Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  I want to ask what happened, but I’m sure that will make it worse. And, God, she’s already crying.

  “If Stacey can’t have someone, no one can.” Her voice grows smaller. “Not even me.”

  “Kelly, that’s shitty. I’m sorry.”

  She releases a shuttered sigh and just nods at me, spent. My hand on her shoulder suddenly doesn’t feel right. “Can I hug you?” I ask, and I’m sort of surprised when Kelly consents. I wrap my arms around her and we stay like that for a solid minute. When we part, Kelly rubs her eyes, her thick liner mostly surviving.

  She stands and what she says next absolutely knocks the wind out of me.

  “I know what happened that day, you know. Walking back from the mound. I heard exactly what she said that made you punch her. At the time, I thought maybe I didn’t hear it right. That she said something else. But… that’s the kind of person she is.”

  Then Kelly leaves me alone with my ice and disbelief.

  38

  FRIDAY NIGHT WITHOUT A FOOTBALL GAME FEELS weird. Really weird. Practice is short and sweet (my knee is thrilled) and, well, weird. I come home to fresh-out-of-the-oven pizza from Heather, who made both the pizza dough and mozzarella from scratch—?!?!?!?—and spend the next hour with Mom’s head on my shoulder, watching A League of Their Own for the millionth time.

  Not a bad way to be.

  But around eight o’clock, Addie texts me. Happy Cow?

  I’m surprised because I figured she’d be with Nick, running him through a mock cross-examination in preparation for his meeting of Mrs. McAndry. Time?

  Ten minutes?

  Deal.

  I clear it with my parents and then hightail it to Happy Cow, cooling night air rushing in. Addie is already there, browsing the menu even though she always gets the Mooo-kie Cookie concrete. Always.

  I wrap my arm around her shoulders, catch the scooper’s eye, and shove a twenty in his face, my allowance stash renewed after being free of Ryan’s blackmail burgers for a few weeks. “Two large Mooo-kie Cookies, keep the change.”

  I spin her in the direction of a booth. “Nick asked you to homecoming, didn’t he?” The timing of this frozen custard run is so suspect. Because typically a homecoming football game goes right along with a homecoming dance. My life is hell right now, but even in hell there are damn posters for that dance. Worse, the court was named this week and Grey, Jake, and Nick are on it. Which I’m sure Addie knows. “Subjecting Nick to your mother and randomly wanting to meet me for Mooo-kie Cookies the week before the dance? Secrets much?”

  “It wasn’t that I hadn’t planned on telling you—it’s that he asked me the night you tried to walk off the team.” One perfectly white incisor bites her bottom lip. “I was pretty certain you didn’t need a melty pile of Addie that night.”

  “I needed you that night any way I could have you.” My fingers scrabble for hers. “And you came right away. Without hesitation.” I wait for her to look up. “Tell me about it, please.”

  “Are you sure you want to—”

  “Yes.” And I mean it. This is my best friend.

  Addie raises a brow, perfectly drawn winged liner lifting with it in a sweet swoop. “Okay, but you have to promise that if I get too melty, you have to make me stop.”

  “Deal.”

  The frozen custard dude sidles over and flips our twin Mooo-kie Cookies upside down, showing off their thick durability. The second he’s gone, she launches into the story.

  “That’s why we weren’t in the parking lot for, um, you know,” Addie says, talking into her concrete instead of looking my way. The fight with Grey. “He had reservations for the back booth at Bruno’s. The waiter dropped a white pizza in front of my face a minute after we sat down with ‘H-o-m-e-c-o-m-i-n-g?’ spelled out in olives.”

  “Omigod, no,” I squeal, eyes wide. Fairly certain everyone in the place is staring at me, but I really don’t care.

  “Yes. Boy turned as pink as a strawberry waiting for me to say something.”

  “And you said…?”

  “I said, ‘You better meet my mother.’”

  Her delivery is the perfect sort of dry, and I crack up. “Please tell me that pizza was better than our usual.”

  “I—well, I didn’t get to eat it. Nick’s phone started blowing up before we could start.…”

  I nod, understanding and guilt flooding my stomach. The Northland gossip tree at work.

