Walking out of the girl’s locker room, I head straight toward Mia’s Jeep.

She’s sitting on the hood talking to a couple of people, but as soon as she spots me, she waves them on, and smirks.

That’s never good.

“Hey, hoochie,” she says slyly.

I cross my arms, narrow my eyes, and wait.

She huffs. “Fine, I heard you and Nate have a,” she wiggles her eyebrows up and down, “date this afternoon. That didn’t take long.” She looks mighty pleased with herself.

“Wow, word really travels fast around here,” I tell her, my annoyance obvious. “And fuck no, we don’t. That guy from my government class, Jarrod Hollins -”

“Ooh,” she cuts me off. “He’s a good one.”

I ignore her, and continue. “Asked me out and Nate ruined it.”

“Well,” she leans back, propping herself onto her elbows. “Word is, Nate’s taking you home after practice today.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Hope you’re ready to tell him that.” She tips her chin, motioning behind me.

With a huff, I turn to see him closing in. I go ahead and let my eyes rake over him.

His track pants have been traded for a pair of black football pants.

I was right about the thighs; nice and strong.

“Give me your bag, I’ll throw it in the Hummer, and then you can come watch me practice.” He says it like he’s talking to an old friend and this is routine.

I gape at him for a few seconds. “Huh?”

He reaches out and tugs on my shoulder strap. “I’ll put this up for you,” he says again, placing his hands on his hips casually.

“You’re delusional if you think this is happening,” I snap.

“Don’t be difficult, Kalani,” he huffs.

He fucking huffs, like I am being unreasonable.

I drop my bag on the ground and push a finger into his chest. “Listen hotshot, I get it. You’re used to being the shot caller around here, but I,” I motion to myself, “am not from around here.”

“You not a woman of your word, Ms. Embers?” he asks, a cute, I’d say innocent, if I didn’t know any better, smile on his lips.

I stomp my foot, like a damn child. “I never said I’d go with you.”

“Flip on it.” He raises a dark brow.

“I…what?” I hear Mia giggle from behind me, clearly enjoying this shit.

“Come on, it’s mostly fair.” He nods to Mia, and the bitch tosses him a quarter.

Because she just happened to have one in her hand?

“This is dumb. Fine. Whatever.” I roll my eyes, propping my hip against the side of the Jeep.

He lets out a deep chuckle. “Alright, heads I win, tails you lose.”

I purse my lips, nodding.

He throws the quarter up and it lands on tails. Mia starts laughing and hops off her hood.

“Guess I’ll see you later, Lolls,” she grins, jumping into her Jeep and turning it on. She shakes her head, her brows high into her hairline. “I can’t believe you fell for that,” she giggles, dropping her shades into place. "Byyee.” The bitch speeds off, officially leaving my ass high and dry.

“What just happened?” I ask, utterly confused.

Nate smirks, a deep, dangerous, naughty smirk, and completely ignores me. Bending down, he grabs my bag, throws it over his shoulder, and heads back toward the field. “No time to put this away. Coach will lay me out if I’m late.”

He keeps walking while I stand frozen in place, trying to figure out what the fuck just went down.

He’s about halfway across the parking lot when my mouth falls open in shock, then quickly transforms into a huge smile. “You tricked me, you little shit!” I shout, laughing all the while.

He doesn’t turn around but throws his head back on a laugh.

I catch up to him and shove him lightly in the shoulder. “That was damn good, Nathaniel Monroe. Damn good,” I tell him, a smile still on my lips.

He shrugs. “My dad used to pull that shit on me. For the longest time, I thought it was luck, or a trick coin or something, because he always won. Took me a whole summer of yard work before I finally figured it out.” He chuckles.

He walks up a few stairs and sets my bag down on the first bench seat in the bleachers. “All right, I gotta get out there.” He looks over his shoulder at the boys warming up on the field, then back to me. “You,” he points a stern finger, “stay put. You wanted bad TV and junk food? That’s what you’re getting.”

My nose wrinkles. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

He smiles, all cocky like. “You did.”

“Uh-huh,” I tease, “and you’re sure this is about what I wanted, and not about you, how did Austin put it…” I tilt my head and place a finger to the corner of my mouth. “That’s right,” I snap my fingers. “About how you have to be the first to get ‘acquainted’ with the women in this town.”

“Well, I couldn’t let Jarrod beat me to it, now could I?” he smirks.

I cross my arms, feeling irritated all over again, remembering how he stepped in where he wasn’t wanted. “That was fucked up.”

“I’m much better, trust me.”

“I doubt it,” I shoot back.

He steps forward, his dark eyes blazing with intensity.

“Monroe!” We both turn toward the field to see Mr. Prescott’s clipboard-clad hand raised as he uses his other to point at his watch.

