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KAYLA
What the hell just happened?
I clutched the blue binder in my hands as if it contained nuclear launch codes and stared blankly at the dashboard. Did Jay realize what he’d asked me to sacrifice? Cheering for Ohio State was everything. Couldn’t he have given me more than two seconds to think about it before hanging up?
I sat in the passenger seat of my dad’s car and felt adrift.
“He says I have to bring it back, or he’s going to get benched.”
My dad didn’t say anything, but I could read his body language. There was tension in his hand on the steering wheel as he continued to drive us home.
“If I miss the parade tonight, there’s no way they’ll let me participate tomorrow.” I squeezed the binder so hard, the edges bit into my fingers. “What do I do?”
He looked deep in thought. “We’ll huddle up with your mom and figure it out.”
Mom was surprised to see me come in with my dad, and she could tell something was wrong just from our expressions. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”
The one advantage of having the playbook in my grip was it distracted me from embarrassment. “My car broke down outside of Toledo this morning. Dad came and got me.”
“Toledo? Why were you there?” She gazed at me like I was crazy, until the realization snapped in place. The disappointment from her was heavy. “Oh. I see.”
“You’re going to want to sit down for this,” Dad said to her.
She looked ill as she sank down into a chair at the kitchen table. “There’s more?”
I laid the playbook down in front of me and sat across from her. The chair creaked as my dad took the one beside me. Had he done it to show me he was on my side? I pressed my hand on top of the binder and wished it didn’t exist.
Tomorrow was supposed to be the day I confronted my new reality, where I’d figure out how the heck I was going to cheer for both my school and my boyfriend in the same game. I wasn’t ready. I needed one more day.
My mom eyed the binder. “What’s that?”
“Michigan’s playbook,” I whispered.
My mother pushed back from the table, acting like it was a bomb that would explode any second. Her frantic gaze went from me, to the book, and back again. I watched all the emotions play out on her face. Shock. Doubt. Cautious interest.
And unexpectedly, anger. “Kayla Elizabeth McCarthy, did you steal this?”
I was a little surprised she went there, and a lot surprised that if I had, she’d be angry about it. Wasn’t an OSU win over Michigan the most important thing?
I shook my head. “No, it was an accident. Jay says I need to bring it back to him tonight, but if I miss my cheerleading commitment, I’ll lose my spot on the squad.” I turned to my dad. “Why did I let you talk me into telling her?”
“You know I’m no good at this emotional, talky stuff. You need to get your mom’s advice.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You mean, on which coach I should give it to first?”
Dad ignored my sarcasm and turned his serious gaze to her. “Is that what you think she should do?”
My mom pressed her fingertips to her lips, then dragged them down to rest at the base of her throat. “It’d probably secure our trip to the National Championship.”
I swallowed so hard, it was painful.
“What about him?” he asked. “You know what it would do to him, right?”
She considered it for a long moment. “It’d end his career.”
Her gaze dropped to the book, and she eyed it almost longingly. But then she frowned at herself and looked at me, her expression serious. “Even though your father and I raised you to be loyal to OSU, maybe borderline fanatical—we didn’t raise you to do something like that.” She sounded worried. “Did we?”
“No,” I admitted. “I love Ohio State. But…” My heart hammered in my chest as the words pressed to get out. “I think I might . . . love him . . . more.”
It stunned her, and in her eyes, I watched the battle wage between the OSU fan and the mother who wanted her daughter to be happy. It was surprisingly short, and ended in my favor. “Well,” she whispered, “that’s”—she struggled over the words—“going to take some getting used to.”
She looked horribly uncomfortable, and my father stared at the tabletop like he’d rather be anywhere else, but I felt lighter. Admitting it to both my parents and myself was freeing.
My mother leaned her elbows on the table. “I know how much cheerleading means to you, but, Kayla, I think you know what you need to do here.”
My dad abruptly joined the conversation, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “How about you give the book to me? I’ll look through it, make some notes. See if there’s any room for improvement before you drive it back to him.”
Neither my mom or I cracked a smile. He shrugged, dug out his keys, and slid them across the table toward my mother. “You should drive her.”
She shot him a look that said, you’ve got to be joking, and passed the keys on to me. “No. Baby steps, Bob. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact our daughter loves a Wolverine.”
I looked at the playbook. I grabbed it, stuffed it in my bag, and picked up the keys. “Thank you.”
