Текст книги "The End Game"
Автор книги: Kate McCarthy
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 28 страниц)
Brody
The first hour and a half of the lecture I’m in is about as fun as getting sacked repeatedly on the football field. I spend most of it wondering how I’m going to get through the course without failing. My professor, who also happens to be my mother’s brother, may as well be speaking Spanish. My books are spread out in front of me and a pen rests expectantly in my hand, but my notes are non-existent because none of his words sink in.
Patrick pauses to take a breath, and I want to fist pump the air at the small reprieve, even if it is because someone made the heinous error of showing up with just a half hour to go. If it were me, I wouldn’t have bothered turning up at all. Better to claim a sudden, debilitating illness than face the hardass that is my uncle.
Arriving five minutes late to class with my cousin and roommate, Jaxon, cost more than a glare. I was ordered to see him after class. That earned me a smirk from the teacher aide, Kyle Davis. I had to restrain the urge to walk over and punch the superiority off his face. Instead, I bared my teeth in a grin and gave him the finger as I took my seat, settling in for a nice, mind-numbing session on the need for ethics in the world of corporate law.
Davis has a beef with me. He was gunning for the wide receiver position in high school senior year and didn’t make the team. I did. Now he never misses an opportunity to rub my shitty grades in my face. Being Patrick’s TA this semester affords him the perfect opportunity to do so.
Giving up all pretense of taking notes, I lift my head. My gaze hits the berated student, not catching her reply as air leaves my lungs in a loud rush. She’s making her way toward the last available seat beside me. Her stride is loose-limbed, her long, slender legs toned. They weave around desks and bags on the floor with a fluidity that’s mesmerizing. My eyes rise further, watching her hips roll in a way that makes me want to hold on and take her for a ride.
My gaze reaches her face. It’s a tomato, flushed bright and red. She doesn’t catch my blatant stare. Her eyes are focused on her destination like she’s adrift in a wild storm and the empty desk beside me is her life raft.
She slumps in the seat on my right and the appealing scent of vanilla hits me hard. It’s sweet and tempting, and reminds me of eating ice cream on a warm summer night. Leaning over, she pulls books from her bag. Long tousled waves of honey-colored hair fall in her face. She straightens, tucking them behind her ears with an annoyed huff.
The sound brings me back to Earth. What in the everloving fuck? Vanilla? Honey? I write my response off as hunger. Fueling a body my size is a constant effort. I’m always eating, and when I’m not eating, I’m training. Between that, I should be studying because I’m on the fast track to failing my senior year of college.
Not a surprise. I scraped by the past three years—professors rounding up my grades by more than a single mark to see me pass their course. It’s to be expected. I’m starting wide receiver for the Colton Bulls. I’m also a top draft prospect. Suspending me from play for poor grades would be an extremely unpopular move.
In the long run it won’t do me any favors and I should care, but I don’t. The game is more important to me than breathing. Whatever it takes to play, I’ll do it.
It’s been that way since I caught the quarterback pass in peewee league and ran fifteen yards for my first touchdown. The exhilaration, the slaps on the back, and the acceptance bore down on me like a tsunami. It filled a void I didn’t understand was missing in my life. Sweeping me up, it took me along for a ride I never forgot.
So I kept at it. In training I worked harder, running until I thought my lungs would explode and my legs give out beneath me. I got better, and with it came more: more time on the field, more touchdowns, and more games. The back slaps got harder, the acceptance spread wider, and my love of the game grew hotter and brighter.
Now I’m facing the most important year of my life, the very cusp of an NFL career. I’m on the radar of several large sponsors, agents are taking notice, and the pros are calling. College football isn’t just something I do between classes for fun. It’s a full-time job. And this year I have a set of professors who aren’t like the ones of my past. There will be no favors and no bumping grades. The safety net has been pulled out from beneath me, and I’m worried.
If I tell them I have dyslexia it will help smooth my path, but the shame runs too deep to shake. All these years I’ve managed to make do, thinking it better for my teachers to make allowances based on my football ability rather than bringing the real issue to light.
My father is a high-profile politician, my mother a society wife, and both refuse to acknowledge I was born anything less than perfect. All my life they’ve put my failing grades down to simple laziness. If only I bothered to apply myself rather than waste time on the field, I would be an intellectual success, blazing political trails like my father wants. Instead, I’m an unwanted inconvenience. All I have is football, a game they don’t understand or support. Needless to say, my success in the sport remains unacknowledged in our house.
