Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  I will myself to look thrilled that he’s there. I mean, I am thrilled.

  I am.

  But all I keep thinking is that I won’t get to see him tonight at practice. It’ll just be our walk to Spanish, lunch, calc. That’s it. He’ll be at practice until seven, and I’ll be at home, probably working on my jump shot for basketball tryouts in a couple of weeks.

  “Hey,” I say and he smiles in answer, his hand kissing mine as he holds open the door for me. I wish it were a real kiss, but I’ve never gone to the same school as my boyfriend, and I’m not sure of the etiquette.

  “Liv!” I turn around and a freakishly tall guy I’ve never seen in my life is there, grinning like we’re BFFs. “Awesome game Friday.”

  He fist-bumps both me and Grey and stalks off. When Shaq’s body double is out of earshot, Grey leans down. “Micah Jellison. Starting big man.”

  “Oh.” Okay. Basketball—so other athletes noticed. They also had no idea I didn’t show up for practice on Saturday.

  We keep moving and, like the first day, Grey grabs my fingers and tugs me around the corner, his lips to my ear. “Jellison wasn’t the only one who noticed your kick-assery.”

  And it might be true—the collective masses are parting for both of us this time, eyes lingering on my face before skipping to our intertwined hands and then up to Grey’s familiar features.

  “Hope they savored their one and only chance to see Liv Rodinsky, backup quarterback, in action.”

  His shoulder taps mine. Which feels approximately 3 bazillion percent more sexy than it did a week ago. “They’ll get an encore.”

  When I enter the classroom and take my seat, Jake Rogers wastes exactly zero-point-oh-nada seconds before pouncing on me. The moment my butt makes contact with molded plastic, he’s snared my forearm, his eyes pinned to Coach Kitt’s turned back.

  “Where the hell were you, big shot?”

  I almost remind him he could’ve texted me. But instead I decide to take the high road.

  “Good morning to you too, Jacob.” I wrench my arm free and turn away from him, digging through my backpack for my notebook. A ginger streak whips through my periphery, and I know Kelly is spying from her seat two rows over. “I’m off the team.”

  Jake’s eyes widen, his confusion plain. “You’re what?”

  “Off the team.”

  “I knew Coach would be pissed about your absence, but that’s super harsh, even for him.”

  He’s trying to quantify it, but he doesn’t know the half of it. “Lee didn’t kick me off. My dad did. I didn’t tell my parents I was playing.”

  Jake’s eyes go fuzzy as I let that sink in. He met my dad approximately twice while we were dating—that family dinner and my spring formal—and the memory of those meetings clearly has his spine stiffening beneath yet another issue of Northland orange T-shirt.

  “Oh, shit. So… that’s it?”

  I don’t even have to nod and still, his face softens enough that my heart pings with recognition of the Jake I like most.

  I don’t get a single glimpse of Coach Lee until calc. I walk in with Grey and, without turning around from the whiteboard, he requests my presence in his office immediately after the last bell.

  Perfect.

  I can’t wait to get this over with.

  But, of course, because the universe has the absolute freaking best sense of humor, I make it all the way down to Coach Lee’s office and the door’s shut. The blinds are half-closed, but I can see the outline of a person in the chair that faces Coach’s desk.

  I don’t knock, just start running through all the things I’m going to say.

  Thank you for the opportunity.

  I really enjoyed my time on the team.

  It was a great experience, but—

  But. But. But.

  But I can’t. But I knew this would happen. But I’m a liar.

  Without preamble, the door opens and Coach Lee peers into the hallway, his guest still inside. “Come on in, Miss Rodinsky.”

  I raise my chin, square my shoulders, plaster a smile on my face, and walk inside.

  And there, sitting in his office, is someone I definitely wasn’t expecting.

  Dad.

  22

  COACH FOLDS HIS FINGERS AND LEANS FORWARD, elbows set on paper piled into disheveled stacks across the dinged metal of his desk.

  “Liv,” Coach starts, and I’m stunned by the use of my first name. He has never used my first name. Not on the field or in class. “I’ve been a coach for forty years. There have been a lot of firsts in that time. First win, first loss, first championship. First drug scandal, first serious head injury, first hazing incident… the eighties were a mess.