I turn back to him, only to find he’s already halfway down the stairs.

I debate grabbing my bag and walking home. That, or calling Mia’s bitch ass and making her come back to get me. But I do neither. No, I play the good little servant girl, listening to the words of a man-boy on a power trip and sit my ass down.

Shrugging to myself, I decide I’m going to enjoy this for my own selfish reasons. Hot athletes in tight pants, grinding, pushing, and engaging in the most intricate dance of all.

Football is an art, really. A hand-selected bunch, each for very different reasons, pieced together to form the biggest and best, most in sync, combination of fight and fury. There’s nothing gentle about the way these boys work.

The boys line up. The QB, Nate, calls out, letting them know what he needs of them. They get into position; a typical pass formation of five down linemen and four receivers, but at the last second, the defensive line shifts right.

“Interesting,” I mutter to myself, leaning forward slightly.

The ball snaps and Nate drops back, plants his back foot, and steps forward into the pocket ready to fire the ball, but my eyes zone in on the line. I watch as the O-tackle and guard are forced to step left into their gaps to cover their blocks. This leaves a gap in the center, a perfect opening for the middle linebacker to swoop in and make the sack, easy as pie. Only he doesn’t. A wide smile takes over my lips.

It’s a test run.

A perfect setup.

I don’t see the throw, but when the offense cheers, I know the pass was successful. I laugh, knowing what’s coming.

The boys set up, now at the sixty-one. One, two, hut, but this time the D-line shifts left.

“Here it comes,” I whisper, my leg bouncing in anticipation.

And sure enough, the offense doesn’t see what’s happening until the right outside linebacker swoops in and takes down their QB.

“Sack.” I smirk at my perception.

Nate hops up, brushes it off, and lines his boys up again.

He’s running a hurry up offense, so I’m almost positive he didn’t evaluate that last play, which means it’s bound to happen again.

As if on cue, same play, same result. He lets out a loud curse as he huffs back into position for the third time, now set back to the fifty. I sneak a peek at Mr. Prescott and he’s got his hand covering his mouth, a deep frown creasing his forehead, but he’s not making any corrections.

What the hell?

My anger rises as I prepare for the same conclusion.

I’m on my feet as soon as the ball’s snapped. I hear the roars of the boys, the defense fired up, and the O-line cursing and barking about preserving their quarterback, but I’m on a mission.

I stomp right up to Mr. Prescott and jut my hip out. “What the hell, Mr. P.!”

He does a double take before resting his scowling face on me. “Ms. Embers, what the hell are you doing on my field?”

I ignore him. “Why do you keep letting him run that? He’s getting nailed every time!” I shout. He eyes me, but as soon as Nate calls out, his gaze zips back to the field.

If he’s not going acknowledge me, I’m giving his ass my play by play.

“Balls on the forty-four, because he’s losing yards. QB’s running a no huddle hurry up offense, i.e., no time to adjust coverage. It’s an obvious pass play formation.” Mr. P. cuts me an irritated look out of corner of my eye. “Ball’s down and ready, but look at your defense.” I point. “The defensive line shifts left. Watch your offensive tackle,” I rush to say, just as it plays out in front of us. The O-tackle blocks the outside gap, leaving the inside gap open for the middle linebacker to swoop in and make the sack. Again.

“See!” I yell, turning back to Mr. Prescott, who is gaping at me.

“The offensive line needs to be able to spot these things at first go-round. I mean,” I scoff, “how much more obvious could it be, really? They set the shit up perfect, first play.” My hands are flailing all around. “A standard play across the board, with zero adjustment, and the D-line shifts?” I tilt my head. “Seriously? It was perfectly executed on the offensive side; boys rush in, receiver’s deep, and free of coverage. All was good, except the obvious brilliance from your D was overlooked.

“And it worked!” I take a deep breath and look up at Mr. P., who’s looking at me like I sprung two heads.

“What?”

“How the hell did you read that?”

My gaze snaps to the field to see Parker walking toward me, a huge, proud papa bear smile on his face. I take note of the embroidered C near his right shoulder. “Defensive captain?” I quirk a brow, a grin taking over my face.

“You know it, baby,” he laughs. “Playing safety allows me to see everything. Helps me spot the gaps.”

“Okay, Hero.” I nod, then jerk my chin toward the field. “That your play?”

“It was. First time trying it out.” He unsnaps his chin strap, pulls his helmet off, and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his wrist.

He squints one eye. “Was it really that easy to read?”

A cackle bubbles out of me. “Obviously not. It worked... like, five times,” I tell him.

He nods, his grin growing. “Good.”

“That test run,” I point to the field. “That was good. Perfect, really. They didn’t see it coming. Test one way, execute another. Keep ’em guessing.” I nod, thoroughly impressed.

