Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  His grin widens, though there’s weight behind it. “Car accidents happen outside of the movies, Liv. In real life. With real people. Who really get hurt.” He taps his collarbone.

  “Yeah, but… you didn’t… nothing…”

  “I didn’t kill anyone, Liv,” he says, looking me in the eye. “I just totaled my car, busted my collarbone, and my hard-ass mom took away all my driving privileges and refused to buy me another car.”

  “Oh.”

  I don’t know why, but I expected there to be more. Like some sort of moral to the story. But instead it’s black and white, just an accident that happened. A mistake he made. One he’s paid for in borrowed rides and sideline time.

  One that led him to me.

  “Why is the death glare back? You think I’m into you just for your wheels?”

  I shake my face blank. “First my arm, then my wheels, right?” I plant one on his cheek. “No, sorry, I’m confused. Like, should I be happy that you got in an accident and that tossed us together, or sad that you got hurt? I mean—”

  “That’s easy. Happy.” He touches my chin and I sink into his palm. “I’m happy about it. There’s absolutely nothing to be sad about.”

  “But you were hurt—”

  “Was. I’m fine now.” His thumb rubs my cheek. “More than fine because you’re in my life.”

  I should just melt into his words and take my liquefied self home for the night, content. But I can’t let it go. It’s stupid, but I have to make sure he’s okay. “And you’re fine with Coach’s decision? Because if I were you, I’d be super pissed.”

  He barks out a laugh and unhooks his seat belt. “If it were Brady getting the start, I’d be pissed. But it’s you. If anything, it’s validation for my talent-scouting skills. You are really good.”

  A smile cracks my face and I see him visibly relax before I say a word. “So, you’re only happy because I still make you look good.”

  “Basically.” He opens the door and steals another kiss, our lips matching up horribly despite the fact that we’re both grinning. “And because your butt looks really good in tights.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to say something like that.”

  He steps out of the car, arms resting on Helena’s roof and door, broad chest blocking his house enough that I almost don’t notice the porch light pinging on—Coach Kitt is watching. Again.

  “See you and those tights tomorrow, O-Rod.”

  24

  GREY WORTHINGTON PUTS ON A GOOD SHOW, BUT the field hides nothing. So he can banter and kiss and laugh like everything’s peachy—but when he’s taking snap, it is crystal clear that, despite his assurances, my boyfriend is 100 percent, unequivocally not fine.

  Since he learned about me getting the start, his scrimmage play has been off-kilter. He’s a half step behind, his passes a foot too short, too long, too left, too right. Even his decision-making skills are suspect—he’s throwing into traffic, holding on to the ball too long, refusing to go rogue on a collapsed play to make it work.

  I’ve noticed. The receivers have noticed. Surely the coaches have noticed.

  And it’s all my fault. I know it.

  On Tuesday, Nick pulled Grey aside at least five times for one-on-ones that always ended in helmet patting and nods. At one point on Wednesday, Jake got so frustrated, he straight stripped Grey of the ball on a passing play, just for the chance to move the A team forward.

  But that’s not the worst thing to happen. Getting called out in front of everyone is, and that comes as we’re doing our final laps Thursday night.

  Grey didn’t practice any better than he did over the last two days, and he’s uncharacteristically sullen as he, Brady, and I run next to each other, closing in on the finish line. I’m thinking of asking Grey if he wants to go with me to Ryan’s soccer match after practice, to get his mind off things, but then Jake pulls in next to us.

  “Worthington.”

  “Rogers?”

  Jake speeds up, sliding in front of us, running backward. When he gets to the finish line, he stops on a dime. Grey hits the brakes and they’re suddenly two inches apart, chin to chin, our two senior captains. Jake is smiling that annoyed smile of his, and the way his lips are curling, I know he’s about to lay one out. And so does everyone else.

  “You’ve been playing like shit ever since Liv got the start.”

  He doesn’t look at me as he says it, and neither does Grey.

  “I have not.” Grey’s voice is smooth. “I could play a flute and it wouldn’t matter anyway, because I’m not running the offense on Friday.”