  Silence flies over and I force myself to ask a question I don’t want to know the answer to, the custard I’ve ingested refreezing into something the size and shape of a bowling ball in my stomach. “So, who are you guys going with?”

  Addie chews and chews. Finally, she swallows, everything moving at half speed—the opposite of normal Addie in every way. “Well, his sister, of course.”

  I’m actually surprised that I don’t cringe at a mention of Kelly. “And Jake’s her date.”

  Addie nods quickly but reaches across the table and grabs my hand. Her grip demands that I meet her eyes. “But I’d rather go with you.” When I don’t say anything, she squeezes my hand. “I’m serious. I think you should ask Grey to the dance.”

  My lips part and my heart is in my ears, pound pound pounding away.

  She twists our hands over. “Nick is to Grey what you are to me. Which means Nick is who Grey calls when he’s upset.” Her eyes rise to mine. “Liv, this boy is devastated. Literally all he can do is talk in circles to Nick, walking through what he did wrong. What he should’ve done instead. Analyzing the shit out of the situation like the coach he’ll probably be someday. Like the quarterback he is now.”

  I’ve seen those wheels turning at practice and in class. “He came to find me after I saw you at the volleyball game. He apologized.”

  She nods. “I know. I told Nick that he shouldn’t go—that he’d look like a stalker.”

  “Well, okay, valid concern.”

  We both laugh a little but then she resets her grip. Her eyes are just as insistent as her fingers wrapped around mine.

  “He made a mistake. Lots of them, actually. And you called him on it. And you were right to. But I’m going to say it again: Standing up for yourself doesn’t mean walking away. From that cute boy or those gross-ass shoulder pads.” Her eyes flash to mine. “Go back to him. Try again.”

  There’s a settling to the corner of her mouth and her focus sharpens, the same winner’s smirk that slides in place as she steps into the batter’s box, smashes a kill, or snags a rebound. It’s at once beautiful and terrifying, the definition of badass.

  Maybe it’s that look of hers. Maybe it’s the idea of Grey shrinking inside himself. Maybe it’s that I needed her to say the words twice for them to really sink in—Standing up for yourself doesn’t mean walking away—but my heart slows from frantic to confident, my vision clears, my breath and gut and blood all working in rhythmic synergy.

  I can see Grey’s face so clearly. The truth in it. The way he feels about me.

  I made a mistake, a huge one.

  His mistakes weren’t any worse than mine. I lied by omission to people I care about, too, from day one.

  In truth, we’re both our own biggest hurdles. And forgiveness isn’t something that comes easily to either of us.

  But I can forgive him.

  I know what I’m going to do: exactly what I would’ve done last year—stick my chin in the air and go after what I want.

  And I want Grey.

  Saturday morning, I arrive to weights early enough that the lights aren’t even on yet. I flip on the fluorescents and sit on the first weight bench, my heart thumping in my throat as I stare through the propped-open door and into the dim hallway.

  Boys begin to trickle in ten minutes later. Tate, Topps, Jake. But not Grey. Not yet.

  As I wait, my heart thuds past my throat and into my ears, until it feels as if my heart is on the outside, pressing into the room, into the boys. Like it’s so obvious that they all know what I’m going to do, bu
t I don’t care.

  I’m going to do it anyway.

  Grey appears like a vision in basketball shorts. He’s in a fitted white T-shirt, the color perfectly outlining the cut and curve of his shoulders, chest, and upper arms. That half smile ticks up the corner of his mouth as he makes eye contact. Nick is at his shoulder, Kelly just behind him—clearly they carpooled.

  Like everything else, I don’t care. If I start getting distracted by them—by the possible embarrassment—I’ll regret not listening to my heart, my head, my gut.

  “I have a question for you,” I say, my voice muffled in my ears by the pounding of my heart. I stand and take a step toward him. Grey stops and Nick skates around him, his hand around his sister’s wrist, pulling her away. Kelly’s head spins toward us anyway, along with everyone else’s.

  “Shoot.” His grin stretches, the silence around us, too.

