Page 3 of A Quarterback for Christmas

I glance at my dad and am taken aback by what I see. The boy is watching me, completely ignoring my father's glare. His intense brown eyes stare atme, and at first, there's a small hope that maybe it's because Cupid struck him with his arrow too. He spoke my name in a barely-there whisper, and although heblinked a few times, he's not turning away. He wants me to know he’s looking. Maybe there's something else going on between us?

Could this be my first real love?

But then, a pounding pain brings me back to reality. It's August, not February, so Cupid's on a break, and I'm not living in some cheesy Hallmark Christmas movie. The boy must be looking at the bright red lump living on my head.

“You’d be a great addition to the team, son.”

Son?

SON?!

He’s known this boy for ten minutes, and he’s already calling him son. It’s like he’s completely forgotten that his actual daughter is sitting here begging for his attention. I don’t matter, though. What matters to my dad is getting this boy in my high school so we can win games – something they’ve been lacking over the last few years. What matters is bringing this boy intomyhigh school,myterritory,mylife, to take even more ofmyfather’s attention away fromme.

I’m aware of how selfish I sound, but my dad’s been desperate to be the coach for St. Michael’s since I was born, and he’d do anything to make that happen. It’s the one defining characteristic I can remember about him at every age. He sang their fight song to me while I was in my mother’s belly. My first words were, ‘go Mike’s,’ and I wore their cheerleading uniform for my first five Halloween costumes. I’ve never had a moment with my dad that wasn’t related to football, and I wanted that so badly. Being the biggest part of his day just because we were together would make my life.

My fingers clench against the swing’s chains so hard that I swear I can feel them buckling under the pressure. My jaw tightens, and I slowly ground my molars as I watch my father slap the boy’s back and smile.

I’m angry, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

The boy is still looking directly at me. His hot gaze burns, and the searing pain in my forehead radiates through my body, reminding me just how stupid I look.

“What’s your name?”

I hate him.

Standing there in a raggedy St. Michael’s shirt with beautifully floppy hair, he’s the embodiment of everything I could never be. Of everything my father would always love just that little bit more.

“Drew McCallister.”

Drew McCallister.

Even his name sounds perfect as it spills out of his mouth, but it doesn’t matter how beautiful he is; he’s taken my father’s attention away, and for that, I will hate him with every fiber of my being for the rest of my life.

“I look forward to you joining our team.” The way my dad’s voice rises with excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning, annoys me. Although, I suppose today is better than Christmas in my dad’s warped world because finding a high school recruit gives him way more opportunity for success than any football-themed tie I’d buy him.

“I guess so,” Drew drawls out, and it’s in that moment of acceptance that I promise to make Drew’s life a living hell for every minute I’m forced to be in it.

Screw Cupid, and screw Drew McCallister.

Chapter 1

Bella

Present Day

“Are you sure there aren’t any other options? I’m happy to wait as long as it takes.” Desperation laces my voice, and I bite my bottom lip, hard. Despite tasting blood, I keep gnawing, hoping it will somehow get me out of this mess.

This can’t be happening. Not again.

I try to muster every ounce of natural charm I have, knowing that even on my best day, I’m about as endearing as a honey badger. It’s not the flight assistant's fault that I screwed up again, but something about how perfect she looks with her sleek black hair and bright red lips makes me want to scream.

She hasn’t lifted her fluffy lashes in the last five minutes, and her typing is so loud that every keystroke feels like a strike to my brain. Tapping my driver’s license on the desk, I try to calm my anxiety, but no amount of fake smiling is working. If I don’t get home, this will be the worst Christmas ever.

In times like these, I can’t help but think about what my life would have been like if I’d moved to London as originally planned. Cozy cafes and Tom Hardy would be keeping me company instead of the cold white tiles of the Hope, Indianaairport. Not to mention, it would be incredibly hard to disappoint anyone since I’d be thousands of miles away.

The flight attendant clicks her mouth a few times, tutting away any hope I have of getting out of this airport. She looks up with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and says, “I’m sorry, Miss Summers. As I have already said several times, because of the snowstorm, we have had to cancel all inbound and outbound flights.”

She points her pink manicured nail to the window as if I can’t see the blanket of white hurtling to the ground. We’re close enough to see the snow sticking to the glass, but I’ve been trying to ignore that little fact.

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