with a flippant ‘Not even close’?”
“We could go that route if you want,” I deadpan.
He grins. “Nah. I won’t patronize you. I’ll just take your money and spin it into ice cream like Rumpelstiltskin.”
Considering ice cream is basically gold to my little brother… Touché, Ryan. Touché.
15
FRIDAY NIGHT, OUR DEBUT IS AN ABSOLUTE BLOWOUT.
As in, we’re winning by a lot, even though the Friday night lights did nothing to improve Brady’s shitty footwork and entitled attitude.
No, it’s a total blowout with a three-touchdown lead and counting (we’re only in the third quarter) because of a single factor: number thirty-two.
Aka Jake Rogers, senior captain and all-area running back.
Aka the legs propping up the entire Northland Tigers football team.
I’d known that was the case ever since I was first approached by Grey and Coach Shanks. We’re a running team, but… we still need someone calling the plays and chucking the ball to our running back.
But, still, seeing it in an actual game—as opposed to practice—is way crazier than being told about it by Grey, by Coach, or even by Jake himself. Though Jake only did his telling in dribs and drabs when we were first dating. A little show-off line here or there like, “Well, it is possible to score eight touchdowns in a game, because I totally did that against Central last year.” I’ll let you figure out how he totally worked that into a normal conversation with his softball-playing girlfriend.
And though he probably was exaggerating, he wasn’t lying about his talent. Not in the slightest.
And sitting here on the bench with Grey, watching the team from Wyandotte Rural get steamrolled, I’m sort of dumbfounded. I mean, why did they even need a third-string quarterback? Brady’s thrown the ball three times. Literally. And every time it was because Lee and Shanks intentionally called a passing play to fake out the defense for, like, five seconds. I almost feel as if I should ask Grey if he wants to go squeeze in between Addie and Ryan in the stands and eat the remainder of their popcorn, because there’s literally no reason for either of us to be down on the field.
A slip of darkness falls over the bench, blocking out the scorching late-summer sun—Coach Shanks. He leans in and the shadows fade out and there’s a big old crinkly smile on his face.
“Rodinsky, you’re up.”
I gape at him. “I’m what?”
“After this play, I’m putting you in. Orange Nine to Tate. Worthington, get her ready.”
He disappears and Grey stands, but like my first day of scrimmage, my legs won’t seem to move. My mouth, though, is sputtering my thoughts out loud, completely without a filter.
“But that’s a passing play—” Tate shoots left, crossing before a catch and turn. Orange Nine. “Why would we do that?”
“He wants you to score.”
Jake just ran seven yards for a first down. The ball is at the fifteen. Meaning, unless Jake doesn’t score here or makes a rare mistake and actually loses ground, it’ll be the perfect time to try a passing play. If it’s unsuccessful, we still have another try before a field goal or going for it on fourth down.