  I take a step toward him, close enough that there’s no way he can misread my expression. No crossed signals here. I want what I want and I’d prefer not to ask for it twice. “Homecoming dance. You and me.”

  There’s a collective inhale from the crowd as surprise softens the angles of his face. “That wasn’t a question, that was an order.”

  “Okay, it’s an order. I am a quarterback, after all.”

  The grin widens. “You sure are.”

  I tilt my chin to him. “Are you going to answer me or not?”

  Grey erases the final distance between us, close enough that his knees tap mine, our Nikes bumping together. Even with the eyes of our teammates on us, he dares to touch my face, his strong hands cupping my cheeks, rough thumbs dusting my mouth in the breath before his lips crash into mine. Immediately, I wrap my arms around his waist. The hard planes of his chest conform to my curves, the past days of frustration, awkwardness, sadness, and embarrassment spiraling up and away.

  The wolf whistles start, some actual cheers, too, whooping coupled with a few musings I probably really don’t want to hear.

  But. I. Don’t. Care.

  It’s only by sheer, indoctrinated willpower that I’m able to pull myself out of that kiss.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.

  Grey’s fingers graze my forearm as if to keep me from pivoting away from him, moment over. His hand slides over my skin, coming to rest on my wrist, his head slightly bowed, his lips in my ear where the four dozen pairs of eyes surrounding us can’t hear.

  “Are you sure?” There’s a hesitation in his voice like I’ve never heard from him before. “You trust me?”

  There it is again. All that swagger and perfect hair and newscaster stoicism gone. The inner Grey laid bare.

  I kiss him once more. When we part, I give him my serious, on-the-field face. “Take that as a yes. And you’re my boyfriend again.” I tilt my head toward the full weight room behind me. “You people can handle kissing in football, right?”

  Around us, the boys nod in a chorus of yeahs, Jake’s voice booming louder than others—a relief. Even Kelly chimes in. Good. They’ve already weathered our breakup and everything that came after—I believe them when they say they can survive us publicly liking each other.

  I can’t help but grin back. While adjusting my ponytail, which slipped when we kissed, the coaches appear at the door. Lee doesn’t miss a thing—it’s clear by the set of his jaw he knows something just went down. Shanks eyes the distance between Grey and myself, back to the few inches of practices pre–parking lot fight. Napolitano checks his clipboard. After a long, awkward pause, Lee addresses the room. “Do I even want to know?”

  All the bravery has fled my body, my lips sealing themselves shut. Everyone is dead silent for a few beats. But then Grey clears his throat. Oh God.

  “Your top two quarterbacks are dating,” he says, grabbing my hand.

  I want to dissolve into the padded floor. Somehow, him telling Coach both validates my love for Grey and makes me want to absolutely murder him. It’s so much more embarrassing than what I forced myself to do just five minutes ago.

  Coach Lee cocks a brow, dark eyes sliding from Grey’s face to mine.

  “That’s a relief. I thought it’d be at least three more weeks before you two came to your damn senses.” As my jaw drops, Coach Lee simply refers to his clipboard. “Quarterbacks and running backs at the squat racks, both lines at bench, secondary and special teams at the TRX…”

  39

  MONDAY AT PRACTICE, GREY IS WAITING FOR ME OUTSIDE the locker room. Brady, too, though I’m fairly certain that’s just because he has nothing better to do. Or maybe he likes me now. Maybe I really should set him up with Barbie Villanueva back at Windsor Prep—he’d love me forever. Plus, she might distract him enough to clear his head of the attitude that’s holding him back.

  Grey bumps his shoulder to mine, our pads clicking at the contact. “Hey, babe.” That’s new, and I kind of like it. He grabs my hand and we walk like that to the practice field, with Brady as our silent third wheel.

  It’s all very obviously on display. And, damn, does it feel good.

  Grey squeezes my fingers and then we separate, our feet picking up the pace into a run. Five laps in the falling temperatures, the sun suddenly something that won’t be around much past the end of practice.

  As we run, Grey dishes what he knows about our opponents this week, Jewell Academy, the reigning state champs. The all-boys sibling school to Windsor Prep. The team that ended Northland’s season last year in substate.

