“Sort of. It means ‘don’t hit.’”
“Oh.” Addie will be pleased. So would Dad and Mom, if they knew.
Grey’s excited to educate. “We don’t want anyone purposefully laying out our quarterbacks in practice. That’s what games are for.”
This makes me wonder exactly how Grey managed to get injured so early in the season. But I don’t get a chance to ask, because Jake Rogers has decided to wander over and block my sliver of sun.
“Olive,” he says, all formal.
“Jacob,” I reply stiffly, knowing he hates being addressed by his full name as much as I do.
He looks different, even though his jersey is exactly the same as the last night I saw him. On close inspection, his hair isn’t just buzzed, it’s razored to within an inch of its life, giving him a five o’clock shadow from forehead to the nape of his neck. Jake’s face is different, too—not open and excited to see me, the girl whose curves and dark hair used to make him weak. Rather, he’s stoic as shit.
Jake’s eyes—dark brown and delicious—stay on me. The stares I felt earlier are still weighing in from the shadows, which makes the seconds tick by at a snail’s pace as we stare each other down.
Finally, Jake’s lips kick up. He looks cocky as hell—he’s here to perform. He’s the showman running back, bullying through anything in his way. Most currently his ex-girlfriend. “Missed me, huh?”
“Not for a second,” I reply, way too fast.
Grey throws up his hands and steps between us. “Liv is here because she’s got one hell of an arm for us to use while mine’s out of commission. You can’t hold up our offense with your legs alone, Rogers.”
Steely, Jake eyes Grey and says, “Yes, I can.” Something passes between them. Then he turns his attention to me, his voice amused yet annoyed. “So you thought it’d be a cute idea to enroll in your ex-boyfriend’s school and join his football team for shits and giggles? Stalker much?”
Jake turns away and says loudly to his buddies, “Such a joke.” He starts to laugh and a few of the dudes snicker along. I think of Jake’s friends in the stands that night at state. They’re just blurry orange blobs in my memory, but now they’re real orange blobs. Blobs that probably know way more about me than I know about them. Especially considering Jake never really introduced me to any of his friends. And considering even Stacey knew I was dating him, he most definitely didn’t keep his mouth shut about his Windsor Prep conquest.
With the laughter, something inside me snaps—the same something that made me take a swing at Stacey’s schnoz. My helmet donks him right between the three and two on his back before anyone blinks.
When Jake turns, mouth agape, I point to my jersey. “No joke.”
Grey picks up my helmet, which has rolled into his cleats. “See? Great arm.”
A choice finger springs up on Jake’s right hand and I grin at him. Just so he knows I don’t give a crap.
“Hey now, this ain’t rugby—what the hell’s with the scrum?” a voice calls through the mass of bodies.
Coach Charlie Lee, in the flesh.
I’d googled him along with everything else I could about Northland football last night—right after I made sure Grey was who he said he was. A small-but-mighty black man in his sixties, Coach Lee wears his Northland hat lightly on his head, not bothering to push it down all the way. There’s a whistle around his neck and a general air of authority that surrounds him like a cushion. He makes eye contact with me for the briefest second before eviscerating Jake.
“Put down that hand, Rogers, or I’m taking that finger as a sacrifice to the god of high school football. Might take that senior captain title, too, for good measure.”
Jake complies, a mixture of anger and sheepishness crossing his face. It’s an incredibly handsome look for him, and that fact steamrolls me even though he’s been a total dick for the past few minutes.
Coach moves on. “All right, Tigers, five laps around the complex and then meet me at the fifty.”
I half expect him to call me back. To say hello or warn me not to cause trouble. Or maybe to tell me I can’t do anything until he has my signed parental consent form in hand. But maybe he’s not much for paperwork, because he lets me go and I fall into line with Grey, jogging lightly as the pads skip across my shoulders. It’s a strange sensation, one that’s going to take some getting used to.
“You sure know how to make an entrance, Rodinsky.”
I’d elbow Grey if I knew him better. But I don’t. Still, he’s the closest thing to a friend I have at this school, and I’d better take what I can get.
“Just sticking up for myself,” I say.
He winks so hard I can see it out of the corner of my eye. “And sticking it to Rogers.”
We do a loop, and the crowd starts thinning out. Jake is about three yards in front of us, his offensive line buddies falling back so far that I’m sure we’ll lap them by the time we’re done.
It’s then that I realize Grey is dressed differently from yesterday—in full pads. Not the jersey-and-basketball-shorts look I saw on the track. “Are you supposed to practice?”
“We’re going to see how today goes. I’ll probably just do drills alongside you. Nothing big. Just think of me as a helpful shadow.”
“That works, with your name being Grey and all.”
He grins. “I totally set that up, didn’t I?”
“Well, you’re an easy target.”
“I’m a quarterback—I make the targets.”
I drop my eyes to the big, fat white thirteen on my red jersey. “So am I.”
Again, Grey winks. “And you’re slow.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his eyebrows shoot up and he takes off for the last lap, legs churning in full sprint. I chase after him, dodging past Jake and up toward where the spindly, fast wide receivers and cornerbacks are leading the way.
We finish the lap and, breathing hard, I take a knee next to Grey as orange jerseys fill in, forming a rough circle around Coach Lee, who’s standing in the mouth of the growling tiger at midfield. At his side are two assistant coaches—Coach Shanks and a reedy man who I assume is Coach Napolitano, the coach in charge of defense—and a couple of managers, including a girl with a long auburn ponytail. It’s not until she looks up from her clipboard that I realize I know that girl and her cat eyes.
Kelly Cleary.
Because of course the girl who drilled me with a sixty-mile-per-hour fastball on the worst night of my softball career would be present for my first practice as a football player.
Awesome.
Now I don’t just have to do damage control on Jake’s bad attitude, I have to deal with her and her eyeliner addiction, too.
Kelly’s busy counting us all, a single finger bopping to its own beat in the air as she ticks off each player.
When the linemen rumble in and join us, out of breath and red-faced, Coach Lee finally looks up from his clipboard. His assistants stare out at us in tandem, arms crossed.
“Hello, Tigers.”
“Hello, Coach,” the boys echo. I rush in a second too late, but manage to say “coach” with the group.