I swallow. Putting on my lady pants and apologizing to Kitt was Danielle’s idea, of course. She had some harebrained notion that it would do me some good. “I did. But she’s worried about my teammate compatibility.”
Danielle frowns. “She’s a coach. She’ll take talent over teamwork any day.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Make her sure.”
“I’m trying,” I say, biting my lip.
Her eyes narrow. The woman is all about the execution. “How?”
“She wants me to prove I can be a teammate, so I’m doing that.” My sister’s eyes narrow further. Vagueness is not a favorite of hers. “By running cross-country,” I clarify.
“You are?”
I haven’t officially looked into it or anything, but I kind of make it seem like I have. “It’s not really a team sport, but it’s what I can do. I mean, you know I suck at volleyball. And I wanted to show her I could do something.”
Danielle’s lips press into a thin line as she mulls the options. “It’s not exactly going out on a limb, but at least you’re showing that you’re taking her request seriously.”
“I’m trying.”
She sighs. “You always do.”
The door slides open and Heather’s face pops out. “Dinner. Come and get it before Ryan eats it all.”
That’s enough of a warning. She doesn’t have to tell us twice.
5
THE NEXT DAY, I’M ON THE TRACK AGAIN, EYES PINNED to the pitted white lines, earbuds struggling to drown out the thought that school is less than a week away.
I’d hoped running on this track during Ryan’s practices would help acclimate me to the new environment, but I still don’t feel any more at home. I’m my own little island in a sea of activity, surrounded by soccer players, cheerleaders, cross-country waifs, and the football team.
Even without setting foot in a Northland classroom, it’s far too easy to imagine what it’ll be like to be the new girl, drifting through a sea of fifteen hundred other students who’ve known each other for the past eleven years.
Sure, I’ll recognize some faces (including the one I used to kiss, ughhhhh) but the chances of me eating my lunch in the bathroom still seem to be ridiculously high—the mythical 110 percent. I’m sure Mom’s famed turkey and Swiss will taste extra delicious when consumed within spitting distance of a pink toilet cake.
Something solid bumps into my shoulder and my head pops up.
“Crap, I’m sorry, I—” I glance over and see a tall white guy in a red football jersey, basketball shorts, and sunglasses going stride for stride with me.
“Olive Rodinsky, star infielder and sometime pitcher, I presume?”
“Liv,” I say slowly, tapping pause on my hand-me-down iPhone. “And you are?”
“Grey Worthington. Yes, it’s a family name—we’re not landed gentry but we sure sound like it.” Even with the half smile, he’s so deadpan that I stop moving for a second, stutter-stepping as he angles his giant body toward me, heels lapping at his hamstrings as he bounces in place. There, in his left hand, where I couldn’t see it before, is a football. “Starting quarterback.”
And so it begins. One of Jake’s buddies, here to make my life hell.
“Say no more.” I pointedly hit PLAY on my phone screen and take off.
Though I’m going at about 70 percent full speed—fast enough that it doesn’t look like I’m obviously sprinting the hell away from him—the dude’s right by me as if I didn’t move at all. In fact, in two long strides, he’s in front of me and stopping on a dime. Despite my supposed athletic prowess, I nearly smack into the white number sixteen on his chest.
“You have horrible manners, Grey Worthington.”
Instead of recoiling, he pushes his sunglasses into his hair and honest-to-God winks. Who the hell winks in real life, other than serial killers and George Clooney? Yet, somehow it appears to be a natural movement for Grey Worthington. “Yes, I know who you are,” he says. “But I’m not here for Stacey. Or Jake. I’m here for your arm.”
“My…?”
“Arm. You have an arm, and I need one.”
Still not buying it. “Both your arms look just fine.” And they do. Tan enough that the hair on his forearms has been rendered blond, almost completely mismatched with the light brown shag on his helmetless head. I glance over at the football team, still deep in practice, running suicides in a whir of orange and white. Only one other kid is wearing red, and everyone has a helmet. My mind searches for any tidbit Jake ever mentioned about football practice, but I can’t for the life of me reconcile the way this guy looks—no helmet, no pads, sunglasses—and the words “starting quarterback.”
