The game starts, and as soon as Penn goes on the field, it is clear he is shitting all over the game. Blatantly so. He doesn’t even do it gradually. My heart lurches in my chest as Penn pretends to struggle with dropped passes, dragging his feet from side to side. He is immobile and doesn’t catch the ball even when it hits him in the chest.
Literally.
He is lagging on the field, heavy and dense, the opposite of the talented player he is. His teammates yell in frustration, one of them kicking a mountain of mud. On the sidelines, his coach is on the verge of a heart attack, but Penn pretends not to listen. Tucked in his own universe, he keeps missing balls, looking the other way in confusion when he gets an opportunity, and stopping every few minutes to lean down on his knees as if he is out of breath.
Mid-game, Penn’s coach summons them, probably coming up with a new strategy, and Penn nods and looks attentive and determined. But then when he gets back on the field again—he is looking even worse.
Then there’s Knight. Dean is almost spitting out a lung screaming next to Dad in the stands. Wondering aloud why on earth his quarterback son just missed a chance at a touchdown by throwing the ball to the sideline.
“What the heck is going on?” Dean kicks the bleacher seat in front of him, and an overweight, fifty-something father turns around and looks at him sharply.
“Your son plays like shit.”
“Least he doesn’t smell like it,” Dean retorts.
“I think I know what’s happening,” Dad murmurs wryly. “And you can be damn proud, Cole.”
“And why is that? En-fucking-lighten me, Jaime.”
Because Knight refuses to win the game. Penn is trying to kill Las Juntas’ chance to win so he can save me, but Knight doesn’t let him because he knows he deserves it.
Knight is privy to another thing, too. He knows I’m done here.
I’m leaving town tomorrow. I have nothing to win, and nothing to lose. Which is exactly why I find myself standing up and descending the bleachers. I don’t know what I’m doing. All I do know is I’m definitely going to draw attention to myself, something I vowed not to do since I got kicked off the cheer team and Principal Prichard bailed, leaving a trail of scandalous rumors about us in his wake. I run down the stairs, hop over the fence, plant myself on the sidelines next to All Saints High’s coach. With my toes on the grass and the heel of my feet on the concrete, I cup my mouth with both hands.
“Penn Scully, if you’re half the man I know you are, you will show up on this field,” I scream.
All eyes dart to me. Penn, who is already pacing slow, stops completely, tearing his helmet off and dumping it on the field, his hard eyes colliding with mine.
“Number twenty-two!” The referee throws the yellow penalty flag for unsportsmanlike conduct. “Your team loses fifteen yards.”
“Scully!” His coach barks, “I will bench you.”
“Be my fucking guest.” Penn’s lips curl in amusement, our gaze never breaking.
I feel naked and raw and judged. The world continues spinning, and the game carries on. The ball went over on downs, and now Knight has it. Las Juntas are on the defense, but Penn is still glued to his spot, mesmerized by the pleas in my eyes. The cheerleaders stop dancing on the sidelines and throw me a pitying look. I know what they think.
It finally happened. Bitch has lost her mind.
I smile, free-falling into being someone different. Someone imperfect. Someone real. Unchaining myself from what people think of me, of how they see me, of what they will say after the game.
“I want you to bury these assholes in the ground.” My lungs burn as I scream the words, a deranged smile threatening to cut my cheeks in half, but I’m not even remotely happy. I’m going against my team—against the Saints, whom I cheered on for four years. I can hear footfalls coming. Two of All Saints High’s teachers who act as security—Miss Linde and Mr. Hathaway—take me by my wrists and usher me away from the field. Daddy jumps over the fence, lithe and athletic like one of the football players, and tears Mr. Hathaway’s hand from mine.
“Touch my daughter against her will one more time, and I will bury you with legal shit until your retirement day.”
“Twenty-two!” I hear whistling, and Penn’s coach is practically storming onto the field, but our eyes never waver. “Twenty-goddamn-two! Put your damn helmet on, boy!”
“Penn!” I cry out.
He is breaking approximately five thousand rules by talking to me in the middle of the game, and now everyone stops. Gus kicks the grass, cursing. He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. Dad’s arms wrap around my waist, dragging me away from the field and back up to the bleachers.