“Wait. Am I in a movie?” I glance over his shoulder and whip around to look at the street. “Where’s the director? Casting got it all wrong. You’re a horrible pick for the role of ‘hot guy haunted by his mistakes’ in Cautionary Tale Number Twelve.”
His grin widens, though there’s weight behind it. “Car accidents happen outside of the movies, Liv. In real life. With real people. Who really get hurt.” He taps his collarbone.
“Yeah, but… you didn’t… nothing…”
“I didn’t kill anyone, Liv,” he says, looking me in the eye. “I just totaled my car, busted my collarbone, and my hard-ass mom took away all my driving privileges and refused to buy me another car.”
“Oh.”
I don’t know why, but I expected there to be more. Like some sort of moral to the story. But instead it’s black and white, just an accident that happened. A mistake he made. One he’s paid for in borrowed rides and sideline time.
One that led him to me.
“Why is the death glare back? You think I’m into you just for your wheels?”
I shake my face blank. “First my arm, then my wheels, right?” I plant one on his cheek. “No, sorry, I’m confused. Like, should I be happy that you got in an accident and that tossed us together, or sad that you got hurt? I mean—”
“That’s easy. Happy.” He touches my chin and I sink into his palm. “I’m happy about it. There’s absolutely nothing to be sad about.”
“But you were hurt—”
“Was. I’m fine now.” His thumb rubs my cheek. “More than fine because you’re in my life.”
I should just melt into his words and take my liquefied self home for the night, content. But I can’t let it go. It’s stupid, but I have to make sure he’s okay. “And you’re fine with Coach’s decision? Because if I were you, I’d be super pissed.”
He barks out a laugh and unhooks his seat belt. “If it were Brady getting the start, I’d be pissed. But it’s you. If anything, it’s validation for my talent-scouting skills. You are really good.”
A smile cracks my face and I see him visibly relax before I say a word. “So, you’re only happy because I still make you look good.”
“Basically.” He opens the door and steals another kiss, our lips matching up horribly despite the fact that we’re both grinning. “And because your butt looks really good in tights.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to say something like that.”
He steps out of the car, arms resting on Helena’s roof and door, broad chest blocking his house enough that I almost don’t notice the porch light pinging on—Coach Kitt is watching. Again.
“See you and those tights tomorrow, O-Rod.”
24
GREY WORTHINGTON PUTS ON A GOOD SHOW, BUT the field hides nothing. So he can banter and kiss and laugh like everything’s peachy—but when he’s taking snap, it is crystal clear that, despite his assurances, my boyfriend is 100 percent, unequivocally not fine.
Since he learned about me getting the start, his scrimmage play has been off-kilter. He’s a half step behind, his passes a foot too short, too long, too left, too right. Even his decision-making skills are suspect—he’s throwing into traffic, holding on to the ball too long, refusing to go rogue on a collapsed play to make it work.
I’ve noticed. The receivers have noticed. Surely the coaches have noticed.
And it’s all my fault. I know it.
On Tuesday, Nick pulled Grey aside at least five times for one-on-ones that always ended in helmet patting and nods. At one point on Wednesday, Jake got so frustrated, he straight stripped Grey of the ball on a passing play, just for the chance to move the A team forward.
But that’s not the worst thing to happen. Getting called out in front of everyone is, and that comes as we’re doing our final laps Thursday night.
Grey didn’t practice any better than he did over the last two days, and he’s uncharacteristically sullen as he, Brady, and I run next to each other, closing in on the finish line. I’m thinking of asking Grey if he wants to go with me to Ryan’s soccer match after practice, to get his mind off things, but then Jake pulls in next to us.
“Worthington.”
“Rogers?”
Jake speeds up, sliding in front of us, running backward. When he gets to the finish line, he stops on a dime. Grey hits the brakes and they’re suddenly two inches apart, chin to chin, our two senior captains. Jake is smiling that annoyed smile of his, and the way his lips are curling, I know he’s about to lay one out. And so does everyone else.
“You’ve been playing like shit ever since Liv got the start.”
He doesn’t look at me as he says it, and neither does Grey.
“I have not.” Grey’s voice is smooth. “I could play a flute and it wouldn’t matter anyway, because I’m not running the offense on Friday.”
“No. No, you listen. Right now.” Jake leans in, teeth bared. I’ve never seen Jake like this—ever—and I wonder how long his frustration has truly been building to this moment. “I’m not losing to busted-ass Central because your ego can’t handle Liv’s talent.”
Grey doesn’t blink. “It doesn’t matter because I’m. Not. Playing.”
But we all know this isn’t the truth. Hell, I lived the fact that it isn’t the truth when I played last week. Backups play all the time. I could play one snap and then Grey could come in for the rest of the game, either because of an injury or because Coach just feels like switching things up.
Rather than calling him on it, Jake dodges and goes in a completely different direction—just like he does so often on the field.
“Quarterbacks lead whether they’re in the game or not. Shape up.”
I can barely admit it to myself, but I agree with Jake there. Even still, my instinct is to stick up for Grey—everyone has an off week now and then. But before I can say something, Grey’s eyes narrow in a way I’ve never seen and suddenly I know exactly what opposing defenses see when they cross him. “Or what?”
All Jake does is raise a single brow and shift his eyes my way. It happens faster than I can process. Jake is looking at me and then he’s on the ground, Grey on top of him. Sanchez and Brady immediately dive for them, hauling Grey back by the shoulders.
There’s a whistle and a flight of khaki-clad men swarm us, Coach Lee front and center. He blows on his whistle one more time, long and high, and places a hand on each boy’s heaving chest.
“I don’t think so. Save that crap for somewhere else. On this field, you’re teammates, and I won’t tolerate it. I won’t.” Coach Lee glares at each of them, spitting mad. “Both of you are on the bench tomorrow.”
Jake’s mouth falls open. “But—”
“Yeah, butt on the bench, Rogers. I don’t care what your stats are”—Coach rounds on Grey—“or that you’re already scheduled to be there. Neither of you sets foot on the field.”
“I—”
“But—”
They’re both cut off by Coach forcibly spinning them in the direction of the locker room. “One more peep out of either of you and we’ll have to elect new senior captains.”