Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  I give him a knowing nod—I, too, was a freshman on varsity once. And, even worse, the coach was my sister in her first year. “Tough being a frosh on a squad of upperclassmen. Gotta work twice as hard to prove yourself.”

  Ry finally releases me, tucking his thumbs into the straps of his backpack in one cool motion as those cheerleaders he chased after this morning exit the girls’ locker room in a fit of giggles and a swirl of plumeria body spray. He chin-checks them and then returns to me, right back to being dialed in to our conversation.

  “Is this the part in the after-school special where I say, ‘But not as hard as being the only girl on a high school football team, huh, big sis?’ And you give me a wise smile with a flippant ‘Not even close’?”

  “We could go that route if you want,” I deadpan.

  He grins. “Nah. I won’t patronize you. I’ll just take your money and spin it into ice cream like Rumpelstiltskin.”

  Considering ice cream is basically gold to my little brother… Touché, Ryan. Touché.

  15

  FRIDAY NIGHT, OUR DEBUT IS AN ABSOLUTE BLOWOUT.

  As in, we’re winning by a lot, even though the Friday night lights did nothing to improve Brady’s shitty footwork and entitled attitude.

  No, it’s a total blowout with a three-touchdown lead and counting (we’re only in the third quarter) because of a single factor: number thirty-two.

  Aka Jake Rogers, senior captain and all-area running back.

  Aka the legs propping up the entire Northland Tigers football team.

  I’d known that was the case ever since I was first approached by Grey and Coach Shanks. We’re a running team, but… we still need someone calling the plays and chucking the ball to our running back.

  But, still, seeing it in an actual game—as opposed to practice—is way crazier than being told about it by Grey, by Coach, or even by Jake himself. Though Jake only did his telling in dribs and drabs when we were first dating. A little show-off line here or there like, “Well, it is possible to score eight touchdowns in a game, because I totally did that against Central last year.” I’ll let you figure out how he totally worked that into a normal conversation with his softball-playing girlfriend.

  And though he probably was exaggerating, he wasn’t lying about his talent. Not in the slightest.

  And sitting here on the bench with Grey, watching the team from Wyandotte Rural get steamrolled, I’m sort of dumbfounded. I mean, why did they even need a third-string quarterback? Brady’s thrown the ball three times. Literally. And every time it was because Lee and Shanks intentionally called a passing play to fake out the defense for, like, five seconds. I almost feel as if I should ask Grey if he wants to go squeeze in between Addie and Ryan in the stands and eat the remainder of their popcorn, because there’s literally no reason for either of us to be down on the field.

  A slip of darkness falls over the bench, blocking out the scorching late-summer sun—Coach Shanks. He leans in and the shadows fade out and there’s a big old crinkly smile on his face.

  “Rodinsky, you’re up.”

  I gape at him. “I’m what?”

  “After this play, I’m putting you in. Orange Nine to Tate. Worthington, get her ready.”

  He disappears and Grey stands, but like my first day of scrimmage, my legs won’t seem to move. My mouth, though, is sputtering my thoughts out loud, completely without a filter.

  “But that’s a passing play—” Tate shoots left, crossing before a catch and turn. Orange Nine. “Why would we do that?”

  “He wants you to score.”

  Jake just ran seven yards for a first down. The ball is at the fifteen. Meaning, unless Jake doesn’t score here or makes a rare mistake and actually loses ground, it’ll be the perfect time to try a passing play. If it’s unsuccessful, we still have another try before a field goal or going for it on fourth down.

  Grey places himself right in my line of sight and squats down. The half smile he wears so well seems bigger at this angle.

  “He wants you to score because he knows you can. Pass rush is extra tough just outside the red zone. Coach knows you’re mobile and won’t do something stupid with the ball, like give up an interception or stand still for a sack.”

  I blink at him. I haven’t scored a thing since a two-run homer in the seventh inning of my final club game this summer. An entire month without scoring, because, let’s be honest, scoring in scrimmage doesn’t count. And somehow I get a chance to do it here and now in a sport I’ve played for just over a week.

