Snatched

“He’s good,” Mandy says quietly to me. I blink and tear my eyes away from Finn.

“He is,” I agree.

“At football,” she adds meaningfully, but there’s something forgiving in her expression. I have no doubt that she still doesn’t like Finn, or at least, the idea of me and Finn, but I can tell she’s appreciative that when Mom asked me about Bradley, I didn’t doom them out of spite.

“Give him a chance. I’m giving Bradley a chance,” I remind her quietly.

“I’m trying. Really,” Mandy says lowly, with a sigh, then lifts her chin toward the field. “Seeing him in those tight pants is helping.”

“You should see him without those tight pants.” I joke, and while she looks appropriately scandalized, Mandy laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Mom asks, turning to us.

“Kenley’s life,” Mandy says, elbowing me.

Mom looks over her shoulder to confirm Bradley is too caught in the game to listen to what she’s about to say. “Speaking of Kenley’s life…Mandy, do you think Bradley might be able to introduce her to someone on the rowing team? There’s got to be another single boy—”

“Mom, ew, no,” I protest.

“What! Bradley is a delight!” Mom says.

“Rowers aren’t her athlete of choice,” Mandy says, laughing.

“I don’t know why not,” Mom says, shaking her head. “Kenley, you know more than anyone that I hate women going to college just to look for a husband. But I also know how hard it is to meet people once you’re out of school, and—”

“Mom, oh my god, stop. Please, stop,” I say, shaking my head.

“I’m just saying—”

“Please stop,” I repeat, putting my hands over my eyes. Mandy is laughing harder now; she scoots around us to get closer to Bradley, starts cheering with the rest of the crowd. Harton, with Finn’s leadership, has driven the ball down the field, within ten yards of the end zone. The roar of the crowd peaks at the snap; it’s almost impossible to follow as players rush toward one another, bodies dash forward, to the ground, back. Finn passes the ball— no, it was a fake, he actually passes now to another player, and then—

TOUCHDOWN TOUCHDOWN TOUCHDOWN the screens flash. The band plays a loud and brassy rendition of the school’s fight song, the crowd screams, I jump up and down with my sister and Bradley and my mother and the rest of the stadium.

I’ve never been so excited about a football game before, but happiness is shooting through me as they zoom in on Finn’s face, his grin just distinguishable underneath his helmet. I wish he could see me, wish I could make eye contact with him, but of course, it’s a ninety-thousand person stadium, so that’s not going to happen. Still, I smile like we’re staring at one another, watching his face on the enormous screen, cheering him on with my heart just as hard as I am with my words.

“He’s one of your clients, right?” my mother calls out, barely audible over the still insane levels of noise around us.

“Yep!” I answer proudly, as if my tutoring him in math might have anything to do with his football acumen.

“The one that got arrested?” Mom goes on.

“Yep!” I answer again. Less proudly.

“Well, he might be a mess, but he can sure play the game,” Mom says with admiration— I think.

“He’s not a mess. Really. He’s pretty great,” I correct her as the crowd settles, and Harton goes on the defensive.

Mom looks wary. “I’m just glad he’s not getting arrested mid-session anymore. But don’t you go getting all Stockholm Syndrome with these jocks, honey. I know Joshua Reams likes to assign you to his tough cases, but don’t forget that you’re the one with an actual future to protect.”

I hesitate, unsure exactly how to respond— how I can respond. “They have futures. Just maybe not in academia.”

“Sure, sure, I didn’t mean it like that,” Mom says, waving her hand a little to dismiss any other interpretation of her words. “I just mean, you’re saying he’s great, but right now the standard for greatness is not getting arrested. Or getting into fist fights. Both of which he had a reputation for in Florida, right? But your reputation for greatness is going to come from actual accomplishments, not just staying out of trouble.”

“Mom, seriously, Finn is a genuinely nice guy,” I say.

“I know! I’m sure he is. I’m sure they all are, deep down. Very deep down, with some of them,” Mom says, looking back to the field and wrinkling her nose. “Like that Adams boy.”

“Yeah, but they aren’t all like him,” I say. My words could not be timed more poorly— because right now, they’re filling a time out by playing interviews with the Harton players they took before the game.

Adams is up first, talking about the importance of teamwork and brotherhood, but doing it all with a smile so dickish that it’s almost like watching a cartoon. A few other players go by, then there’s Finn, his face larger than life before me.