“My arms are fine. But I still need yours.”
Sweat drips into my right eye with a sting. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you in a second.” He stuffs the ball to my chest and backpedals down the track, dodging a power-walker in a Royals cap, his long shorts whooshing. The sunglasses slide back to his nose. “Just throw the ball, Liv.”
“It’s not even the same motion as in softball,” I shout over to him.
A smile tugs at his lips. There is no denying Grey spied on Ryan and me yesterday when he says, “You throw a ball every day.”
God, I’m blushing—my own words to Ryan tossed back at me with a softball-appropriate edit. I’m so flabbergasted I can’t even say anything.
Grey pushes on. “Yesterday, you spiraled this ball twenty-five yards like you’d been playing for years. I’m over here at thirty. Just throw the ball.”
“Fine.” Before the word is out, my arm is back and the ball is gone, a wobbly spiral headed straight toward his big, fat overconfident mouth.
“Sh—” Both hands come up, shielding his pretty-boy face at the very last instant. The ball smacks into his palms with a huge whoof and falls flatly end over end to the track.
When Grey’s hands drop to his sides, I expect at least a full “shit”—maybe something worse. But instead, I get nothing but another cool smile. “Try to hit me on a route.”
Tossing the ball back at me, he backpedals another ten yards and cuts toward the infield. Cleats churning on the turf, he hauls butt toward the opposite sideline as I aim again for his stupid, half-smiling head. Grey has to leap about three feet in the air, but the ball lands safely in his big, outstretched hands.
He holds it triumphantly over his head. “Perfect.”
I swallow a smile of my own—God, I miss being told I’m awesome—and give him the full-on game-day glare when he finishes jogging back to me. “Now spill. Why the hell am I throwing a football to some dude who totally trashed my daily cardio?”
He palms the football and points one end straight at my nose. “How does ‘Liv Rodinsky, backup quarterback’ sound?”
I laugh. “Sounds like you’ve been hit in the head one too many times.”
The perpetual lazy curve of his lips dies. “Actually, that’s not too far off from the truth.”
I roll my eyes. Whatever. “Look, I have two more miles to run before my brother needs a ride home, so…”
He pops the ball up and I catch it out of complete habit.
“See? You look like a natural.”
I shove the ball between the one and six on his chest. “And you’re starting to look like a creeper.” I really am so good at making friends these days. “Cut the crap. What do you want, Grey Worthington, nonlanded gentry?”
He shoves the sunglasses back again and smiles for real. There’s a glint in his eyes, which I’ve suddenly realized are a shade of steel worthy of his ridiculous name. While I’m distracted, he lines up his pitch, straight and fast and right over the plate.
“I want you to be my backup. Yes, I know you’re a softball player. Yes, I know you’ve never played football. And yes, I do realize you’ve got two X chromosomes. But here’s the deal: I broke my collarbone in June. Nonthrowing arm, but it’s still a problem. I’m not cleared for contact until the second game o
f the season. We’ve got a freshman who can start, but there’s nobody after him who can hit shit.” Those steely eyes shoot away for a second, sneaking a peek of the football field over my shoulder. “That’s where you come in. Just suit up, do your awful scrunchy-scowl thing from the sidelines, and buy me some time. Once I’m cleared, you can still ride the bench if you want, or you can leave the team.”
He’s just mocked my glare, therefore I can’t turn it on him, so instead I start poking holes in his pitch. “First of all: You’re a player, not the coach. You don’t call shots like this. Second: Why the hell should I help you?”
At this, he smirks and tosses the ball at me. “Go long, Liv!”
This is so stupid. He’s stupid. Nobody short of a mall mannequin with mashed potatoes for brains would want to make me into a football player. Grey sails into the end zone, arms extended, begging for the ball. So dumb. Oh, so dumb.
But I still bomb it in his direction. And the ball drops right into the cradle of his outstretched hands.
Now I’m smiling for real.