“Don’t speed,” my dad warned. “You get caught by a state trooper and they find that book? They’ll throw your ass in jail for not turning it over to Coach Vaughn.”
I was sure he wasn’t joking.
I tried not to speed, but Jay’s phone went straight to voicemail when I called him repeatedly, and he didn’t return any of my messages. It was the eve of The Game and potentially the biggest one in Michigan’s history, so he was probably shuffled from practice, to the team dinner, and to a press conference. If the coaching staff was like ours, he’d get in trouble just for looking at his phone.
When I got to the campus and parked, I scrolled through websites on my phone until I found the location of the rally. I’d have to run. I tucked the playbook under an arm, and flew—
Crap! I skidded to a stop. I was still wearing my red OSU cheerleading warm-ups. Back to the car I went, stripping down to a pair of black shorts and a plain white t-shirt. And it made me realize I wasn’t being smart about this.
I yanked my organizational binder out of my backpack—thank God it didn’t say OSU on it—and popped open the rings, pulling the papers out and chucked them in the car. Then, I closed the smaller playbook inside the binder, disguising it.
I ran fast, not only because I was in a hurry, but to avoid the frostbite. It was freezing outside. I didn’t have to use my phone long to tell me where I was going. I ended up following the mob.
A temporary stage had been erected in front of the fieldhouse. Football players, cheerleaders and coaching staff looked out onto the parking lot before them, which was packed with Michigan fans. It was a carpet of blue and yellow. I couldn’t see Jay at first, but my heart lurched when I did. He looked nervous, and it was a shock to the system to see my confident boyfriend like that. How the hell was I going to get to him?
I shivered in the cold and scanned the crowd until I spotted what I was looking for.
“Hey, you!” I yelled, overly enthusiastic.
The guy was sitting on a bench, and worked on a homemade sign that read “Hail Yes!” He turned his attention to me and stared with disbelief. He was probably trying to figure out where he knew me from as I jogged over.
“Hey . . . you,” he repeated, skeptical.
“Can I borrow that?” I gestured to his large blue marker, and didn’t wait for an answer.
I set the binder down on the empty bench and plucked the fat marker from his hand. He watched me critically as I pulled my shirt away from my body and wrote ‘Go Blue’ on the tight white cotton in big letters, two lines. It was probably lopsided since I had to scribble upside-down, but it would work.
“Thanks,” I said, capping the marker and tossing it back to him.
He was looking at me funny. Actually, he was looking at my chest funny. I glanced down and cursed. When the shirt had snapped back into place, the “G” and the “O” each circled a boob. I looked ridiculous.
The crowd was dense as I got closer to the stage, but the good thing about being petite was I could slip through tight spaces. I worked my way up to the front of the temporary railing, but I was still too far away, and there was an army of security guys between me and Jay.
To my right, a section was corded off and a line had formed at the base of the steps. These students were going up on stage? At the front of the line, a girl wearing a headset looked down at the clipboard in her hands.
“Jordan Ruttles?” she called.
A hand near me shot up and Headset Girl waved him over. The excited guy moved past security and took his place at the end of the line, high-fiving with the girl ahead of him. I inched closer, curious.
Headset Girl glanced down at her clipboard, and made an unsure face. “Uh . . . Shree-vid-ee-ah Sangupta?”
I scanned the crowd just as Headset Girl did. No hands went up. No one came forward.
“Am I saying that right?” she asked the crowd. “Shreevidia?”
God hates a quitter, my father always said. It was a gamble, but how could I not take it? I flung my hand up. “Yes, that’s me.”
Headset Girl’s eyes went narrow with suspicion. “Seriously?”
I nodded and pretended not to notice the ridiculous looks I was drawing as I ducked under the tape and scurried to the back of the line. Headset Girl gave me a once-over and after a moment, seemed to decide she was okay with me. “You’re in the front, Sangupta.”
“Oh?” I squeezed the binder under my arm, trying to hold in both my nerves and the shiver from the cold. I followed the direction and went to stand at the front of the line. I peered across the stage. All the players were on the other side. I couldn’t see them past the cheerleaders.
“Okay, everyone’s here,” Headset Girl announced. A smile burst on her face. “Got your questions ready for ’em, superfans?”
Everyone else in line cheered and nodded, but I could only form two words in my head.
Oh.
Shit.