Page 17 of Come Break My Heart Again

Fernwood High School hasn’t changed much in two years. Hardly surprising. This whole town is like a time capsule. Everyone who lives here is content with their shiny, happy lives. They embrace—enjoy—the status quo.

It’s annoying. But again, not surprising.

I toss the football I’m holding in the air and catch it, half listening to the two guys standing closest discuss how they’re getting a keg to a party on Friday night. I’m tempted to tell them it’s as simple as a good fake ID and some confidence, but I don’t talk to the rich jerks who make up about half of Fernwood High’s population unless it’s absolutely necessary or I’m in the mood to stir up some shit.

Five girls are whispering to each other directly across from me. One of them, a blonde, looks me over pretty obviously and then flips her ponytail over one shoulder. I wink at her, then toss the ball again. The girls start tittering louder, like birds, and Mr. Medina, the gym teacher, gives up on his overview of the class rules. Or maybe he just finished running through them. I wasn’t really listening.

The loose circle of students disbands.

“Don’t forget a change of clothes tomorrow!” Mr. Medina calls after the disappearing backs.

I doubt I’ll bother. None of the guys at the garage will care if I show up sweaty, and my standard summer uniform is athletic shorts and a T-shirt. The temperature has yet to dip below seventy since I’ve been back in Massachusetts, so I doubt that’ll change anytime soon.

I tuck the football into the mesh bag by the long metal bench, then turn toward the sports building that houses the gymnasium and locker rooms.

“Hold up a minute, Ryder.”

I blow out a long breath as I pause halfway across the running track that surrounds the football field. “I’ve got places to be, Mr. Medina.”

“This won’t take long,” he says, walking toward me with a clipboard tucked under one arm.

In addition to teaching gym, Medina also coaches the football team. I only need one guess on what he wants to talk to me about.

“The answer is no,” I tell him.

“Why?”

He doesn’t take offense to my straightforward approach, which I appreciate. It almost makes me wish I could give him a different answer. Medina’s one of the few teachers I have positive memories of from freshman year. He treats students based on their behavior, not their home address.

“I have a job after school,” I answer. “I don’t have a rich daddy bankrolling me.”

Medina might act oblivious to the social hierarchy here, but there’s no way he doesn’t know I live in the trailer park.

“What about practicing before school?” he asks.

“I’d rather sleep.”

Mr. Medina half smiles. “I’m offering you the starting spot, James.”

Both my eyebrows rise, betraying my surprise. “Thought that was Hathaway’s gig.”

“We’d hold tryouts again, of course.”

But I’d win. That’s what he’s saying. And it’s nice to know.

Archer Hathaway is the exact sort of rich prick I can’t stand, and based on his behavior in Calculus earlier, he’s only gotten richer and prickier in the two years I was gone. I’d love to steal his roster spot and rub it in his face, but I wasn’t lying about my job. I can’t afford to get fired—literally—which is exactly how me not showing up at the garage would go. Tucker went out on a limb to get me the gig, and I can’t do that to him either.

“I can’t. Really.”

Mr. Medina nods slowly. “I understand your situation is different from most students’. But I would really like to help you, Ryder. Colleges love to see extracurriculars like sports on applications?—”

“I’m not going to college.”

He sighs. “Keeping your options open is?—”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Probably Tuck, wondering where I am.

“I have to head out,” I cut Medina off—again. “See you tomorrow.”

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