From behind me, a slow clap begins. My heart sinks. It was a setup. Of course. And I know, just know, that when I turn around, Jake will be there with the rest of his stupid buddies, and for the next month I’ll be the girl dumb enough to think for two seconds she could play with the boys. Not that I want to.
“Nice work, Grey.” The voice isn’t Jake’s. In fact, it doesn’t even sound like someone our age.
I turn around and see a Dad-age guy standing there in a Northland Football T-shirt. A black knee brace pokes out from below his shorts, and a visor shades the beginnings of crow’s-feet on his warm brown skin as a distinctively coach-like whistle rests around his neck.
“Liv Rodinsky, softball star, I presume.”
He knows my name—the way I prefer it—and who I am. Or who I used to be, at least. When I don’t answer, he smiles at me.
“You think half my squad sees the pinnacle of all girl fights and I don’t get a play-by-play?” My cheeks begin to burn. Getting my GED seems like a really smart move right about now. He sticks out his hand. “Manny Shanks, offensive coordinator and quarterbacks coach.”
I shake it hesitantly “Uh, nice to meet you, Coach.”
Shanks is wearing the same pre–pep talk stare of appraisal I’ve seen on nearly every coach I’ve ever had.
“Liv Rodinsky, we need you.”
My eyes flit over to the practice field where the other red-clad player and the rest of his teammates are on bended knee, listening to some final instruction from a grandpa-age dude who I assume is the head coach. Helmets off and backs to us, they almost appear to be in prayer, rather than man-boys gaining instruction on how to plow other human beings into the ground. Before I realize it, my eyes settle on Jake’s number thirty-two.
Of course.
I glance away. “I think you’re mistaken, Coach.”
“Oh, but I’m not. We need a capable backup quarterback behind our freshman, and you’ve got one hell of an arm. We’re a running team, but in the event he’s injured while Worthington’s out, we still need someone calling the plays and chucking the ball to our running back.”
I frown. Our running back. Aka Jake Rogers.
Nope. Nope. Hella nope.
“Not interested.”
I’m surprised when it’s Grey who speaks next, not Coach Shanks. “I think you are. Because if you play with me, I’ll make sure you have a fair shot with Coach Kitt.”
I blink.
Coach Kitt. I think back to the figure standing outside her office, to the cleats on linoleum. And I swallow when I realize those were big-ass cleats. Much bigger than any girl would need.
The same cleats that are on his feet.
But, also, the same cleats that every Northland football player wears. A horribly annoying shade of orange. And as much as I’d like to believe that Grey Worthington, starting quarterback, has the magical ability to make my craptastic life disappear with a single word to Coach Kitt, something here just doesn’t add up. No kid would be able to make a coach do anything she didn’t want to do. “Why would Coach Kitt—”
“Or, as I like to call her, ‘Mom.’”
I swallow.
Grey is half-smiling his heart out, football cradled in his hands. I can see it now—the square jaw, wavy hair, long eyelashes—Trudi Kitterage’s features chiseled in masculine relief. Even without Coach Shanks’s nod of confirmation, it’s suddenly completely obvious that Grey Worthington is most definitely Coach Kitt’s son.
Over on the field, the players are done and walking away—helmets off, patting butts and all that machismo crap signaling another practice down. Jake is right there in the middle of it all, sweat glinting off his brand-new buzz cut. My heart drops at the loss of his dreads, perfect as they are in my memory against his dark brown skin—as he laughs. Probably at the farce going on over here on the track.
“There are fifty kids dressed out in jerseys over there,” I say. “I’m sure at least one of them played quarterback at some point before getting booted to another position.”
Grey hangs his head in a nod. “Sure did.”
Coach nods, too. Wow. Maybe the other possibilities really are awful.
“What about the baseball team?” I ask. “Surely there’s a pitcher you could harangue.”
Grey serves up another half smile. “My mom’s the softball coach. You think I don’t play baseball?”
Duh, Liv. Duh. “Starting quarterback and ace in the rotation, eh?”
He shrugs, face still deadpan. “Outfielder.”