Parker leans in, his warm breath close to my ear. “That’s ‘cause I’m smooth as silk, Lolli Bear. Smooth as silk,” he whispers, making both of us laugh.

“I have no idea what’s happening right now,” Mr. Prescott says, his irritation evident.

We both look over at him.

He points at Parker. “Not sure why your helmet is off your head or why you’re over here.” He turns the finger on me. “And you… hell, I don’t know what to say to you.” He scratches at his chin, eyes narrowed. “Embers, huh?” he inquires.

“Uh, yeah,” I answer hesitantly, but still looking him in the eye.

His lip twitches and he looks away, nodding.

My gaze returns to the field to find the entire team’s eyes on me. Curious if he’s shooting daggers at me, I sneak a quick peek at Nate, finding him simply watching me, intrigued.

I cup my mouth with my hands. “Well, you all heard the get down.” I turn to the O-tackle. “Okay, number...” oh hey, it’s Austin, “Number Nine, screw the adjustment. Stay on your guy, no matter what. It’s all an illusion. A mind fuck, if you will. Obviously, we’re hoping the opposing team won’t see it, but you guys need to be prepared in case someone comes at you with a similar play. Let’s see it in action.” I shove Parker in the shoulder. “Get out there, Hero.” I shoot him a wink.

He laughs and plants a sweaty kiss on my cheek, before jogging back on the field.

“You heard the boss lady. Line it up, boys,” Parker calls out and everyone gets into position, the offense now knowing what’s coming.

“Wait!” I wail.

“God damn it, Embers,” Mr. P. barks, hitting his leg with his clipboard in frustration.

“You!” I yell, pointing at the middle linebacker who keeps getting the sack. “Chillax, alright? Your QB needs to be able to play the game on Friday. He can’t do that if you keep laying him out. Save that shit for the opposing team, eh?” He laughs loudly, then makes a show of angling his back toward me so I can view the last name on the back of his practice jersey. Hollins.

Jarrod.

Oh, shit.

“Alright, boys, stop fuckin’ around. Get this done. Ms. Embers.” He shoots me a look, like he’s trying really hard to be mad, but can’t figure out why he’s not. “Sit.”

With a slight pout, I start to walk back to my seat in the bleachers.

“Ms. Embers,” he calls and I turn to him.

With his head, he motions toward the players’ bench. So, with a smile, I plant my ass right at the fifty-yard line.

After a while of watching the boys on the field, my eyes haze over and suddenly I’m in a different time, a different place altogether; yet, it’s all familiar.

The smell of the dew-covered grass, the loud cracking sounds that take over the air - a testament to the hard work and effort given from the players. The gusty winds and crisp frosty air rustles the last of the rust-colored leaves from their branches.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath in, welcoming the razor-sharp November air.

Man, I’ve missed this.

A small smile graces my lips for a half a second before my eyes fly open.

Panicked, I jump up and head straight for my bag. The second I pick it up and prepare to bail, I’m hoisted up and spun around by a very happy, very sweaty, Parker Baylor.

He drops me and bends to whisper in my ear, “Where you going, Lolli Bear?”

He pulls back to look down at me. “You were ’bout to bolt.”

Evasion isn’t lying, right?

“Perhaps I was.” I force a grin. “Perhaps I wasn’t.”

“Uh-huh,” he laughs. “Your ass was on a mission; Operation Escape Monroe’s Hooks.” He laughs harder when I smack him on the back of the head. “We usually head to Wicker after practice a couple days a week. We’re going there after showers. You in?” he asks, squeezing me tighter.

I’m about to respond when a throat clears behind us.

I turn, still in Parker’s arms, to see Nate standing there, helmet in hand, sweat dripping down his temple, and looking pissed. I purposely lean into Parker’s chest, my back to his front.

He looks away. “I’m gonna change and we’ll head out.”

“Can we go to Wicker instead?” I ask, just to be polite because I’m going, whether he likes it or not. I think he knows it because he reluctantly agrees, before stomping off.

Parker waits a good forty-five seconds before he chuckles into my hair. “You’re a mean, mean woman.”

With a sigh, I pull myself out of his grasp, and turn to pat his chest. “I am indeed. Now, go change. I don’t want to get there way before you.”

“Afraid to be alone with the infamous,” he uses a dreamy schoolgirl voice, “Nate Monroe?”

“Afraid, no.” I deadpan. “Annoyed? Most definitely.”

He smiles. “Uh-huh, okay, Lolli Bear.”

"Whatever, you better hurry your ass up. This is your fault."

His eyebrows shoot up. “My fault? How the hell is this my fault?”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine, it wasn’t your fault, but you could have warned me or something.”