  “No. No, you listen. Right now.” Jake leans in, teeth bared. I’ve never seen Jake like this—ever—and I wonder how long his frustration has truly been building to this moment. “I’m not losing to busted-ass Central because your ego can’t handle Liv’s talent.”

  Grey doesn’t blink. “It doesn’t matter because I’m. Not. Playing.”

  But we all know this isn’t the truth. Hell, I lived the fact that it isn’t the truth when I played last week. Backups play all the time. I could play one snap and then Grey could come in for the rest of the game, either because of an injury or because Coach just feels like switching things up.

  Rather than calling him on it, Jake dodges and goes in a completely different direction—just like he does so often on the field.

  “Quarterbacks lead whether they’re in the game or not. Shape up.”

  I can barely admit it to myself, but I agree with Jake there. Even still, my instinct is to stick up for Grey—everyone has an off week now and then. But before I can say something, Grey’s eyes narrow in a way I’ve never seen and suddenly I know exactly what opposing defenses see when they cross him. “Or what?”

  All Jake does is raise a single brow and shift his eyes my way. It happens faster than I can process. Jake is looking at me and then he’s on the ground, Grey on top of him. Sanchez and Brady immediately dive for them, hauling Grey back by the shoulders.

  There’s a whistle and a flight of khaki-clad men swarm us, Coach Lee front and center. He blows on his whistle one more time, long and high, and places a hand on each boy’s heaving chest.

  “I don’t think so. Save that crap for somewhere else. On this field, you’re teammates, and I won’t tolerate it. I won’t.” Coach Lee glares at each of them, spitting mad. “Both of you are on the bench tomorrow.”

  Jake’s mouth falls open. “But—”

  “Yeah, butt on the bench, Rogers. I don’t care what your stats are”—Coach rounds on Grey—“or that you’re already scheduled to be there. Neither of you sets foot on the field.”

  “I—”

  “But—”

  They’re both cut off by Coach forcibly spinning them in the direction of the locker room. “One more peep out of either of you and we’ll have to elect new senior captains.”

  As they’re stalking away, my stomach bottoms out. There goes my safety net. Both my top backup and the team’s leading scorer—gone.

  Tomorrow, it’s all on me.

  And it feels like my fault. I want to grab Grey’s hand. To remind him that he’s an amazing player. That it’s okay to have another off week. Second-string isn’t who he is. I want to tell him that Jake knows that, too, which was why he was so hard on him.

  But I don’t. Because I’m not convinced it won’t make things worse.

  And so I watch them trudge away—Coach Lee, Grey, Jake, and the rest. Fifty-plus people who are all counting on me tomorrow night.

  I’ll need to run the plays. I’ll need to make the plays. And I can’t get hurt. I can’t leave the team with Brady in the pocket and no Jake behind him.

  Or we’ll lose.

  It’s only for a game. But it might as well be an eternity.

  25

  “OH MAN, WHAT A FACE,” GREY SAYS. “CENTRAL’S D IS going to shit bricks.”

  Grey peels off a huddle of giant bodies and does a drive-by knock of my shoulder as I stalk toward the bus
, game-day glare on. Outside, I know I look hard as nails, but inside I’m a puddle of nerves. Not something I’m used to being, that’s for sure.

  Grey places a hand on my shoulder, right on the pad, as we find a seat. He’s been like this all day—not a hint of frustration in my presence or a word about what happened last night. Jake’s got apparent amnesia, too, though a deep purple shiner the shape of Grey’s fist is imprinted on his right cheek.

  I cock a brow and whisper, his presence immediately dulling some of my nerves. “I thought you liked my face, Worthington.”

  Too close, he stares at my lips. “Don’t tempt me, Rodinsky.”

  “No kissing in football. Yeah, yeah.”

  “Let’s continue this discussion after a Tiger victory, shall we?”

  I smirk at him. “Oh, I don’t need a discussion to win this argument.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  An hour later, we’ve been through warm-ups, the national anthem, and Central’s pep song. Our junior captain—Nick—took the coin toss and happened to win it, telling the refs we’d receive. Which means I’m out on the field in less than a minute.

