Gin

The only school lunch I refuse to eat is the pizza. It’s an affront to pizza to call the cardboard squares with glistening grease on top by the same name.

And since I forgot to pack a lunch on this pizza Friday, I’m starving by the end of the school day. I jog out to my Toyota Camry, toss my backpack on the passenger seat, and hit the nearby McDonald’s for a cheeseburger and a strawberry shake.

I eat the sandwich on the drive back to school, and when I park in a vacant spot near the main entrance and grab my backpack, there’s a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

Ugh. Probably a pissing match over whose pickup truck has a louder engine or something.

I keep my head down as I pass the back of the group, because I just want to get inside to play practice. I’ve almost reached the wide stone steps at the front entrance when the sound of a low female voice makes me stop.

“You better be crying, little girl. I’m gonna teach you to never look at him again, you hear me?”

It’s the distinctive, deep voice of Rhonda Jameson, whom everyone calls Ronnie. She’s a swimmer with broad shoulders and back muscles you can see rippling through her shirt when she walks. Like me, Ronnie is a senior. She’s mean and vindictive. I imagine some poor freshman is peeing herself right now.

The crowd cheers as a girl cries out in pain. What a bunch of assholes. They’ve got their camera phones out to record someone’s hurt and humiliation. That’s the Roper way.

I keep to myself not because I’m intimidated by my classmates, but because I have nothing in common with most of them. I’m not afraid to intervene—I can’t stand by and do nothing as someone’s about to get their ass kicked by Ronnie.

Pushing my way through the crowd, I’m disgusted as I hear Ronnie laughing at her victim’s tears.

“Not so bad now, are you?” Ronnie leers at her.

I get to the front of the crowd and see it’s Cassie Matthews that Ronnie is apparently planning to beat up. There’s a bright red handprint on Cassie’s cheek, and she’s cringing as Ronnie pulls her hair back.

Ronnie spits in her face, and the crowd responds with sounds of shock and glee. Cassie’s expression is pure terror.

“Enough,” I say, handing my half-empty milkshake to the person next to me and stepping forward.

“Nowhere near enough,” Ronnie says with a sneer. “Get the hell out of here, Gin.”

“Leave her alone. You’ve made your point.”

My face heats with a mix of disgust and anger. It’s the curse of being a redhead—I blush at the drop of a hat.

Ronnie lets go of Cassie’s hair, and Cassie exhales deeply.

“She can’t be your girlfriend,” Ronnie says, turning her attention to me. “She was trying to get with Ryder at lunch today. Or does she swing both ways?”

I’m not responding to her insinuation that I’m gay. All I want to do is get out of here and get to play practice.

“Take it up with your boyfriend, not her,” I tell Ronnie.

Ronnie arches her brows, amused. “I’ll take it up with whoever I want. She’s got this coming, so you better fuck off while you still can.”

She turns back to Cassie, who cowers in fear. Ronnie is stronger than a lot of the guys at Roper. She broke a guy’s arm last year when he accidentally touched her ass in the hallway.

“Leave her alone.” I move to stand between Cassie and Ronnie.

“All right, now you’ve pissed me off, Gin.”

Ronnie tries to brush me out of her way, but I dig my heels into the ground and crouch down. I’m only five foot six and a hundred and ten pounds. Ronnie’s got at least fifty pounds on me, but I’m not letting her get past me.

“Get out of here, Cassie,” I say over my shoulder.

Ronnie’s lips part with shock. Rapid footsteps pound the pavement behind me, and then Ronnie’s look morphs into an angry scowl.

“You dumb bitch,” Ronnie mutters.

She grabs two handfuls of my shirt and throws me to the ground. The impact knocks the breath out of me. I haven’t even been able to refill my lungs with air before Ronnie is on top of me.

I put my arms over my face as she punches. She’s heavy, her weight pressing down on my rib cage, and every blow hurts like a mother. The crowd is loving it, cheering and encouraging her.

She pulls one of my arms away and lands a hit to my nose. I cry out in pain and reach wildly toward her, hoping to poke her in the eye or something.

My hand just finds empty air. I’ve been in exactly zero fights in my life until this moment. And right now, I’m more worried about Ronnie’s weight on me than her hitting me. I can’t breathe.