I was barely seven years old. We were seated at the table, finishing dinner, when my father first acknowledged my learning disability. “Your teachers seem to think you need some kind of additional tutelage.”
I didn’t know back then why I struggled to read and write. Other kids made it look easy, so when I met his gaze, the weight of his disappointment pushed me further down in my chair, and my feelings of confusion and shame intensified beyond repair.
Our housekeeper, Hattie, came in at that point, bringing with her my parents’ after dinner coffee and a glass of milk for me. I thanked her quietly and stared at it, feeling it curdle in my stomach before I’d taken a single sip.
“Is that what you think, Son?” my father prompted, not acknowledging Hattie or the coffee she placed before him. “That you should get special treatment because you can’t be bothered to read or write properly?”
There was no point telling him I wasn’t lazy. My father was stubborn and an egomaniac, even before my failings came to light, so I bit my tongue, preferring to draw blood rather than show emotion at his ruthless spiel.
“No, sir,” I replied quietly.
He gave a heavy sigh, not even happy when I gave agreement. “I’d tell you to try harder, but I don’t think you know how. God knows I want to wash my hands of this whole mess, but then imagine how I’d look if you ended up hauling trash for a living. You’re too damn stupid to do anything else, so you better make football count.”
Despite his shitty delivery, I can’t deny the ring of truth from his words. So I’m making football count.
As though she can hear my thoughts, the girl beside me lets out a deep sigh. I tilt my head and study her profile. There’s something wholesome and appealing about her that makes it hard to look away. Her skin has a tanned glow and her cheeks are flushed a deep shade of pink, making her the perfect advertisement for clean living.
Pausing her mad scribbling, she lifts her head to the whiteboard, and I see her eyes. The color is a clear, arctic blue at odds with the warmth her skin radiates.
If she feels my gaze, she doesn’t acknowledge it. She spends her half hour taking down the notes she missed earlier. When the lecture ends, she disappears into the herd of students and out the door.
With the room empty, I shoulder my backpack and make my way toward my uncle. All my classes are set in the mornings so I don’t have to rush anywhere like everyone else.
At noon I usually grab lunch from the dining hall, followed by an hour of watching film with the team. Around two in the afternoon we hit the field until six. Coach kicks us out after that, enforcing the NCAA rules that say we can’t officially train more than twenty hours a week. What we choose to do after that—hit some extra bags, lift weights, run a few more laps—is on us.
Reaching the front, Patrick looks me in the eye and gets straight to the point. “You’re going to fail senior year, Brody.”
Having my own fear verbalized makes the blood rush in my ears. My first instinct is deny, deny, deny. “I’m not going to—”
He interrupts me, his brow pinched. “You are. I was watching you today. You might have followed what I was saying, but you didn’t take notes and you didn’t do your assigned reading. I know because when I went over the case assignments your eyes glazed over.”
“I—”
“Don’t give me excuses. This has gone on far too long. God knows I’ve waited for your father to step in and do something, but I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.” My uncle folds his arms. “I’m organizing you a tutor. Someone qualified to help you.”
His words sink in and shame rises to the surface. “You can’t,” I hiss furiously, keeping my voice low in consideration of students passing the open doorway. “I don’t need help. I’ve made it this far on my own. I have it handled.”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” my uncle replies coolly. Unfolding his arms, he opens his briefcase and begins sliding papers inside. “If you don’t undertake the extra tutelage I arrange for you, I’m speaking to your coach.”
My hands curl into fists by my side, furious he would so easily jeopardize my playing season. “You wouldn’t,” I grind out, knowing full well he would.
“I can and I will.” He pauses for a moment to lock eyes with mine, letting me see the hard determination on his face. After a moment his eyes soften a fraction. “I don’t want to see you fail, Brody.”
After snapping his briefcase shut, he prepares to leave and panic climbs my throat. When he starts for the door, I know I’m screwed, but I make one last ditch attempt to get out of it.
“I won’t fail,” I shout after him. “But it’s possible I might if you force me to do this. I don’t have the time to go traipsing across the city every week to have a fancy tutor teach me something I know I’ll never learn!”
My uncle turns to face me, his brow arching. “I figured you’d say that, and I do happen to understand the demands football places on you, Brody. I have a student tutor in mind. It means you can study on campus after practice.”