  How is this real life?

  Grey pulls me over to the track for a quick game of catch, my body still warm from tossing with Brady at the half. Meanwhile, on the field, Brady covers the ball in a pretty shoddy attempt at concealment before dumping it into Jake’s hands yet again. Jake is tripped up by the defensive line for once, only gaining two yards.

  Which means we need eight yards to reset the downs. Putting on my helmet, I glance to Shanks—something he’s completely expecting because his finger is already pointing to the field as he makes eye contact. “Orange Nine.”

  We’re still doing the passing play.

  No pressure or anything.

  I get into the huddle, and it’s the weirdest sensation ever because everyone is staring at me for word of what we’re doing like I’m not the greenest of them.

  “Orange Nine.”

  “What?” That comes from Topps, who got promoted to first-string this week, along with Nick Cleary.

  “I know.”

  “Why?” This comes from Jake, whose face is curdling before my eyes.

  “I have no idea, but that’s what Shanks said.”

  “But—”

  “That’s what Shanks said,” I repeat, staring down Jake and my own nerves. “So we do it.” Jake, the rest of the huddle, and my nerves go silent. “Break!”

  We jog out to our places. I bend my knees, stuff my hands way too close to Topps’s junk, and call out again, all too aware of Jake’s annoyed eyes pinned to my helmet from his spot deep in the backfield.

  “ORANGE NINE. ORANGE NINE. HUT-HUT.”

  The snap comes and I’ve got the ball in my hands. I race back and look out for Tate, number eighty-two.

  On the play chart, he’s supposed to zoom in a right-to-left cross about five yards from the pocket. I hold my breath and look for a body in orange moving in that general direction. Instead, I see all too clearly a body on each side of me, rushing toward the pocket—linebackers on the move. And, unlike in practice, if they get to me, these two dudes are going to drill me into the turf.

  No running wide at the last second. No stopping short. No mercy.

  Automatically, my feet start moving and I shoot wide left, dodging the linebacker there, while trying to lose the guy on the right side. But the dude keeps coming. Faster than Tate is getting to his spot. And because I’m running the same direction he is, the whole play is falling apart.

  And I’m being tailed by a rhino.

  Christ.

  In another step, I get my arm back and aim the ball straight at Tate. We make eye contact as I release the ball. Which is about two-tenths of a second before I’m steamrolled to the ground by the aforementioned rhino.

  As I’m falling, I glimpse the ball sailing right through Tate’s hands and into the mitts of some guy in Wyandotte Rural powder blue.

  Shit.

  The guy bobbles the ball up, and my helmet hits the turf before I can see if he catches it.

  Double shit.

  I stay still, hoping to God I didn’t just notch an interception. I mean, that’s what it looked like. And if that’s what it was, I’m never playing again. Ever. It’s a good thing Grey’s supposed to be cleared for the next game because Coach Lee is gonna can the experiment that was Liv Rodinsky, backup quarterback.

  Finally, the rhino rolls off me and I stand up.

  The defense hasn’t come on the field yet and the whole Northland offensive line still lingers in generally the same
position as before, thirteen yards out from the end zone.

  Okay. I take a deep breath.

  So I wasn’t intercepted. I was lucky as hell. The dude must have dropped it.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as the down marker flips from second to third. Still alive. And somehow, this is all I need to know, the embarrassment and pain of the hit rolling off with the realization that we have a second chance. Football may be brutal, but the downs structure is actually forgiving in a way that softball really isn’t.

  Shanks mouths my marching orders—ORANGE NINE. I blink at him. And then run to the huddle.

  I have to work to find my voice after that hit, but the words still come out firm and clear. “Orange Nine.”

  “Not White Nine?” That’s from my freaking target, Tate, asking if it should be a running play.

  “Coach said orange. We’re doing it again.”

  “That’s stupid.” Tate again.

  “That’s the order.” My eyes meet his. “Catch it this time.”

  Tate’s mouth falls open.