“No more, Ronnie,” a male voice says from behind us.

The weight is pulled off of me, and I suck in a deep breath. My English teacher, Mr. Winters, is holding a snarling Ronnie by the back of her shirt.

“Gin?” He looks down at me, confused.

“Yeah.”

I put a hand on my nose, which is burning with pain, and warm blood coats my skin.

Mr. Winters shakes his head in disgust. “I have to get her inside. I’ll be right back for you, Gin. Don’t move.”

He takes Ronnie away, and the crowd starts to thin. Not one person offers me help.

I’m planning just to lie here and wait for Mr. Winters, but then I hear footsteps pounding on the pavement. A second later, Chase is leaning over me.

“Gin? Shit.”

His dark blond hair is glistening with sweat. He looks even better close up than I’ve imagined. There’s a faint outline of gold stubble on his face, and his eyes are the bluest blue I’ve ever seen.

He gets down on a knee and puts his arms beneath me.

Holy. Shit. Chase Matthews is touching me. I’d enjoy it more if I weren’t in so much pain.

With one arm beneath my back and the other beneath my knees, he scoops me from the ground effortlessly. Cassie comes over then, her cheeks streaked with tears.

“I got my brother because I didn’t know what else to do,” she says breathlessly. “I’m sorry, Gin…and…thanks for what you did.”

I should respond—really, I should, but all I’m able to do at the moment is stare at Chase’s profile. He’s got that focused look in his eyes as he carries me around to the side of the school.

“Go home, Cass,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of her.”

He bends down to open a door, inserting a foot in the opening and using it to open the door wide enough to walk through.

“You’re bleeding on the floor,” he says, lowering his brows in thought. “Can you reach my waist? There’s a sweat rag there. It’s clean; I haven’t used it yet.”

He smells like the sweet spice of deodorant and aftershave. I take in a deep breath of his scent as I awkwardly reach down for his waist. And I touch his upper thigh, followed by…

“Oh God!” I pull my hand back, eyes wide with horror. “I’m so sorry.”

A corner of his mouth crooks up in a grin. “Relax, Gin. That was just a football pad.”

I want to die. Right here and now. I just took out a billboard for my inexperience by mistaking a football pad for a penis.

“Here,” he says, crouching down in a squat. “See if that helps you reach it.”

I lean up a little and see the white washcloth-looking rag, a corner of it tucked into his waistband. I grab it and press it to my nose.

Chase stands back up and continues walking. I could tell him that he doesn’t need to carry me. I probably should, but…I don’t. This is the stuff my girlish fantasies are made of.

I don’t seem like the sort who has girlish fantasies, and I would never admit to them out loud. But deep inside the most secret corner of my heart, I’ve been hiding a major crush on Chase Matthews for years. There was something about him that stole my heart in childhood, and I’ve never gotten over it.

He opens the locker room door the same way he did the other one, and I’m immediately hit by the smells of soap and sanitizer.

“There’s no one in here,” he says. “The whole team’s on the field warming up.”

He carries me into another room, away from the lockers, and lays me down on some sort of padded table.

“Keep putting pressure on it,” he says, walking over to a cabinet.

He takes out supplies—a couple more white cloths, gauze, and a bottle of liquid. When he walks into the main locker room area, I take advantage of the opportunity to look at him. I could occupy quite a lot of time just looking at him in his formfitting white pants. His legs look strong, and his ass looks…well, grabbable. It’s defined and tight, the pants giving me a better look than I ever imagined I’d have.

He returns to the room I’m in, and I notice that on top, he’s wearing a red T-shirt that says “Roper Football” in white letters. One shoulder is stained darker red with my blood. I’m a total creep for liking that for some reason.

Standing next to the table, he reaches for the cloth on my nose and says, “Okay, let’s have a look.”

After setting the bloody rag aside, he dabs at my face and nose with a clean, wet one.

“Ah.” I flinch as he touches my tender nose.

“Sorry,” he says softly. “I’m trying to go easy.”

“It’s okay.”

When I was a kid, I had a crayon in my box called “Denim.” That’s the color Chase’s eyes are close up. I study them as he focuses on wiping the blood from my face. His eyes are framed with thick, light brown lashes, the color a little darker than his hair. He has a tiny freckle next to his left eye.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks, his eyes focusing on mine now.