He’s out the door before I can argue further. It’s probably for the best. I’m already clutching at straws. There’s nothing more I can say that will convince him to back down.
My thought process takes a turn for the worse. What if he lumps me with Kyle Davis? So help me God, if he does I’ll be forced to shoot something. Preferably Davis. In the junk. Assholes like that shouldn’t be allowed to procreate.
Jaxon materializes when I leave the room. “What was all that about?”
“Nothing,” I mutter. A quick glance at my watch shows I have a half hour left to eat something before training.
We head for the dining hall. Eyes follow as we stride down the walkway. Flustered packs of girls giggle and stumble in my path, and guys try drawing me into conversation about the upcoming game this weekend. It usually doesn’t bother me. I’m used to the lack of anonymity now so I don’t notice, but today I do, and I’m too raw right now to deal with it. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and tug my baseball cap low. It’s a half-assed attempt to keep people at bay, but it’s better than nothing.
We’re halfway across the quad when a commanding shout gets my attention. Ryan Carter is spinning the ever-present football in his hands as he makes his way toward us.
“’Sup, Madden,” he calls out with a grin and throws a perfect spiral my way. I stretch up and the ball lands in my arms with ease. The star quarterback whoops loudly as he jogs over. A small entourage trails behind him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride.
Reaching the two of us, Carter points to my forehead. “Man, what the hell is that?”
“What’s what?” I give him a blank stare and he jams his thumb in the spot between my brows.
“It’s a fuck furrow, bro,” he replies when I swat his hand away. “It means you need to get laid. Can’t be stressed for the season opener.”
My mind immediately goes to the blonde in class and my skin prickles with heat. Those legs wrapped around me right now would go a long way to easing this abrasive worry weighting my shoulders, but she had me distracted the entire last half hour. That’s exactly what I need to avoid this year.
Jordan
Saturday afternoon rolls around and my body is wiped from running around campus all week like a headless chicken. Leah is at Hayden’s for the night, so my intention is to crawl my way onto the sofa, spread myself out like a starfish, and watch Thor pound his big hammer on the television.
I just finish popping a packet of buttery popcorn in the microwave when Leah sends me a message.
Leah: Hayden has football tickets. Come pick us up in your new car!
Jordan: Can’t. My feet fell off and I can’t find them.
Leah: LOL! Look under the bed. And be quick about it or we’ll miss kick off.
I sigh wistfully, thinking of Chris Hemsworth waiting for me with his deep, sexy voice that reminds me of home.
Soon, I promise him silently and head to my room to find something to wear. Settling for comfort, I tug on a sleeveless orange hoodie with Colton Bulls printed on the front in navy. After teaming it with a leg-baring pair of white denim shorts, I leave my tousled hair hanging loose. With any luck, people will think the messy style is exactly what I’m aiming for.
Pocketing my keys and phone, I lock up and head for my car with an excited grin. As of this morning I have wheels. Granted they’re shitty ones, but who cares? I have relative independence, and the chance to explore the Wild West like I’ve been desperate to do since the moment I arrived.
When the crapfest Nissan Pulsar I purchased that very morning coasts into a spot at an apartment complex within walking distance from ours, I breathe a happy sigh of relief. The car made the short trip on a wing and a prayer—and a few strategically placed strips of duct tape. I always keep some on hand because the tape is a crafty fix-all for most of life’s problems: ankle sprains, tightening shin guards, emergency hem repair, and strapping guys to chairs if they get too handsy. Not that I’ve ever done the latter, but at least I have the option if needed.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I step out into the late afternoon humidity and stretch hard. Every over-worked muscle in my body quivers with delight, and I even moan a little. It’s not quite orgasmic, but it’s damn close.
I hear a long, low whistle and my eyes fly open. Straight across from me idles a big black SUV. The tint looks dark enough to be illegal, but one of the rear windows is down, revealing a carload of guys. The back door opens and one of them spills out. His unruly blond curls are stuck to his temples with sweat, and a pair of black Ray-Bans cover his eyes.
“Yo, Damien!” he yells at the driver as he walks backwards to the block of apartments. A snug white tee shirt with red sleeves stretches across his broad, athletic shoulders as he moves. “You want anything?”
The front window comes down on the SUV, revealing the driver. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low. It hides most of his face but dark hair peeks out beneath as he leans out the window.
I catch a glimpse of tanned skin and white, even teeth as he yells back at his friend, “Yeah, grab some condoms! I’m all out!”
