Road game tomorrow, volleyball ended early. In the Northland parking lot with Nick. Grey’s here, too. I hear we have stuff to celebrate because you’re back on the team. So, dinner? Burger Fu on the line.
I smirk. And if I say no?
Your choice to celebrate solo but just FYI, my burger-eating skillz are quite sexy. It’s on you if the boys start fighting over me.
Then: Protect Grey from himself and come. I don’t want to break his face or my best friend’s heart just because I’m trying to eat my dinner.
Outside the locker room is the rapidly cooling night—my wet hair immediately plastered to my face by a breeze. Who’s saying Nick would win that fight?
Addie doesn’t waste half a second in coming up with a response—as quick in life as she is on the field or court.
Nick plows people into the ground every day, don’t think he won’t go all linebacker in the name of Adeline McAndry.
Are the boys standing there watching you type War and Peace?
Yeah, and they like it. But I’m hungry, so hurry the hell up.
Two seconds.
I fire off a text to Ryan to make sure he’s already gotten a ride home, and one to Mom, letting her know I’m with Addie, before rounding the corner to the parking lot.
The boys and Addie are holding court in front of my car, all of them just showered and in street clothes. In Addie’s case, she’s doffed her Windsor Prep uniform for black leggings and a stretchy shirt that her mom would incinerate on sight if she knew it existed.
Addie groans. “Two seconds? That was three minutes. A hellacious eternity when we’re talking carbs. Come on—less talking, more driving. You’re chauffeur number two.”
I give her a salute and unlock Helena the Honda. Grey drops into the passenger seat and I’m still putting on my seat belt when Addie burns rubber out of the parking lot.
“Hey.” Grey’s fingers graze my cheek as I put the keys in the ignition. There’s a softness in the hard-edge planes of his face as he leans in without a response, lips pressing against mine, warm and wanting. I sink into him, the ignition dinging despite time standing still.
When he finally pulls away, it’s a struggle to open my eyes, they’re so heavy. I must look like a used candle—my features melty and warm.
“I wanted to do that all day.” He winks. “But there’s no kissing in football.”
I swallow and compose an answer, lips numb with heat. “Ah, yes, just as iconic a phrase as ‘there’s no crying in baseball.’”
“I’m sure Tom Hanks said it at some point.”
“That is the definition of iconic,” I say, grinning. “But… I mean, really, is there any reason we can’t kiss in football?”
Grey runs a hand through his just-washed hair. “Well, no. I just don’t want the coaches to freak. Team chemistry and all that.”
That’s a thing or two I know about—heck, it’s part of the reason I’m in this situation to begin with. And so I nod, though I’m not totally sure what I think about when and where we can kiss.
I press on the gas and Grey places his hand on my knee. It’s all I can do to keep from gunning it into traffic.
“I’m glad your dad caved, by the way.”
I smile at him. “Me too.”
By the time we get to the restaurant, Addie and Nick are waiting for us outside, looking like a painting in the broad brushstrokes of sunset. They’re so into each other, they don’t realize we’re coming their way until the last second, when Nick catches Grey’s eye as he’s nuzzling Addie’s cheek.
“If it isn’t the starter and the spare.” Nick says it as a joke. As if we hadn’t seen each other ten minutes ago.
“Dude, don’t call my girl a ‘spare.’”
My heart stumbles in my chest as Grey half laughs. My girl. Starter.
Nick laughs, and it’s not half. “You’re the spare, Worthington. Haven’t you seen the clipboard?” When it’s clear he hasn’t, Nick’s ears flush. His next words come more quietly. “Liv starts Friday.”
I want to demur. To squeak out an “I do?”… but I can’t. I know it’s true. Nick knows it’s true. I can justify ignoring it for the past few hours, but outright lying now would be a huge mistake.
And I’m done lying to people I care about.
Grey tenses as reality sinks in, his competitive side flashing, but in a blip, his features relax. “That’s awesome, Liv.”
As Grey bumps my shoulder, Nick tries to read between the lines. “Shanks didn’t tell you?” he asks me. “You seriously didn’t know?”
I’m trying to keep my face brave.
“Coach told me when I met with him about leaving the team—I just didn’t believe him.” All of which is true, but I suddenly feel like a total lying asshole.
“O-ROD!” Addie squeaks, obvious excitement overriding any worry about me and Grey. Addie lunges and suddenly her arms are wrapped around me, so strong and warm, her bevy of newly done braids blinding my vision. She’s absolutely vibrating with joy.
I wish I could see Grey’s expression. Instead, I hear Nick laugh. “Jesus, what a tackle. You transfer to Northland, McAndry, and I’m B team again. Guaranteed.”
Addie slides off me and straightens her shirt, the fabric riding up and flashing enough of a taut brown tummy to make Nick’s cheeks flush yet again. “Don’t tempt me, Cleary.”
I check Grey’s face—the surfer is winning out over the newsman, all relaxed and sunny. Like he’s enjoying Nick and Addie’s banter. But I know how badly he’s wanted to start. And he’s a senior. There are only so many games left.
I need to know he’s truly fine. I don’t want him lying to himself any more than I want to lie to him.
The sun is gone—the only illumination is Helena’s ancient dashboard and the partial moon as we pull up in front of Grey’s house. Because he’s Grey, he still looks good, the light and shadow playing to the newscaster lines of his face, the wave of his hair softening the intensity.
“I really didn’t think Coach meant it,” I tell him. “About me starting on Friday. I figured he’d change his mind and it wouldn’t be worth bringing up.”
That half smile settles in. “My ego’s that fragile, huh?”
I snag his hand and turn it over, forcing open his fingers and interlacing mine within his. My eyes pin to his face. “No, you’re just that important to me.”
The weight dissolves at the sigh in his eyes and I lean forward, lips to his before he can respond. His mouth is even warmer than his fingers, shampoo scenting his hair, chin rough with scruff.
When I pull away, his lashes flutter open and his jaw sets, lips slightly red from contact. “You’re important to me, too.”
I squeeze his fingers. The silence flies over. Fragile. “Are you ever going to tell me how you broke your collarbone?”
“Are you going to ask me why I don’t drive?”
It seems like an odd question to ask in response. My vision blurs on his house—the three-car garage and the manicured lawn. He’s never driven me anywhere. I don’t even know if he has a car, which seems absurd, given that he’s a senior and his parents aren’t exactly pinching pennies.