“Uh…no.” I don’t think so anyway. I can’t admit to him that since the second he arrived, I haven’t been able to think about anything but him.

He picks up one of my arms, running his fingertips up and down my skin as he examines it. A crackle of electricity runs from the tip of my spine to the base and then back up again. I’ve never been touched by a guy, and being touched so tenderly by Chase has my heart pounding wildly.

“You sure?” He sets down my arm and then picks up the other one, examining it. “How’d you end up on the ground?”

“She…um, threw me.”

His brows lower with concern. “You want me to look at your back? It’s fine if you’d rather I didn’t, but if you’re hurt there, I can go get our trainer and have him check it out.”

“Uh…” My face flames hot as I think about pulling the back of my shirt up for him.

“It’s okay,” he says, laughing softly. “But you should have your mom look at it later.”

He picks up several pieces of gauze and hands them to me, saying, “In case your nose starts bleeding again.”

I clutch the gauze in one hand as he takes my free one and slides his other hand behind my back, helping me sit up on the table.

“You feel light-headed at all?” he asks, his brows pinched together with concern.

I shake my head.

“Gin.” My eyes meet his, my stomach fluttering over the way his deep voice sounds saying my name. “Thanks for stepping in like you did to help my sister.”

“It was no problem.” I shrug and smile awkwardly.

“She said no one else helped her.”

“You know how people are.”

He presses his lips together and nods. “Yeah. But you helped her. Ronnie could have pounded the shit out of you, you know.”

I smile weakly. “Yeah, I’m hoping my first fight was also my last.”

“Do you need help getting home?”

I slide down from the table, remembering where I’m supposed to be right now. “No, I need to get to play practice.”

He runs a hand through his hair, puts his hands on his hips, and gives me a skeptical look. “You need to go lie down and get some ice on your nose. It’s starting to swell.”

Well, that has to be really attractive. I look down at the ground, suddenly self-conscious.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Gin, seriously.” Chase tears open a small paper package. “I want you to take this Tylenol and go home to ice your nose.”

“I guess it would be bad to get blood on the scenery I’m painting.”

He nods and walks to a small refrigerator, taking out a Gatorade, opening it, and handing it to me.

As he drops the two Tylenol tablets into my hand, his fingertips brush across my skin, sending a warm pulse of excitement that hits every nerve ending in my body.

I take the medicine, and he grins his approval.

“I’ll walk you out to your car. Tell me if you start to feel light-headed, okay? You lost a decent amount of blood.”

He walks beside me, opening doors so I can walk through first and looking down at me every now and then to see if I’m okay. I’m relieved we don’t talk, because what would I say? I’m way out of my comfort zone here.

I’m not one of those girls who wants to make a play for Chase. He doesn’t see me that way, and I know it. I’d be mortified if he ever knew about my crush on him. The silence between us allows me to remain the cool and collected Gin everyone knows me as. Yes, there is a miniature gymnast doing a floor routine in my stomach right now, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Chase even opens my driver’s side car door for me.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” he asks as I slide into the car and dig my keys out of my backpack.

“I’m fine. Thanks for your help.”

He looks down at me for a couple seconds, seeming to need to decide for himself if I’m okay.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Text me when you get home so I know you made it.” He pulls out a cell phone and says, “What’s your number?”

My mouth goes dry, and I swallow hard. I have to remind myself that this isn’t him wanting my number for real. It’s him wanting to make sure the girl who just got punched standing up for his sister gets home okay.

I give him my number, and he types out a message.

“You’ve got my number now. Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

He closes the door, and I start my car. My heart is pounding as I pull out of my parking spot, forcing myself not to look at Chase again.

That was surreal. I can’t believe any of it happened. It was the most words Chase has ever spoken to me, unless our group project on the gallbladder in seventh-grade science class counts.

I’m about to pull out of the parking lot when I grab my backpack and pull my phone out of a pocket. I can’t help myself.

I look at the screen of my iPhone and see his message: Hey, it’s Chase.

I’m fluttery again. Careful not to touch it so he doesn’t get a read confirmation while I’m still in the parking lot, I set my phone down and focus on driving.

This is going to make for an interesting dinner conversation with my mom tonight.