As though feeling my gaze, he turns his head in my direction. Ugh. Busted! The guy in the passenger seat beside him looks my way too. Thankfully my phone beeps a text message. Reaching through the passenger window to grab it off the seat hides my flush.
Leah: Hurry up, asshat!
I tap out a quick reply to Leah and hit send.
Jordan: Check your damage! I’m already here.
I toss my phone back on the seat just as a small box comes flying out a third floor window and lands right at my feet. Shading my eyes, I glance up and see the guy from the SUV waving down at me.
“Sorry!” he yells. “My aim was off!”
My eyes fall back to the box. It’s a packet of Durex flavored condoms. I reach down and pick it up. The front features a banana, apple, sliced orange, and a strawberry, with a tagline that reads fruity flavors for extra fun. I give an audible snort because nothing spells out sexy times better than fruit salad.
I glance up again when the guy comes bursting out of the apartment block, his sunglasses perched on his head. He jogs over, his tanned skin covered with a light sheen of sweat from the heat.
I hold out the box. “Wow. Fruity fun. Sounds healthy.”
He gives me a quick once over before a cocky grin breaks across his face, showcasing deep dimples. He takes the box from my hand. “You look like you’re into sports and nutrition. Wanna taste my banana?”
Did he really just say that? “What an offer. Unfortunately I have to wash my hair.”
“Burn,” says one of the guys in the back of the SUV and makes a hissing noise. The sound of laughter trails from the car.
His hazel eyes crinkle, and he cocks his head curiously. “You’re Australian?”
“I am,” I reply, surprised at him picking up the accent. “From Sydney. I’m here on a sports scholarship.”
He leans up against my shitty car and folds his arms. It makes his biceps bulge temptingly, and I wonder if it’s for my benefit. “What do you play?”
I shrug, deciding to humor him while I wait for my friends. “Soccer.”
“A hot female jock that loves playing with balls? Sign me up!” He clutches a hand to his heart, and I can’t help but laugh at the dramatic gesture and at being called hot. “I’m Jaxon Draper, by the way,” he adds, holding out his hand. “But my friends call me Jax.”
His palm is rough and warm, and I like the feel of it in mine far too much so I let go quickly. “Jordan Elliott.”
“Wow, Jaxon and Jordan,” he replies. “We sound good together.”
“Really?” My brows rise dubiously. “I think we sound more like a nineteen-sixties singing duo.”
He laughs and sidles a little closer, looking up at me from beneath thick lashes. “But I can’t sing, so how about we skip the singing part and go straight to the duo?”
“Or we could just skip the duo part and go straight to the break-up?”
Jaxon’s hazel eyes light up. “Make-up sex!”
I take a much-needed step back. “I won’t win with you, will I?”
“Not if I can help it,” he replies and peers inside my car. “What’s with all the stuff?” he asks, looking at my bag of laundry. It sits next to a sports bag full of soccer gear: boots, shin guards, sweaty uniforms. I wince at the mess. I meant to get that stuff out the car, but I was too lazy to climb back up the stairs before driving over here. “You’re not moving are you? What happened? Boyfriend dump you? Because his loss is my gain. I have an apartment right here,” he says with a wave at the building in front of us. “I share it with two assholes, but I can kick them out.”
The horn of the SUV blasts and the guy driving calls out, “Hurry up, Jax!”
Jaxon waves off his friends without taking his eyes from mine. “Shut up, Damien!” he yells back, not seeming bothered by it. “Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
“Busy being a loser,” comes another voice, making me wonder how many guys are squeezed in there. I risk another glance at the car, finding them all watching us with interest.
“You should go,” I tell him, shifting uncomfortably beneath their stares.
“I should.” He pushes off from his lean on my car. “When’s your next game? I’ll come watch.”
“You already missed it. We played last night.”
“Damn. Next time then?”
We can always do with more bums on seats so I shrug an agreement, careful to keep it casual.
“So did you kick ass last night? What am I saying?” he says before I can reply. “Of course you did. Look at those long legs and cute little biceps.” Jaxon starts walking backwards, his eyes roving over me admiringly. Heat floods my cheeks from the aggressive flirting. “I bet you kill it on the field.”
“I do,” I assure him, the car keys jingling as I pocket them to head inside and chase up Leah. “I kill it off the field too, so consider yourself warned.”