  “Honestly, I expected you to be a first and a last—that you’d fail the first practice and that would be my first and last day coaching a young lady. But what I forgot was that I don’t make the decisions. The talent does.”

  A smile cracks his lips, and it has a level of mischief to it that surprises me.

  “I forgot my own core belief until it was staring me in the face. I mean, you’re greener than a fresh dollar bill, but at least 20 percent of the time, you look like an actual quarterback. Imagine what you could be if I had had the chance to properly coach you from freshman on up?”

  I steal a glimpse at Dad. These words are meant for him more than me, but his stoic cop face is in place and I have no idea what’s going on in his brain. Does he view “20 percent quarterback” as a compliment? Because I do.

  Coach Lee straightens and pauses to unlock his fingers. “I had planned to properly coach you this afternoon with a hundred suicides for missing Saturday. Maybe a hundred more, because when I sent Coach Shanks to retrieve your file and call your parents, your consent form wasn’t there. Hadn’t been turned in—and you better believe me, Shanks’s ears are ringing from what I had to say about that.” My stomach twists—I know Shanks can handle it, but he didn’t deserve that. I did. Coach Lee’s eyes meet mine. “What I didn’t know until thirty minutes ago was that you were never even on my team to begin with.”

  My heart stops beating.

  “But your father was kind enough to stop by and discuss the situation with me.”

  Dad clears his throat. “Coach Lee is adamant that you have a knack for making those around you more focused and more dedicated to the sport.” This compliment actually feels good, even if it’s also sort of a knife to the back. Because unless Coach Lee plans on sending a memo to Coach Kitt, his admiration means nothing since I’m no longer his athlete. “I’m not surprised, of course,” Dad adds, and my heart floods with hope.

  I tug out a breath and use this as an opening to run through the spiel I practiced in the hall. “Thank you for the opportunity to be on the team,” I tell Coach Lee. “I really enjoyed my time here and I appreciate your belief in me and—”

  “Slow down there, slugger,” Coach Lee says. “Don’t you want to know how our discussion ended?”

  My eyes shoot between them. “Wait, what?”

  At this, Dad raises a single brow, poker face still in place. After taking the longest freaking pause in the history of humankind, Dad shifts in his chair and plucks a sheet from Coach Lee’s desk.

  It’s a brand-new waiver. Complete with an Eddy Rodinsky John Hancock scrawled in loops along the bottom.

  I half tackle Dad in a hug, squeezing my eyes shut against the nape of his neck.

  Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

  “Save that hug for Danielle—we’ll talk more at home.” Dad extricates himself from my grip and stands, tight-lipped smile on his face. He tips his chin to Coach Lee and steps toward the door. “I have to get back to work.”

  “So do we.” Coach Lee stands and they collide in one of the firmest handshakes known to man—the veteran coach and the veteran cop. I stand to follow but Coach waves me down with a glance and shuts the door with a rattle and swoosh of the blinds as Dad leaves.

  He looks at me sternly. “Rodinsky, wh
y do you want to be a Northland High football player?”

  He doesn’t want a Miss America answer. I straighten up in my seat. “Because I want to be a Northland High softball player.”

  I could’ve couched it—could’ve said that I already love being part of the team. That Friday night was amazing. That I’m having fun. But I don’t, even though all of that is true.

  Half of Coach Lee’s mouth quirks up. “And you think playing a ruthless contact sport will make Kitterage think you’re less of a hothead?”

  His delivery is so direct and deadpan that I cough out a laugh, surprising even myself. “When you put it that way, I seem like even more of an idiot.”

  Coach stands. “I don’t think you’re an idiot, Rodinsky. I think you love a challenge.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I say, my confident old softball smile perking up.

  Lee turns to his coatrack and collects his cap and whistle. When he’s facing me again, he’s got a real smile spread across his face, though his eyes are dead serious. He pats me on the shoulder.

  “Good, because you’re starting Friday.”

  23

  I’VE NEVER BEEN SO THRILLED OR TERRIFIED BY FIVE little words in all my life.