I stare at him as Coach Shanks cuts in. “Look, I hate to say it in front of Worthington, but our baseball team is crap.”
Grey shrugs. “He’s not wrong.”
“Our football team, however, was tops in the league last year, and we stand a great chance to do it again. But only if I bring in winners. And you, softball princess, are a winner. Plus, I saw that spiral just now and it was magnificent.” Okay, now I’m sort of blushing. “And before you ask, yes, there have been female quarterbacks in high school. It’s legal, and there’s no rule against it.”
Suddenly, I want to believe them. Both the kid who scouted me as a solution to his problem and the coach desperate enough to add a girl to his roster, ready to embrace the huge can of worms that’ll come along with it.
“You guys must be in deep if you’re willing to coerce a sixteen-year-old girl into joining your football team,” I say.
A new half smile curls on Grey’s lips, and he pops the ball to me, my fingers snagging the point. Though he could wink, he keeps that move in the holster. “Ding, ding, ding,” he says.
It’s got to be at least a hundred degrees, and I’m still sweating in the blistering air, but a chill shoots the length of my spine when it hits me that I might actually want this.
I want a fresh start. I want a chance at playing for Coach Kitt, at a softball future and all the things that come with it. And I want actual friends at this stupid school.
Plus, Jake will hate it.
I grin. “What time’s practice?”
6
THE SECOND I GET HOME, I HEAD STRAIGHT TO THE room I share with Ryan, my cell phone in hand. I thump onto my twin bed, which is shoved into a corner in my half of the room, and dial the one person I know who won’t think what I’ve agreed to is batshit: Addie.
She’ll pick up because I’m calling. An actual phone call beats a 911 text any day. If I have to verbalize it to her, it must be completely serious.
She answers the phone in two seconds flat. “Oh shit, who’s dead?”
“What? No, Addie, everyone in my family is perfectly fine.” At this, I hear shuffling and the metallic clang of a locker—Addie’s still at Windsor Prep for marathon practices with the volleyball team. “Well, Mom is as fine as she can be,” I add. Because it’s hard to use definitive language when the subject has lethal boobs.
I hear Addie let out a breath. “Christ, O-Rod, don’t scare me lik
e that.” In the background, there’s some chatter from the volleyball girls—most I haven’t seen since that night, too embarrassed to show my face to anyone from our circle. I have to swallow a hard lump that’s formed in my throat at the thought of Addie walking through the halls of Windsor Prep without me, even though she’s probably been doing it all week. And will be doing it at least for the next year. “What’s up?”
“I’m calling with news.”
“A reclusive, softball-loving benefactor paid for your Windsor Prep tuition?”
I snort. “Not even close.” God, I miss Addie, and I saw her Monday. But hitting the mall together is totally different from sharing four classes and endless pop-up drills. “I just walked on to the Northland football team.”
I can almost hear her eyes narrow. “Like, what the boys do?”
“Have you been going to an all-girls school so long you forgot what football is? Yes. Duh.”
“Wait.” There’s some commotion as some of the girls drift past. When it’s silent again, she says, “Like the same team Jake is on?”
I bite my lip. “Yes.”
There is a beat of silence, then her voice goes up an octave—zero-to-sixty WTF, Liv. “Does he know about this? And what the hell are you even going to do, anyway? Get them water?”
“Screw you,” I say, voice light. “I was recruited as a quarterback. And Jake probably knew the second I said yes, but if they spared him he’ll find out tomorrow at practice.”
I give her the same abridged version that I’m planning to use on my parents in the near, yet still as far away as I can make it, future. “The starting quarterback recruited me. He needs a backup, saw me throwing a football around with Ryan, and figured I might be interested.”
Addie hesitates. “I dunno, sounds like a setup, Liv.”
“It’s not; the quarterbacks coach was there, too. But get this—the injured starter, his mom is Coach Kitt. So he might be willing to put in a good word for me. A favor for a favor.”
“Liv, please tell me he’s hot, because that sounded kinda dirty.”
Throw Like a Girl Page 3