3
Ezra
The hit blindsides me, two-hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle. I’m flung across the turf, sliding three feet with Mitchell Paine grinning down at me.
“Baxter!” Coach Chandler yells, “Get off your ass and prove to me you should be out here!”
Mitchell heaves his massive body off of mine and another figure blocks out the sun. I blink and see a gloved hand outstretched.
“You okay?” Finn asks, taking my hand and helping me off the ground.
“Yeah, sun got in my eye, and I didn’t see him coming.”
He gives me a look, like he’s not sure he believes me, but doesn’t say anything. He pats me on the back and runs back over to get in formation. The truth is that I caught a glimpse of Kenley walking across the track and became completely and wholly distracted.
Damn, that girl is gonna kill me.
“Ezra!” my name bounces off the track that surrounds the practice fields. I wince, looking over at where my father is standing with Coach Chandler. Over the last few weeks, he’s started coming to afternoon practices. Some kids would love it, but my dad has been semi-neglectful for the past three years; the last thing I need is for him to take a sudden interest in my life.
He waves me over, and Coach doesn’t say anything, so I jog to the side of the field. When I get there Coach Chandler heads out to the field leaving me alone with my dad.
“What the hell’s going on out there, son?” he asks, hands on his hips.
“Sorry, sun got in my eye.”
“The sun?” He shakes his head. “What’s going to happen on Friday night when the glare of the lights is raining down on you? Or the band starts to play. Or,” he says, his voice filled with meaning, “the cheerleaders walk by in their short skirts?”
Busted.
How he knew that’s what distracted me, I’ll never know, but, if I had to guess, it’s because the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My dad is a hound.
He grabs me by the helmet mouthguard. “You had three years to fuck around, Ez, but now it’s time for you to get your shit together. You’re an excellent player—you should be captain, not Finn Holloway—but it takes more than skills to lead a team, and right now Finn has all of that. There’s still time to make a difference. You win the next two games, and you’ll get into the playoffs and that’ll get you the notice you need from scouts.”
“Scouts?”
“You think you’re getting into school on your academics? You have a record, one I plan to bury once you turn eighteen. Get out there and show them you’re a legacy, that you deserve one of these,” he points to the gold championship ring he never takes off, “that you’re a winner.”
He pushes me off, leaving my head rattling, and I escape back on the field. I think back to when he paid attention to me like this before—it was prior to the trouble, the drugs, the petty arrests—back when football ruled my life. Now that I’m back in the game, he’s back in my life.
I’m not sure it’s the trade-off I want.
Coach blows his whistle, and we get into position, my dad still pacing the side line, confirming that what I want and what I’m going to get are two very different things.
4
Kenley
“What did you get for number three?” I ask, using my phone as a flashlight. Finn and I are out on the roof outside my window. The temperature has cooled, and both of us are wearing layers while our backs are pressed against the house. Finn’s hand is on my leg, providing warmth and weight. His mouth is on my neck, both cool and hot.
I’m trying to get my AP Lit homework done, but Finn Holloway has other ideas.
Very distracting ideas.
“Finn,” I say, twisting away from him pretending like my heart isn’t racing. “Did you do your homework?”
“Well,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me against his side. His cold fingers dip under the hem of my shirt, sending both a chill up my spine and a flare of heat to my belly. “First, I had football practice, and after that we had a meeting where we listened to Coach tell us again how important the next two games are. When he finally let us leave, I had to shower, then eat dinner, then come over and see you.”
His mouth is near my ear, his breath warm and yes, he smells like soapy, clean goodness. “So basically, what you’re saying is that no, you didn’t do your homework.”