“Don’t hurt me.” Jaxon holds his hands up in mock fear, but underneath I can see his pleasure at my teasing response. He points the box of condoms at me. “I’m sure I’ll being seeing you around, Killer.” Turning for the SUV, he holds the box crudely against his groin and crows to his friends, “Behold! The fruit of my loins!”
I ignore them after that, making it halfway to the building entrance before Leah comes jogging out the front door. Stripes are painted across her cheeks like war paint in our college team colors of orange, blue, and white. Matching ribbons flutter cheerily in her waves of dark brown hair.
“Ellioootttt!” she shouts loud enough for an entire mile radius to hear. Her shorts are similar to mine, but she’s wearing a short-sleeved tee shirt that fits snug across her torso. Reaching my side, she makes a kissy face. “How do I look?”
I give her an exaggerated once-over as Hayden makes his way toward us. “Like an orange tabby cat out on the prowl.”
“Perfect,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s just the look I was aiming for.”
Hearing a squeal of tires, I glance over at the SUV leaving the parking lot. I catch a flash of red taillights, a black and white number plate that reads MADDEN2, and a sticker on the back window of a football above the words: The person that said winning isn’t everything, never won anything.
Hayden and Leah are oblivious to the departing carload of guys. They’re both too busy staring at my car, their expressions dubious. I spread my arms wide and grin. “What do you think?”
Leah opens her mouth to reply. A garbled sound comes out.
“I think it’s great,” Hayden says quickly, but we all know it’s a lie. There’s nothing great about my car. At least he tried.
Fifteen minutes later I squeeze into a spot at the stadium between a red Dodge Ram and a shiny black Escalade. Leah sinks low in the backseat with a humiliated moan, her brown eyes peering out the window to make sure she hasn’t been seen.
“I’m not embarrassed at all, just so you know.”
“No one can see you anyway. They’re all inside.” I yank the handbrake on and it protests with a loud, teeth-grinding screech. I flinch at the horrendous sound.
Hayden is more vocal. “Motherfuck!”
I glare at both of them in turn. “At least I have a car,” I say, because the car Leah collected me from the airport with is Hayden’s, and right now it’s sitting at the mechanic’s with a busted whozeewhatsit.
“Only because you have a brother who sent you money to buy it,” Leah points out as Hayden makes his escape. She snaps her gum and reaches for her bag while I roll up the window. The air-conditioner is busted, so it’s either warm air blasting from the open window or slow suffocation. “I think I’d rather have no car than one that has a front bumper held on with a bunch of tape.”
“Just pretend they’re silver racing stripes. Ta da! Instant street cred.”
“People are gonna egg your car,” I hear her mumble as she shoves open the creaky door and hops out. The central locking is also stuffed, so I jam the key in the door to lock it.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I chide as the three of us walk around the front and examine the front bumper. Six vertical pieces of tape stretch from the bonnet to somewhere beneath the car. Nicky will shit a brick if he sees it. “You can barely notice it.”
A hopeful expression lights up her pretty face. “Maybe someone will steal it while we’re inside.”
Hayden looks at my car, dubious. “Steal that?”
“You’re right.” Leah laughs and karma blasts a wave of humid air in her face, whipping strands of brown hair in her open mouth. She tugs them out. “Though stranger things have happened.”
“Okay, enough dissing on my new wheels,” I say and turn for the stadium entrance. “You promised me men in tight football pants, pounding each other into the ground with fiery enthusiasm. I’m here to collect.”
After purchasing drinks from the concession stand, we clutch our plastic cups of coke and make our way inside where I promptly stutter to a stop, my mouth falling open. The brightly lit stadium is a screaming sea of Bulls fans wearing shirts in team colors. Energy radiates through the swarming crowd like electricity. It crackles in the air, raising goose bumps on my skin. Flags wave riotously, kids squeal, and grandmothers wear team caps with pride.
Leah grins at my stunned expression. “Ready to pop your American football cherry?”
“This isn’t college football,” I tell her as the charged atmosphere seeps through my skin and fizzes my blood. “This is mass hysteria.”
I know football is a big hairy deal in the States, but hearing it and seeing it are two different things. I find myself getting swept away in the excitement as we make for the student section. When the crowds push in, Hayden shifts to the front, his weighty bulk leading the charge to our seats. I fall back a little as I squeeze my way through rabid supporters.
“Keep up, Elliott!” Leah calls over her shoulder.
“I’m right behind you,” I shout over the noise.