  Jake stays silent, which is half-amazing, considering I know he’s itching to take a running leap over both lines.

  But I don’t care what either of them thinks, goddammit. I want to score.

  “Break!”

  One more chance to make the play. One more chance before giving it up to special teams for a field goal. One more chance to keep going.

  I cozy up to Topps and yell out the play, loud and clear, daring Wyandotte Rural to wrap their heads around the fact that, yes, we’re doing the very same play. Again.

  Bring it.

  “HUT-HUT!”

  I shoot back in the pocket and scan the line for Tate. He’s gotten free of his defender and is running the play at a perfect clip.

  I line up for my shot as the linebacker to my left—the rhino’s companion—comes charging my way. I dodge the other way, toward the blank space where the rhino would be if our line hadn’t tripped him up. Line up my shot again. Throw.

  Tate jumps up and to his right, hands out. The throw’s slightly off, the ball grazing his fingertips and popping up for a split second. I hold my breath, but then both his hands wrap around the ball—right as I’m flattened by the Wyandotte Rural linebacker.

  We go down in a rush, my helmet hitting the turf in such a way that it blinds me from the action. I lie still—breath gone but otherwise fine—waiting for the guy to get up, unable to see what’s happening. But I hear something happening.

  Cheering.

  Lots of it.

  When I get to my feet, my breath stops just as surely as it did when Kelly clocked me with her fastball at state.

  There’s Zach Tate’s number eighty-two.

  Far, far away from me.

  In the end zone.

  He’s got the ball over his head, lets out a holler, and then spikes the crap out of some turf.

  A touchdown.

  My head whips around to the scoreboard to see that, yes, they’ve already added six points. I scored. Tate scored. We scored.

  I know what scoring feels like—I’ve been sliding into home base for as long as I can remember—but this is just… I don’t have words for what this is.

  “O-ROD! TOUCHDOOOOOOOOOOWN!” Topps screams—whirling around as quickly as 250 pounds of awesome can whirl—and picks me up.

  Like, literally.

  I’m in the air, nearly to his shoulders, smiling from ear to ear, when I glimpse Grey, over on the sideline, applauding with a huge grin on his face. Huge.

  There’s nothing “half” about it at all.

  And it comes with a wink.

  16

  HE’S WAITING FOR ME OUTSIDE THE GIRLS’ LOCKER room after the game.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. But I am.

  I open the door and see him nearly in profile, most of his back to me. I stand there, my breath hitching. Gone are his pads and helmet, replaced with street clothes and the crisp scent of boy soap.

  “Hey.”

  Grey turns, half smile in place, wet surfer-meets-newscaster hair glinting under the sodium lights.

  “There she is: Liv Rodinsky, ringer.”

  A smile perks up on my lips. “A ringer would imply expertise.”

  He takes a step my way, a shadow casting over me. There’s not a soul near us—the locker room was completely empty of cheerleaders and Kelly by the time I finished getting ready. And I’ll admit I took my time—mascara, blush, even a thin sweep of Addie-style eyeliner—hoping to look decent for the planned team trip to Pat’s Diner for postgame pancakes.

  “I’d say you gave Wyandotte Rural quite the seminar on how to score points—three passing touchdowns in one and a half quarters?” Grey’s eyes meet mine and my heart flutters. “Master class.”

  “Or complete and utter luck.”

  “Or that.” He takes another step, and suddenly we’re just inches apart. “But it takes a lot of natural talent and hard work to make luck look that easy.”

  I punch him in the arm. Mostly because I’m not sure what to do with him so close. I’m used to feeling him against my skin, when our shoulders bump against each other or our hands brush as we walk down the halls, but he never stands there like this, with weight behind what he’s doing. “Aw, shucks,” I say, trying to will the heat away from my cheeks.

  Grey’s eyes narrow and the half smile freezes in surprise. “It can’t be. Is mighty Liv Rodinsky, an immeasurably fearless quarterback on the field, actually afraid of a puny little compliment?”