  I’m more ready than I was before boarding the bus. But I’m still nervous as shit.

  Alone with five thousand high school football fans, Grey and I stand side by side in the Central stadium, his energy seeping into mine at a much faster rate than the Gatorade I just chugged. Watching Jaden Gonzalez do the offense a solid and run Central’s kickoff back past midfield and down to the thirty.

  My eyes shoot up to the crowd, and within a few seconds, I find my family and Addie, up in the topmost corner of the visitor’s section. They’re easy to spot—Addie and Danielle, straight from school in Windsor Prep purple, Heather in a criminally cute sundress, Mom and Ryan in Northland orange, and Dad looking ever the detective in a button-up, straight from work. He might not like me playing football, but he’ll support me anytime.

  Ball down, chains moving, the turf glittering under the lights, the weight of Grey’s hand appears on my shoulder. “Good luck,” he says.

  I run out onto the field.

  Turns out Central isn’t as terrible as Jake insisted they were a day ago.

  Their defense isn’t the greatest, but their offense is right in line with ours. Our defense is okay, and our linebackers are excellent—praise Nick Cleary—but the Central quarterback is a senior who’s seen it all on some really bad teams. He knows how to move, get rid of the ball, and fight.

  Me, well… every inch of my being is exhausted from nearly four full quarters of football and at least twenty full-speed hits. And that is compounded by the fact that despite it’s completely clear I’ve done my duty—282 yards and five touchdowns—we’re tied.

  Tied.

  With a minute left. And Central has the freaking ball in the red zone.

  They’re killing time—the team’s kicker warming up with a Rockettes special on the sideline. One field goal and it’ll be on us with seconds remaining to tie or win on a touchdown.

  I’m on the bench, muscles tightening, waiting for my turn, because even with my exhaustion, my heart bursts to be out on that field, to go haul that win in. Next to me, Grey’s so dialed in he can’t crawl out, all the usual comfort sloughed from his skin. Where I am so tense I’m frozen in place, his legs bounce like Ryan’s after one of Heather’s colossal Sunday evening desserts. His mouth won’t stop moving either—the coaching genes in his DNA whirring his brain up to eighty-eight miles per hour.

  “Better go short and safe and hope Tate breaks free for a run than go long and miss an opportunity.” His shoulder pad clicks against mine. “Not that you can’t go long. It’s the Central secondary I don’t trust—scrappy and experienced. They’ve been holding up our receivers all game.”

  “Mmm-hmmm” is all I have energy to say.

  The ball is up, up, up and then… not.

  Batted down by a fingertip and rolling downfield.

  The clock is still running and the second it’s called as a Tiger ball—Thank you, Sanchez—Coach Lee is screaming for the offense to get out there. Shanks’s call: Orange Sixteen.

  I sprint to where the ball was downed—the twenty-two—make eye contact with Tate, and scream out the details. We haven’t missed this one all game.

  “ORANGE SIXTEEN. ORANGE SIXTEEN. HUT-HUT!”

  Ball ready, I shoot back, eyes hunting for Tate’s number eighty-two.

  After a second, I spy it, but not anywhere close to on route—sandwiched between two red jerseys just beyond the line.

  Shit. We haven’t missed it all game, but that doesn’t mean Central hasn’t figured out a solution.

  I dodge right, searching for any open receiver—pesky defense indeed. The closest thing to open is number eighty-four—Timmy Chow—out wide right, beating two defenders in his route downfield.

  Holding my breath, I aim, hoping Chow actually thinks about looking for an incoming ball, even though he knows the play isn’t designed for him.

  The ball rockets out and over the fray. Chow’s helmet pops up and back, his arms reach, and he leaps.

  But so do the defenders—earning extra time in the half step Chow slowed to turn.

  The ball crashes into Chow’s chest, right between the eight and four. But the ball squirts out, skipping up end over end.

  Catch it, catch it, catch it.