  The feeling is so overwhelming that I do something I’ve never done in my athletic career: I pretend it isn’t happening.

  I don’t call Danielle. I don’t text Addie. I don’t squee at my locker in glee.

  I simply make the decision not to say a peep until Coach Lee does.

  I’m trying to be logical. To protect what I have with Grey. He was supposed to start this Friday, and stealing his starting quarterback title was not part of the deal.

  He’s a senior who wants to play college ball.

  He needs all the games under his belt he can get.

  I know he’s been dying to get out there.

  And so logic tells me to keep my mouth shut until the coaches realize their mistake and start a fully healed Grey on Friday instead of me.

  But the problem with logic is that ambition is deaf to it.

  And my ambition is shooting through my belly, yelling at the top of its lungs, “Starterrrrrrrrr!”

  That night, Grey and I scrimmage with the A team, switching off every five plays. By the end of it, I still have absolutely no understanding of why I’m starting at all. This should be his comeback game.

  Grey’s wearing his old form like a glove, rolling back smoothly on each play. Releasing the ball with unhurried confidence and connecting 90 percent of the time. And 90 percent of his misses are definitely the fault of the receiver. I think. He stops to sneak some Tylenol midpractice, but to my undertrained eye, he looks great.

  I run through his form in my head as I change into street clothes, just-showered skin sticking to my jeans. I get them up over my butt and my back pocket vibrates with a text.

  Road game tomorrow, volleyball ended early. In the Northland parking lot with Nick. Grey’s here, too. I hear we have stuff to celebrate because you’re back on the team. So, dinner? Burger Fu on the line.

  I smirk. And if I say no?

  Your choice to celebrate solo but just FYI, my burger-eating skillz are quite sexy. It’s on you if the boys start fighting over me.

  Then: Protect Grey from himself and come. I don’t want to break his face or my best friend’s heart just because I’m trying to eat my dinner.

  Outside the locker room is the rapidly cooling night—my wet hair immediately plastered to my face by a breeze. Who’s saying Nick would win that fight?

  Addie doesn’t waste half a second in coming up with a response—as quick in life as she is on the field or court.

  Nick plows people into the ground every day, don’t think he won’t go all linebacker in the name of Adeline McAndry.

  Are the boys standing there watching you type War and Peace?

  Yeah, and they like it. But I’m hungry, so hurry the hell up.

  Two seconds.

  I fire off a text to Ryan to make sure he’s already gotten a ride home, and one to Mom, letting her know I’m with Addie, before rounding the corner to the parking lot.

  The boys and Addie are holding court in front of my car, all of them just showered and in street clothes. In Addie’s case, she’s doffed her Windsor Prep uniform for black leggings and a stretchy shirt that her mom would incinerate on sight if she knew it existed.

  Addie groans. “Two seconds? That was three minutes. A hellacious eternity when we’re talking carbs. Come on—less talking, more driving. You’re chauffeur number two.”

  I give her a salute and unlock Helena the Honda. Grey drops into the passenger seat and I’m still putting on my seat belt when Addie burns rubber out of the parking lot.

  “Hey.” Grey’s fingers graze my cheek as I put the keys in the ignition. There’s a softness in the hard-edge planes of his face as he leans in without a response, lips pressing against mine, warm and wanting. I sink into him, the ignition dinging despite time standing still.

  When he finally pulls away, it’s a struggle to open my eyes, they’re so heavy. I must look like a used candle—my features melty and warm.

  “I wanted to do that all day.” He winks. “But there’s no kissing in football.”

  I swallow and compose an answer, lips numb with heat. “Ah, yes, just as iconic a phrase as ‘there’s no crying in baseball.’”

  “I’m sure Tom Hanks said it at some point.”

  “That is the definition of iconic,” I say, grinning. “But… I mean, really, is there any reason we can’t kiss in football?”

  Grey runs a hand through his just-washed hair. “Well, no. I just don’t want the coaches to freak. Team chemistry and all that.”

  That’s a thing or two I know about—heck, it’s part of the reason I’m in this situation to begin with. And so I nod, though I’m not totally sure what I think about when and where we can kiss.