His eyes flicker over my shoulder as he leans in to kiss my temple. “See you in a bit.”

As he passes, I turn to find Nate already at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me.

His hair fresh and wet – fastest shower known to man, I’m guessing.

“Ready?” he asks, his tone irked.

I sit down and cross my legs, folding my hands in a patient motion over my knees, and look at him with a cheesy smile on my face.

“What the hell are you doing, Kalani?”

When I don’t move an exasperated sigh leaves him, and he runs both hands down his face. “Let’s go.”

Still, I don’t move, just keep smiling.

He narrows his eyes, but it only takes about ten seconds for him to crack a smile and shake his head.

“See. That wasn’t so hard.” I jump up and throw my bag over my shoulder, walking down to meet him. I stop two stairs from the bottom, bringing us eye level, and narrow my gaze on him. “No brooding allowed.”

He steps forward, bringing us a breath away. “Rule for a rule?” He quirks an eyebrow.

Something in the pit of my stomach flits, making me nauseous or, well, I don’t really know. It’s strange, which pisses me off. So, naturally, I purse my lips, mask my face, and push past him.

I’m not falling for that…

He chuckles and snatches my bag off my shoulder, leading me to his fancy pants ride.

To ease the tension, I head toward the driver side; you know, for old times’ sake. His eyes narrow, but he can’t hide the amusement laced in them as he steers me toward the passenger door.

“Not today?” I ask over my shoulder.

Leaning in, he whispers, “Not ever. Now, hop in.”

The rest of the night goes by in a frenzy. That’ll happen when you put thirty rowdy guys with fresh adrenaline pumping through their veins in one place. Throw in the new girl who had to show her shit at practice and it’s a damn circus.

Everyone fired off question after question: Where did I learn? How long have I been a fan? Where did I come from? Was I single and taking marriage applications? That one was good.

I smiled, played polite, and answered most questions with a question, but all in all, it was fun. And when I told Nate I was getting a ride back to my house from Parker, he frowned and walked out, the dark-haired girl he was playing with at lunch under his arm.

Good times.

Hopping out of the shower, I brush my hair and teeth and drop onto my bed. I call for Nauni and she jumps up, snuggling into my side.

“Today was a good day, Nauni,” I whisper, running my hand down her back and across her tail.

Reaching over to my nightstand, I pull out my camera and set it down beside me.

I could just snap a picture. Of the wall. The window. Nauni. It’d be easy. Insta-photo, Polaroid and all, but the thought makes me want to puke and I like my bed too much for that.

My phone beeps next to me.

Picking it up, I find a text from Mia.

 

Meems: you alive or did the dreaded thing called high school win out?

 

Me: better call the coroner.

 

Meems: hmm… wonder if the autopsy will show death by feral females - aka jealous bitches - or hard up hot heads – aka the ENTIRE football team…

 

I bust up laughing, which scares the shit out of Nauni.

 

Me: definitely the latter.

 

Meems: yeah, figured. Heard you let your football flag fly today?

 

Me: not a big deal, Meems.

 

Meems: oh, but it is. However, since I love you I’ll play along…good job you.

 

I can’t help but smile.

 

Meems: my mom asked about you today. Guess she figured you would be over for dinner. Talk about your day and what not.

 

Me: and what not.

 

Meems: yeah.

 

I gnaw at my lip, unsure of what to say; an extreme rarity for me.

 

Meems: see you in the morning, Lollipop.

 

Thankful she gave me the out I needed, I sigh, toss my phone on my nightstand, and put the camera back in the drawer.

Today was a little crazy.

I forgot how chaotic a single day in high school could be. I made a friend in Parker, one I can tell will go the distance. I see something in him that I see in myself. He’s spunky and free spirited, but there’s more going on behind his blue eyes, something he pushes away, like me. I think he sees it too, and for that, we’ll balance one another well.

Then there’s Jarrod, a good-looking guy I might be able to kill time with. That is, if he’s not a total dud and doesn’t backpedal after Nate’s little “she’s busy” stunt. Shithead.

Right. Nate, the broody, sexy superstar looking to add another hit to his helmet. I wouldn’t be opposed to it if he wasn’t such a privileged ass about it. Assuming, instead of putting in the legwork. I’ve dealt with over privileged assholes all my life, kids of high profile people who think their name or status means they get what they want at the snap of a finger.

Yeah, me and those kids never got along.

Then there’s the bitchy blonde who clearly thinks Nate belongs to her. And shit, maybe he does. Who knows.

So, yeah. One day in and I have a friend I never wanted, but now plan to keep, a guy to play with, a guy to fend off, and girl to watch out for.

Throwing myself onto my back, I stare at the ceiling.

Fuck high school.