“It’s fine,” I say, not wanting the attention. Besides, the last thing I need is Lucas seeing this.
“It’s not fine. I’ll be, like, two minutes, tops. Just sit tight,” he says, rushing in the door and cutting off a few guys heading in for practice.
My pulse is jittery, and I keep feeling as if my heart is missing beats. I just want to get Lucas his key and be on my way. But if anyone sees me handing it to him, they’ll know I had his truck, and then maybe he wasn’t at Two-fers, and instead . . .
“Here,” Tory says, making better time than I expect. He hands me a small plastic bag filled with ice, and one of the white towels they use at practices. I put the ice on my face first without wrapping it, but Tory stops me before I press it on my skin too hard. “No, here.”
He’s wrapping the towel around the bag when a shadow moves over both of us where we’re sitting.
“What the fuck happened?” Lucas kneels down next to me, his eyes glaring at Tory as if he had something to do with my face.
“I’m fine,” I say, clutching his key in my right palm, wanting to slip it to him and run away.
“Your ex had a field day with her face,” Tory says, a hint of accusation in his tone. There’s a short standoff between them as they hover on either side of me, the cold ice bag still clutched in Tory’s hands.
There was a time when the thought of two varsity football players fighting over my honor seemed like a dream, but now, in the middle of it, I just want them to get over themselves—get over me!
“Gentlemen?” Coach Loma has a very distinct voice. It’s effective on a field with a hundred teenaged boys all vying to be hotshots. He barks and they listen. One word brings Tory and Lucas to instant attention, eyes widening before their necks snap up to look him in the eye.
“I had an accident, Coach, and they happened to catch me before I fell all the way. I went end-over-end,” I lie, laughing nervously as I rip the ice and towel from Tory’s grip and hold it to the side of my face.
Lucas understands why I’m lying, but Tory’s reaction is a little less believable, which causes Coach Loma to question things more than I want him to.
“Lemme see what you’ve got going here,” he says, pushing Lucas out of the way. Stress knots my stomach and chest as Lucas hops down a few steps, now too far to pass him his keys. I’m so focused on the mission that I barely respond to Coach as he peels the towel from my face and tips my chin up to have a good look at my shiner.
“You said you got this falling down the stairs?” he asks.
I nod, but it’s painfully obvious that didn’t happen. This is going horribly wrong.
“Mind if I get our trainer to come give you a look? Just a little concussion protocol, and since it happened on campus, we’ll need to fill out an incident form,” he says, standing and pulling his khaki pants up by his belt loops.
Shit. An incident report.
“Okay,” I croak. As everyone stands, I flutter my eyes closed, wishing like hell I could go back and tell him I got in a fight. I’d still probably be dealing with a trainer and an incident report, though. Goddamn, Ava Pryor!
Lucas’s bag is about an arm’s length from me, but my aim is shit so I can’t toss his keys with certainty that I’ll make the shot. I can discern from the heavy silent glares Coach is giving both of the boys that he’s dismissing them from my aid and telling them to get their asses to practice. My last chance is to somehow stall Lucas. As he reaches for one strap of his backpack, I reach for the other, pulling hard enough to yank it from his hand and slide it closer to me.
“Oh, dang, sorry. I thought this was mine,” I lie. My bag is bright pink. Lucas’s is black. I’m so lame it’s painful. While everyone puzzles at me, I manage to slip his key into the side pocket before Lucas lifts the bag up and over his shoulder.
“It’s fine,” he says, brow heavy as he stares down at me. I’m pretty sure he knows I put the key in there. That’s not what his frown is about. He’s worried about my face, and maybe he feels a little responsible. He doesn’t own Ava, though. She’s a bitch all on her own.
“Maybe call your mom or dad, Miss . . .”
“June,” I finish for Coach. “June Mabee.” I add my last name. He has no reason to remember who I am. I am one of hundreds of students he had freshman year for health class.
“Right, okay. Well, call your parents, June,” he says.
“It’s just my mom,” I respond. Not sure why he would care about that detail, but I’ve become accustomed to making the correction. I don’t like my dad getting parental credit. Of course, I’m not exactly thrilled to call my mom right now.
Tory and Lucas reluctantly head in the locker room, and I pull my legs in to make room for the dozens of players now rushing down the steps to go change. Coach Loma is on the phone with who I assume is probably the trainer, and he nods toward my bag and mouths the words, “Call your mom.”
I don’t want to in the worst way, but explaining would make things so much worse. I’m already neck deep in fibs. I nod and pull my phone from my bag, noting the text message from my mom that I still haven’t fully read. I swipe right by it and hit call on my phone to dial her. She answers before I even hear a ring.
“June?” She’s frantic, and her voice is raw with exhaustion. I’m an asshole. And a coward. I don’t even know for sure if she’s a liar, or worse.
“I’m at school, and I fell. They’re going to fill out an incident report, but I’m by the gymnasium, and Coach saw me. He thinks maybe I have a concussion?” I’m trying to keep my voice quiet and calm, but I can hear her rapid breathing on the other end quickening with worry.
“I’ll be right there,” she says.
“Mom, I’m fine. Abby is giving me a ride home anyway.”
“June,” she interjects. Her voice is stern.
I swallow.
“Okay,” I say.
“Tell the coach I will come in through the office. Should I meet you by the gym?” I can already hear the van firing up. The thought of her rushing through campus to meet me at the gym so she can gawk at my black eye has me wanting to throw up. Of course, if I throw up, that’s a sign of a concussion, which will only make this rabbit hole deeper because I already had a concussion.
“I’m sure we can meet you at the office.” I glance up at Coach and he nods.
“Okay, well, I’m on my way.” By the time I end the call with my mom, the trainer is at my side, tilting my head up so he can shine a penlight in my eyes. The man is maybe twenty-two, and his degree is in exercise. He’s not really qualified to diagnose head trauma, but I don’t have any so I let him do his thing. I trace the movement of his finger as he draws it out then in again, and I promptly answer his series of easy questions, spelling my first and last names, and listing the last three presidents. I wonder if our football players can pass this part, I muse to myself.
Once I’ve satisfied his test, Coach pats my shoulder and helps me to my feet, still eyeing me suspiciously. I only hope he doesn’t think Lucas or Tory punched me in the face. I wouldn’t want to start that kind of scandal.
Coach sends the trainer along with me to make sure I’m all right during my walk to the office. He carries my backpack for me, but I keep my phone, texting Abby so she knows I won’t need a ride home. She writes back instantly.