  The ball hangs for an eternity as three pairs of gloved hands scrape fingertips against the leather. One leaping defender gets to it first, batting the point.

  I release a breath as the ball makes contact with the turf, interception avoided.

  Ten seconds left.

  The coaches are all yelling at once for everyone to return to the line—the Northland players moving two times the speed of Central. In the mess, Shanks calls for White Twenty-Two.

  Seven. Six. Five. Four.

  Everyone settles into place.

  “WHITE TWENTY-TWO. WHITE TWENTY-TWO. HUT-HUT!”

  Three. Two. One.

  I get the snap off with a second to spare and rocket back, eyes out for Trevor Smith’s number eighty. He comes in on cue, trailed by a defender. Arm back, I fire, nailing him right in the hands. Smith takes the guy behind him on a spin move and points his body downfield, end zone in his sights… until two bodies come flying in. He dodges one but is stonewalled so hard by the other that the ball slips out.

  This time, the defender catches the fumble and boomerangs in our direction—head down, plowing past the line before anyone can react.

  Whatthewhatnow.

  Every Northland jersey is immediately chasing him—including me. But the element of surprise is good enough for a five-yard advantage.

  The whistle blows. The kid in Central red raises the ball high above his head. The end zone at his feet.

  Nonononononono.

  The scoreboard says it all.

  Home, 48. Visitor, 42.

  Time remaining: 0:00

  There’s no need for an extra point. They’ve already won.

  26

  WE MEET IN THE VISITING TEAM LOCKER ROOM, AWAY from the prying eyes and celebratory chants of the Central faithful. Heads down, hearts on the tile. When Coach Lee enters the room, none of us can make eye contact. Not even me.

  Our coach. Retiring at the end of this year. And we just laid an egg on his final football dream.

  To get to state, we can’t lose more than two games. It’s almost mathematically impossible to make state with three losses.

  And now we’re 1–1.

  Even worse, both games were against the cupcakes of Kansas City.

  In the coming weeks, we have to play Tetherman and Eastern at home, plus South County on the road. Not to mention we get Jewell Academy, brother school to Windsor Prep and state champs, as a treat for homecoming.

  One loss in that onslaught and chances are we won’t play for the league title or make the regional finals, aka substate. No substate, no actual state.

  Shame and exhaustion squat in
a cloud over the room. Coach’s voice comes through it all, sharp enough to hack through the gloom.

  “Hello, Tigers.”

  “Hello, Coach.”

  At our answer, there’s a pause. Coach taking his time to find the right words. I barely know him and his hesitation hurts as much as the loss.

  “Tonight we got beat. That’s the simple truth of it.”

  There’s a tangible sinking to the room, even though everyone is standing. We can’t sit for this man. Not after letting him down.

  “Oh, I know the scoreboard doesn’t tell the whole tale. It doesn’t give Sanchez credit for blocking the field goal attempt and landing on the damn ball. It doesn’t account for the fact that Rodinsky should’ve gotten her sixth TD for the night the second that ball hit Smith’s fingertips. It doesn’t account for those who didn’t play tonight.”

  Coach Lee nails each of us with eye contact as he goes down the line. It stings. Jake can’t even look at Coach, his eyes scrunched shut.

  “The final score doesn’t give credit or an explanation. All we get is a loss. That’s it. That’s football.”

  It is. And every other sport. There’s no gray area. There’s winning and losing. Pass/fail—no B-minus.

  “This team was 10–2 last year. That number doesn’t account for all the close calls that could’ve made that number more like 7–5 or 6–6. It doesn’t take into account that we were five yards away from taking Jewell Academy out in substate.”

  I purse my lips. I was at that game, before I started dating Jake, shivering in sneakers and a Windsor Prep letter jacket with Addie and the softball girls. Five yards and Jewell’s season would’ve been over. And all those boys wouldn’t have been nearly as big of assholes at the winter formal.

  “I know this isn’t a 1–1 team. I know we’re better than 50 percent. I know you’re capable of so much more. But how much more is up to you.” Coach straightens his visor. “Let’s hit the buses, Tigers. Weights in the morning.”