Immediately, Addie appears. “With a mouth like that, you won’t make captain, Morris. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
Christy’s bravado sinks, though her chin stays high. The other softball girls surround her, inspecting the gym floor, not willing to cross Addie.
“They need to clean the gym. Come on, Eagles,” Coach Stevie shouts from crosscourt, already nearly to the gym doors, shoving a massive sack of volleyballs into the equipment closet. I’m grateful for the save.
The softball girls run out after her. The volleyball team lingers, the girls saying goodbye to me in pairs and triplets, slapping fives and stealing hugs in a barrage of smiles that warms me back up after that WTF sideswipe from Christy & Co.
I’m dying to ask Addie if that’s how it’s been all year at school, this stark divide between the softball team and the others. My absence felt by both types in completely different ways.
But for far too long—maybe since May—it’s been all about me.
I pull Addie in for a bear hug as soon as the others leave, smooshing our faces together as much as they’ll go with the four inches she has on me. She’s freshly clean and smells 100 percent better than me. “You were amazing, McAndry! Freaking bloodbath.”
Addie’s laugh is loud and unforgiving, just like her performance. She shrugs. “They don’t call them kills for nothing, O-Rod.”
We giggle as Nick opens the door into the cooling night. “I wouldn’t piss her off, Nick,” I tell him. “Not if you value your life.”
“He wouldn’t,” Addie says, beaming at him as we step outside. “Now I just have to teach him how to avoid pissing off my mama.”
Oh. My. God. I don’t know of a single boy who has made it far enough in Addie’s life to meet Mrs. McAndry. Or Mr. McAndry, too, of course, but Trey McAndry has always deferred to his wife on literally everything. I stare wide-eyed at Nick. “When’s your trial date, Cleary?”
He just smiles mildly, unafraid. “Saturday. But I’ve got this.”
Addie plants one on his cheek. “Keep up that confidence, babe.”
The cute is overwhelming and I know they need to say their goodbyes and it’s probably best if it’s not in front of me. I glide in for another hug.
“Great game, girl. See ya.”
I leave them with a wave and step into the dark, the friendliest interaction I’ve had in days fading into the night.
36
THE POST-ADDIE SMILE FADES THE SECOND I GET A view of my car.
Grey’s pushed up against Helena the Honda, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, the cut of his jaw rivaling Captain America’s in the security lighting. How does he always perfectly catch the light? How?
Behind him, a pickup lingers. It’s either a forty-year-old man or Topps at the wheel, rolling up the driver’s side window, cheeks red enough to give the International Space Station pause.
Memories of Nick messing with his phone at the match ping around in my brain—a whole conversation happening a foot away, leading to this moment. All around us engines rev and headlights flicker—no one at Windsor Prep is stopping to watch.
“Liv, I’m sorry.”
His apology hangs in the almost-autumn air, and with those words I’m back in another parking lot, red-faced and yelling. I’m in Shanks’s office, weathering fatherly advice. I’m back staring at Coach Kitt, Grey’s secret welling inside me as I stuff it back down. Because even though he used me, I can’t deny the flutter in my heart at seeing him standing here, hoping I’ll hear him.
Grey’s face is clear and honest. I believe him. He is sorry.
But everything still stings so badly that I want to twist the knob on his own pain and turn it up to eleven, up to where I’ve been at for days. I can feel my vocal cords tightening, tears pushing to the surface. “You lied about Stacey. You lied about what happened to you last summer. Why should I believe you when you say you’re sorry?”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Prove it.” My skin is damp against the night and though it’s still warm, I start to shiver as the first tears fall. Still, I don’t blink. “Before I walked out of that locker room, did you kiss Stacey?”
I tense, expecting him to snag my wrists, to yank me into his body to convince me he didn’t. To try to dominate—he’s a football player after all.
But what I forget is that he’s also Grey.
That he’s more akin to the friendly nudges of his shoulder than the sheer ferocity of the sport that made him, the sport that brought us together.
So instead, despite Topps totally watching from the shadows, despite the past week, despite the glare I’m giving him, he sweeps my face into his hands. Football-rough fingers spill across my cheeks and into my hair, the smooth sides of my ponytail bunching under his touch.
Gentle, strong, wanting—those hands make me match his gaze. Not because he’s forcing me, but because there’s so much tenderness pulsing through his skin that it is literally stunning.
He doesn’t break eye contact. “No. I didn’t kiss her.” My heart lurches but I haul it back. That’s not enough, and Grey seems to know it. “She broke up with me so she wouldn’t be tied down in college. I hadn’t even talked to her since that night over the summer. And then she hopped on me before I even saw her coming.”
I don’t move, my mind caught on that first day at the lunch table, when he echoed what I had said about her.
I’m fine with giving her the Voldemort treatment.
Me too.
“Why was she even here?” I ask.
“The softball team threw a surprise birthday party for Mom. I knew she’d be here for the weekend, just not that she’d be at our game.”
Yet another reminder that I’m not part of that group—a club Stacey would always be a part of.
“These last few days have been hell,” Grey says, eyes heavy with something that looks like remorse. “Not because of the stares in class or the shit at practice. It’s been hell because I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”
I cough out a sad laugh. “You definitely did. You could’ve told me about Stacey that very first day. Even if you didn’t plan on using me as a way to get back at her, even if your motivations really were true, keeping something like that a secret still wasn’t okay.”
A prickly mix of gratification and shame drops in my stomach as he winces. But then he surprises me—God, I should’ve showered—letting his thumbs graze my temples. If anything, they’re even more gentle. “How could I tell you? How could I introduce myself as this awesome starting quarterback and then tell you about my C team life—dumped, reckless, broken? I was already falling for you before I even got up the courage to talk to you.”
I raise a brow. “You can tell me now.”
Grey punches out a breath and gestures to the curb. “Sit down, this might take a while.”
“I’ve got all night if it’s actually the truth.” But I can’t keep from smiling.
He sinks to the concrete first, immediately and unsurprisingly manspreading, his bent knees frogging out. I find a square of curb out of their vicinity, extending my legs out front, crossing them tight, even though all they want to do is curve into him, to brush against the soft wash of his jeans, feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric.