The Trouble with You (Rixon Raiders 1)

Cameron Chase was everything I hated.

And yet, I hadn’t been able to forget the feel of his lips moving against mine, the way he’d held me, touched me. So I did the only thing I could—I spent the week pretending he didn’t exist.

Of course, I didn’t tell Flick; it would only fuel her theory that Cameron actually felt something for me. Even post-kiss I still wasn’t convinced he did. His loyalty to my brother, the fact he was a Raider, the fact he’d spent just as many years taunting me as Jason, told me everything I needed to know about a guy like Cameron Chase.

But tonight, there was no escaping him.

“Remind me why we’re here again?” I groaned, trailing after Flick as she moved deeper into the sea of blue and white.

“Because,” she called over her shoulder, a cheesy grin plastered on her face. “It’s senior year and we’re embracing it, and you agreed to help your best friend fulfil her silly little list, remember?”

“How could I forget?” I stuck my tongue out at her. “Just so long as you’re aware how painful this is for me. Did I tell you, I really really hate football?” My reply carried a little too loud causing a few people around us to throw daggers at me.

“Hails,” Flick said, coming up beside me and shoving her arm through mine. “We’re here to have fun. I know you hate football,” she lowered her voice. “I know it’s really hurting you to be here, but this is the last time we’ll ever get the chance to do this. In four years time, you don’t want to look back and regret not coming to one of these things.”

I couldn’t imagine a scenario where that ever happened.

My eyes scanned the football field, taking in the excited gaggles of girls, the ear-splitting noise, the marching band playing their little hearts out to a distracted audience. The air was electric, charged with the energy of eight-hundred kids all gathered to pay homage to their team. But the only thing it stirred inside me was a mild stomach ache and a bad case of eye rolls.

“Don’t look so glum.” Flick snickered, thrusting a handful of glow sticks at me.

“Am I supposed to know what to do with these?”

She shook her head, amusement glittering in her eyes, and held up her wrists. “Snap them and wear them.”

“But why?”

“You’ll see,” was all she said as she grabbed my hand and pulled me deeper into the crowd, and it hit me how at ease she was with all of this.

The section of the bleachers we’d been ushered to sit in was crammed. Homemade signs littered the crowd, and kids spilled out onto the edge of the field. The cheer squad was gathered near the raised stage where Principal Finnigan and Coach Hasson were standing. It was football fanaticism at its finest, everyone waiting to get a glimpse at this year’s Varsity team; the team they hoped would bring them home the State Championship.

Flick managed to find us two seats halfway up the bleachers next to a group of junior girls sporting the all too familiar Raiders logo on their cheeks. They were proudly waving their homemade signs for ‘I heart Jason’ and ‘Call me Cameron’. They offered us spirit-worthy smiles but the nicest greeting I could muster was an eye roll and pursed lips. Even though they knew, like every other girl at Rixon, the most attention they could expect from my step-brother was a drunken fuck and tap on the ass on the way out, it didn’t matter. I guess you got a free pass for being a cocky, conceited asshole when you were a five-star recruit, holding numerous season records, chasing the all-time State passing yards record. I only knew because Kent kept a board in the kitchen totaling all Jason’s stats. Every morning as I enjoyed my coffee and Pop-Tart, I got a little reminder that Jason—football—was part of my life whether I liked it or not.

Only for another few months.

“I’m surprised you didn’t make something.” I nudged Flick, motioning to the girls. “Since you know… you’re embracing this and all.”

“Behave,” she replied around a sardonic smile. “Oh look, it’s about to start.” Flick gave a little clap and I grumbled beneath my breath.

The marching band moved into formation, but it was impossible to hear them over the roar of the crowd. The force of it slammed into me, sending my heart freefalling, electrifying the hairs along my arms and the back of my neck. “Holy shit,” I said to no one in particular. Glancing at Flick, I saw she was grinning, her eyes set firmly on the band as they performed the school’s song. The team mascot, a giant blue Viking head, waddled onto the field facing off against a red and white Eagle. The crowd booed, laughter carrying across the bleachers like a wave.

“Is this for real?” I asked Flick out of the side of my mouth, aware of everyone around us being completely engrossed, watc

hing a foam Viking try to take down a foam Eagle. Thankfully, the cringeworthy display didn’t last too long, and they sauntered off the field, the Viking victorious, of course.

I was just about to ask Flick what we needed the glow sticks for, when the floodlights cut out, plunging the whole place into darkness.

“What the—” Adrenaline coursed through me, my heart catapulting into my throat, as neon lights stood out against the inky backdrop, and the opening beats of Get Ready for This blasted out through the PA system. I realized now all the signs and banners were painted in neon paint, and the cheerleaders were dressed in white shirts, blue neon Rs splashed against their chests, glow sticks around their wrists and ankles. Even I couldn’t deny the black light set up was effective.

When their display ended, the crowd erupted again, sending tremors reverberating through the place, and I slipped my arm through Flick’s. “This is crazy,” I said, nestling into her side.

“It’s something all right,” she breathed out, and for a second my stomach sank. Surely, I wasn’t going to lose my best friend—the one person who had always understood me—to football?

My thoughts quickly evaporated when the Imagine Dragons’ Whatever It Takes boomed across the field. Not a single person remained seated. The eight-hundred strong crowd were on their feet, cheering and clapping, hooting and hollering. It was frenzied. Wild. It was high school lunacy at its best. And even I—the most anti-football person to have ever lived in Rixon—couldn’t deny the atmosphere was electric. Infectious. Although I wanted to block it all out, to hate it as much as I’d always hated it; it seeped into me, coursing through my veins like wildfire. And no matter how dangerous you knew it was, how much safer it was to run away from the flames, you couldn’t help but stop and watch them burn.

But the spell was broken when my eyes landed on my step-brother leading his team onto the field, the number 1 on his jersey lit up with neon paint; Cameron, number 14, on his right; and Asher, number 42, on his left. The three of them stood slightly ahead of the rest of the team. They reminded me of a general and his lieutenants leading their army to war; heads held high, war paint streaked across their faces, helmets hanging at their sides like deadly weapons. Their names pierced the air as girls screamed and guys chanted. Even Flick looked ready to join in the chorus until I pinched her arm, levelling her with a hard look.

“What?” She shrugged. “When in Rome...” Her brows waggled before she turned back to the field and yelled, “We love you QB One, have babies with me.”