Perfect Couple (Superlatives 2)

He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Do you want me to try it?”

“I heard you were one point away from getting your license revoked because of all your speeding tickets.”

“True. See? That’s why I need you, Harper.”

I looped the strap of my camera bag over my bare shoulder. As we turned for the pavilion, I said casually, “I’ve been reading about you in the newspaper.”

“Yeah.” He smiled wryly. “That’s taken some getting used to. You have to keep it in perspective. In a town this small, high school football is entertainment. The only alternatives are the beach and a theater showing two movies. Unless, of course, you drive to Tampa with Kennedy to see the latest indie.”

A little sarcasm? His tone wasn’t sarcastic, but his message must be. Maybe he liked me after all. But I wouldn’t let him change the subject, because I wanted him to explain something to me. “I was curious about this morning’s newspaper article. I couldn’t believe they were so down on you—and after you won the game!”

His smile faded. Though we were walking leisurely across a parking lot, his whole body took on a guarded look like he was about to get tackled.

“I just wondered whether they were making that up to sell newspapers,” I said, “or if there was really something wrong with you at the game.”

He watched me silently. Not a muscle moved in his face.

I asked him, “Are you having problems with somebody because Noah came out?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Are you?”

I shrugged. “Kennedy was mad about what Sawyer said at the end of class.”

Brody nodded. “I felt bad about leaving you alone in Ms. Patel’s room after that. I couldn’t tell whether you were upset. You never look like anything bothers you.”

“I don’t?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

He shook his head but watched me through his shades. As a result, I began to feel very hot and bothered. Heat crept up my neck and along my jawline.

“Now you do seem upset,” he said. “Kennedy has no right to be mad at you because of something Sawyer said. If he was man enough, he’d take it up with Sawyer.”

The idea of this made me uncomfortable. Kennedy was much bigger. Sawyer was more cunning and perhaps a little evil.

We reached the edge of the parking lot and the wooden stairs down to the pavilion. I called over my shoulder, “If it’s not Noah, what was bothering you at the game? Or was there anything at all? You won, so the newspaper critiquing how you won seems kind of harsh.”

He laughed shortly. “I wish the newspaper would hire you.”

That was a good one. It was all I could do to keep track of which direction the ball was going on the field. I asked, “Is there something wrong?”

The pavilion was a large octagon with a vaulted wooden ceiling and thick stucco walls built to withstand tropical storms. Windows cut in all sides gave us a view of the beach. The sound of the ocean echoed inside. Beachgoers tended to use the pavilion as a lunchtime picnic area, or a shelter from the midday sun. In the late afternoon, it was empty.

The shelter was so dark in contrast to the bright day that I had to take off Brody’s sunglasses to see. I hung the earpiece on the side string of my bikini bottoms, which I meant to be provocative but probably carried all the sexual overtone of a pair of pliers in a tool belt.

Brody removed his shades too. The shadows overhead descended across his face. The circles under his eyes seemed darker. He blinked and took a long breath. Something was wrong.

He set one shoulder against the wall. “Don’t tell anybody,” he said. “Only Coach knows.”

I backed to the stucco beside him. “I’m good at keeping secrets,” I promised.

He watched me for a moment and slowly raked his hair out of his eyes. “I got hurt,” he said. “That part’s not a secret.”

“When?” I asked sharply. “It may not be a secret, but I didn’t hear about it.” If I had, I wouldn’t have been able to think about anything else. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t I look okay?”

“Brody!” I wailed, fed up with his teasing. I didn’t want to joke about this.

“Yes, yes, I’m okay,” he assured me, waving my concern away. “It happened before school started, in practice. I got dinged.”

“Dinged,” I repeated. “What’s that mean?”

“I got my bell rung.”

“Your bell,” I puzzled. Was that a euphemism for an injury to the jockstrap area? Even Brody would have turned way redder in the face if he was admitting that.

“I got knocked out,” he explained.

“Oh!” I gasped. “Brody!”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said nonsensically. “It was an accident. The thing is, usually the quarterback doesn’t get hit in practice. The whole team is relying on the quarterback during games, so we don’t take chances in practice. We just got tripped up this time. We were running a new play. Somebody shoved Noah off balance. He couldn’t catch himself, and he elbowed me. Hard. I don’t know if you’ve noticed Noah’s bony-ass elbows. I fell straight back”—he lifted both forearms and fell back a little to show me—“and landed right on my helmet.” He cradled the back of his head in one hand. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”

“You don’t remember?”