  “The Jewell linebackers are tough as nails and fast. We need you as mobile as possible. If the coaches want a simulation, you’ll be seeing a lot of Cleary and Sanchez this week.”

  Oh, great, I love to be sat on.

  “But you’ve got legs. Just keep moving and you’ll be good.”

  My knee is better—the day off on Sunday helped immensely—but the ache’s there, the bruise’s placement wonky for how much running we have to do. I’m limping right now, the hitch in my stride impossible to hide. Something I know Grey’s noticed, his eyes skirting down to my knee just like they did all last week, even when we weren’t talking.

  We finish our laps and drop to kneel—the sun low enough to slice straight into our eyeline. Nick drops in next to us, having survived Mrs. McAndry on Saturday night—Addie’s texts on Sunday were epic enough that I think he should frame them, or maybe screenshot them for his college applications—Emma McAndry’s endorsement will definitely go far.

  Kelly’s up by the coaches, finger bobbing as she tallies us all. Shanks and Lee are having a conversation up her way, talking with their clipboards fanned over their mouths like they would on the sidelines, discussing plays.

  “Rodinsky!” Lee calls. My head swings his way; so do Grey’s and Brady’s. “Up here. Worthington, you, too.”

  Grey and I exchange a glance and jog up to where the coaches are huddled, leaving our helmets back on the turf with Brady.

  “Coach?” I say, Grey echoing.

  Lee glances between us, his lips thinned out. Shanks has his arms crossed over his barrel chest, his eyes hidden by his ever-present visor.

  “Your knee,” Lee says without inflection. Just a damning statement. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Shit. I nearly glance at Kelly, but her back is turned. Coward.

  “Nothing, sir. It’s fine.” I don’t break eye contact.

  Lee purses his lips, not buying it. “Rodinsky, don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying, Coach. It’s just bruised. Not injured.”

  Finally, Shanks makes eye contact. “How bruised?”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I present my leg, pulling up the leggings and shifting around the padding so that the outer side of my knee is visible in the late-afternoon light. The bruise has lightened from purple to a dark green, making it look like the blip of a thunderstorm on the radar. A big blip. The thing is the size of my hand and wraps from the side of my knee just above the kneecap, all the way around to the base of my quad.

 
Shanks gets his nose down there to look, knee brace clicking as he sinks to the turf. Grey and Lee have eyes all over it, too.

  “It really is just a bruise.” I want to lie and say that I’ve had it checked out. That my LCL—I looked it up and that’s the outside ligament—is just peachy. But I haven’t. I mean, I think it’s fine, but I really need to be done with the white lies.

  Shanks asks, “May I touch it?” I nod, and though he’s careful, I tense so much I know he can feel it, too. The initial damage was done more than a week ago, but continuing to practice has kept it ripe and tender. Shanks stretches to his full height before he speaks. “I believe you when you say it’s just a bruise, but I’m still going to sit you on Friday.”

  Lee nods and turns his attention to Grey. “Worthington, the start is yours.”

  No.

  I want to yell, to tell them that his head is way more important than my knee. But I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do that to him. I can’t sell him out.

  So I turn. Grey’s so stunned he just nods and turns away, too. No pithy comments. No nothing.

  A hand is on my arm, nails coated in fresh gel polish—Kelly. When I look up, there’s nothing brutal on her face. Just a calm, determined set to her jaw. Her voice is a whisper in my ringing ears.

  “You can’t risk making your knee worse. Sitting out is the best thing for you and the team.”

  But it’s not the best thing for Grey.

  Coach Lee is talking again. “Rodinsky, go with Coach Napolitano and get checked out.”

  I look to Grey and there’s a mixture of confidence and relief in his eyes—he’s trying to tell me that he’s okay, that he wishes I weren’t hurt, and that he’s thankful I’ve kept his secret.

  As I’m walking away, all I can think is that I may have gotten my boyfriend back, but I lost my chance to protect him.

  A bruise to my LCL. Not a sprain, thank God, or I’d be out for two weeks. Napolitano sets me up with a soft knee brace and when I put it on under my uniform, the bottom of it pokes out, visibly marking me as injured. Dammit.