  I press on the gas and Grey places his hand on my knee. It’s all I can do to keep from gunning it into traffic.

  “I’m glad your dad caved, by the way.”

  I smile at him. “Me too.”

  By the time we get to the restaurant, Addie and Nick are waiting for us outside, looking like a painting in the broad brushstrokes of sunset. They’re so into each other, they don’t realize we’re coming their way until the last second, when Nick catches Grey’s eye as he’s nuzzling Addie’s cheek.

  “If it isn’t the starter and the spare.” Nick says it as a joke. As if we hadn’t seen each other ten minutes ago.

  “Dude, don’t call my girl a ‘spare.’”

  My heart stumbles in my chest as Grey half laughs. My girl. Starter.

  Nick laughs, and it’s not half. “You’re the spare, Worthington. Haven’t you seen the clipboard?” When it’s clear he hasn’t, Nick’s ears flush. His next words come more quietly. “Liv starts Friday.”

  I want to demur. To squeak out an “I do?”… but I can’t. I know it’s true. Nick knows it’s true. I can justify ignoring it for the past few hours, but outright lying now would be a huge mistake.

  And I’m done lying to people I care about.

  Grey tenses as reality sinks in, his competitive side flashing, but in a blip, his features relax. “That’s awesome, Liv.”

  As Grey bumps my shoulder, Nick tries to read between the lines. “Shanks didn’t tell you?” he asks me. “You seriously didn’t know?”

  I’m trying to keep my face brave.

  “Coach told me when I met with him about leaving the team—I just didn’t believe him.” All of which is true, but I suddenly feel like a total lying asshole.

  “O-ROD!” Addie squeaks, obvious excitement overriding any worry about me and Grey. Addie lunges and suddenly her arms are wrapped around me, so strong and warm, her bevy of newly done braids blinding my vision. She’s absolutely vibrating with joy.

  I wish I could see Grey’s expression. Instead, I hear Nick laugh. “Jesus, what a tackle. You transfer to Northland, McAndry, an
d I’m B team again. Guaranteed.”

  Addie slides off me and straightens her shirt, the fabric riding up and flashing enough of a taut brown tummy to make Nick’s cheeks flush yet again. “Don’t tempt me, Cleary.”

  I check Grey’s face—the surfer is winning out over the newsman, all relaxed and sunny. Like he’s enjoying Nick and Addie’s banter. But I know how badly he’s wanted to start. And he’s a senior. There are only so many games left.

  I need to know he’s truly fine. I don’t want him lying to himself any more than I want to lie to him.

  The sun is gone—the only illumination is Helena’s ancient dashboard and the partial moon as we pull up in front of Grey’s house. Because he’s Grey, he still looks good, the light and shadow playing to the newscaster lines of his face, the wave of his hair softening the intensity.

  “I really didn’t think Coach meant it,” I tell him. “About me starting on Friday. I figured he’d change his mind and it wouldn’t be worth bringing up.”

  That half smile settles in. “My ego’s that fragile, huh?”

  I snag his hand and turn it over, forcing open his fingers and interlacing mine within his. My eyes pin to his face. “No, you’re just that important to me.”

  The weight dissolves at the sigh in his eyes and I lean forward, lips to his before he can respond. His mouth is even warmer than his fingers, shampoo scenting his hair, chin rough with scruff.

  When I pull away, his lashes flutter open and his jaw sets, lips slightly red from contact. “You’re important to me, too.”

  I squeeze his fingers. The silence flies over. Fragile. “Are you ever going to tell me how you broke your collarbone?”

  “Are you going to ask me why I don’t drive?”

  It seems like an odd question to ask in response. My vision blurs on his house—the three-car garage and the manicured lawn. He’s never driven me anywhere. I don’t even know if he has a car, which seems absurd, given that he’s a senior and his parents aren’t exactly pinching pennies.

  “Wait. Am I in a movie?” I glance over his shoulder and whip around to look at the street. “Where’s the director? Casting got it all wrong. You’re a horrible pick for the role of ‘hot guy haunted by his mistakes’ in Cautionary Tale Number Twelve.”