  Soap and giddiness surround him as the toes of his Nikes nuzzle up against mine. Suddenly more nervous than I’ve ever been in my entire life, I shove my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. Days ago, I didn’t even know Grey Worthington existed. But now? Now I can barely breathe around him. Somehow, I maintain eye contact. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Of course not.”

  The flutter in my heart quickens as Grey lets his hand close the distance between us, his fingertips grazing my cheek, moving down until they gently tip up my chin. My pulse stutters. He’s inspecting me, searching for hesitation but actually seeing so much more—and that’s something I’m afraid of.

  He shakes his head. “No fear there right now. None.”

  I should play tough. Hang in my comfort zone. But instead, as so often over the past week, I feel a smile creeping up, and I have to hold myself back from snagging his fingers and kissing them. “Never.”

  Grey’s mouth softens and he leans in, so close that his polo kisses my forearm. He raises a brow, smile falling from his lips in a way that’s a good thing. All desire to hold back has evaporated. My breath vanishes and I tip my chin up toward his, the swoop of his lips my whole field of vision.

  “O-Rod!” Addie’s voice cuts through the slip of air between us and we jolt apart.

  Addie flings herself at me in a jumble of long arms and legs, and I’m fairly certain Grey is grazed by friendly fire. “You. Were. AMAZING.” She squeezes all the air out of my lungs. “Totally unbelievable. Outstanding. Genius. Every adjective in my arsenal.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling a little guilty. She had two matches this week, and my practices went late enough that I didn’t even try to make either one. But here she is, cheering me on like always.

  “So, you can take a compliment,” Grey whispers, but rather than getting a rise out of me, it has the effect of whipping Addie’s attention from me to Grey.

  “She’s gonna take more than a compliment. She’s gonna take your job, dude. Watch out.”

  I start laughing, but they both spin on me, faces hard.

  “I’m serious,” Addie says.

  “She has a point,” Grey says, nodding. “I was dying to get in there tonight, but if you keep playing like that, I’m going to have to bribe Coach for minutes.”

  I could brush them off. I could play coy.

  But it’s true. I did much better than I ever, ever thought I’d do as a quarterback in an honest-to-God football game.r />
  Can I add another “ever” in there?

  Because EVER.

  The rush of what happened tonight is still zinging through my pulse points, even more than an hour after my last touchdown.

  Forty-five minutes after shaking hands with the other team, my helmet off, hair down—the looks I got from Wyandotte Rural were fabulous.

  Thirty minutes since I shot a confident smile across the locker room at Kelly, her annoyance level stuck at eleven.

  Fifteen minutes since I hopped out of the shower.

  And about a minute since Grey touched my face like that.

  So I don’t brush off their praise. But because I can’t reconcile the thrill zipping through my veins with the burn of butterflies in my gut as I meet Grey’s eyes, I go with a trick play to buy myself some time.

  “Who wants pancakes? I’ll drive.”

  Grey’s got his arm around my shoulders. More technically, he’s got it around my chair, Mr. Manspreader Supreme at work at ten thirty on a Friday night.

  No one seems to notice or care. Jake and Kelly are working very hard to ignore us at the opposite end of five tables strung together. The boys between us don’t seem to give a shit. And directly across from me is Addie, who would normally be cataloging every inch of Grey’s body language in embarrassing detail to tease me about later, but who isn’t paying a lick of attention because she’s found something infinitely more fascinating: Nick Cleary.

  The attraction was instant, like freaking lightning. He immediately recognized Addie as “the hot girl who trashed my twin sister at state.”

  Note to all boys: There is no better way to pick up Adeline McAndry than to call her hot and talented in the same sentence. The steak-and-potatoes Prince Harry thing probably didn’t hurt his chances.

  Kelly was either not amused or a strawberry jam tub just happened to bean Nick in the jugular 2.3 seconds later. Addie immediately swept the jam off the banquet and squeezed in beside him, smile a bazillion watts.

  “Earth to O-Rod,” Grey whispers into my ear as a note of boy soap, crisply sitting atop his skin, drifts my way.