Seconds later I’m shoved and stumble sideways, my drink tilting precariously. Holding it high to prevent further jostling, I turn, intending to apologize to the person I accidently elbowed by default.
“Watch it, sister,” the girl snaps before I can speak. Her heavily made up eyes narrow threateningly, and she folds her arms over a blue tee shirt that boasts MADDEN IS MINE! in big orange letters across her ample chest.
I raise my brows coolly at her bitchy tone, feeling the petty urge to douse her stupid shirt with my coke. Leah grabs my hand before I can take action.
“Get over yourself,” Leah retorts to the girl and yanks me forward before the situation escalates. “Don’t mess with a female Madden fan,” she warns me. “They don’t just have claws in these parts, they have guns.”
“Yeah, that’s not scary,” I mutter. I have no clue who Madden is, but if he belongs to that girl, she can have him.
We reach some kind of blockage ahead, which means maneuvering through the alumni section to reach our row in the student section. With my eyes caught on the on-field entertainment, I miss seeing the outstretched foot and stumble over it.
“Shit,” I gasp when I manage to tread on it as I try righting myself. A firm hand comes out to grip my bicep, steadying me before I do any more damage.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, lifting my head and the words trail off when I realize who I’ve just stomped all over.
Fuck my life.
Professor Draper is going to have my scholarship revoked and send me back to Australia.
“Are you okay?” he asks, perhaps mistaking my wide-eyed look of horror for something more concerning, like a mild stroke maybe.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine, just surprised to …” To see you here, considering the big stick up your ass. I shut my mouth.
“To see me at football?” He arches a brow. “Even stuffy old professors like to get out and watch a game now and then.”
This is so very awkward, and I suddenly feel like laying the blame at Leah’s door for dragging me out tonight. I shoot her a quick glare and find her gasping with laughter. Hayden is seated on her right, pretending he doesn’t know either of us.
“Patrick,” comes the exasperated tone from the lady beside him. My professor’s lips twitch visibly. “Leave the girl alone.”
I give her my attention, curious to see the woman who almost made him smile. Her hair is blond. Sweeping bangs frame intelligent brown eyes that study me with a friendly expression. “You must be Patrick’s new student transfer from Australia. Jordan, right?” He mentioned me? It can’t have been good. “I’m Olivia,” she continues with a kind smile, “but you can call me Livvy.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Livvy,” I say and shift my drink to my other hand when she holds hers out. I shake it, finding the gesture oddly formal inside a football stadium, but Livvy’s easy nature makes it less awkward.
Leah begins waving madly, and I think it’s her sad attempt at a rescue. Either way, I’m taking it. “I should get to my seat before—”
“Actually, Jordan, I have an extracurricular task for you,” Professor Draper interrupts. “Come see me early next week. Do you know where my office is?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, which is a lie, because even if his office is marked on the campus map with a giant bullseye, my sense of direction will ensure I never find it.
“Good.” He waves me off dismissively. “We’ll talk next week.”
I make my escape, and I know it’s overly dramatic of me, but it suddenly feels like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. I have a huge course load and soccer commitments that tie up every spare minute. Now I’m supposed to fit menial tasks like photocopying or fetching dry cleaning in around it? I know I missed a class, but I have a horrible feeling the punishment is going to far exceed the crime.
“Oh my gosh,” I burst out with, flopping down on my seat beside Leah. “Where are those rabid female Madden fans when you need them? I need someone to shoot me right now.”
Leah clucks sympathetically while I take a big, soothing gulp of my coke. “Did you get chewed out some more?”
“Are you kidding? After missing his class, I go and stomp all over his feet as an added insult. I’m totally screwed.”
Leah’s lips slam together with excessive force, and a noise that sounds like the low-pitched whine of a dog rises from the back of her throat.
“What?” I snap, irritated beyond all belief.
A snort breaks free from her nose. “It’s really not funny,” she gasps and begins to laugh again. “I guess you won’t be late for his class again.”
“Not with Professor Hardass on the case,” I mutter and train my eyes on the field because the announcer is introducing the team. His loud, booming voice echoes around the stadium dramatically, setting off loud squeals of excitement from around us. Four girls seated two rows from ours are the most ear splitting of all. They’re each wearing matching orange tee shirts, featuring daring cleavage and the words Madden Fever.
Everyone stands up, Leah and Hayden too, and I’m dragged to my feet with them. The crowd begins to chant, “Colton Bulls! Colton Bulls!”
