Page 37 of Calling the Shots

“Lucky try. It’s best out of three. Your rules, remember?”

“Yeah, dammit,” she mutters, taking position. “Let’s go again. And if I win, that tasty chicken is all mine.” She rubs her hands together, eyes gleaming. “One, two, three!”

This time I make a fist and she throws out two fingers.

“Crap!” She stomps her foot and the corner of my lip tips up.

“Bummer. Rock beats scissors.” I point out the obvious. “Guess we’re going with a tiebreaker.”

Gracelyn rolls her shoulders, stretching her neck side to side.

“You ready there, Rocky?” I tease, smirking at her pre-game routine. She’s cute, all animated over this rotisserie chicken.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t rush me.” Squatting down a little, her brow creases in concentration. “One, two, three!”

She throws out two fingers again and I make a last second decision, laying my palm out flat.

“Yes!” She jumps up and down, beaming. “I win!”

Judging by the celebration, you would have thought she just brought home the gold at the damn Olympics.

“Looks like you did, Firecracker.”

“Fair and square.” She beams up at me with rosy cheeks and my gut clenches—and it’s not from hunger. She’s so damn beautiful. The fact that I can’t have her, can’t be with her, physically hurts.

Gracelyn grabs the lone bag from the display with one hand, inching closer to me. The scent of rosemary mixes with her sweet perfume as she moves into my space, one hand reaching up and patting my chest.

“Better luck next time, Mack.” She winks at me, then spins on her heels, bag of chicken in hand.

I stare at her gorgeous ass, swaying back and forth as she trots up to the front register. The soft rock’s drowned out by the thudding of my heart directly below the spot where Gracelyn’s hand rested a few seconds ago, the skin still burning.

Hope she enjoys that chicken at least half as much as I enjoyed watching her win the stupid game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Letting her beat me was one-hundred percent worth it, even if I have to eat a frozen pizza tonight instead.

* * *

Football season Fridays are my favorite. There’s nothing quite like the vibrant energy of the crowd sitting on the metal bleachers at Thunder Creek High on a crisp autumn evening, cheering on their home team. Most folks in the stands are alumni, making each victory that much more special.

And we win—a lot. Coach Carter’s the winningest coach in the entire state of Georgia. I like to think Baker and I have a little something to do with it, too. But most of the credit should go to him. The man’s a legend. A football star here himself, and now he’s coached the school to the state championships each of the last five years.

I expect this year to be no exception, given how strong our team is. But that’s the thing about football—you never really know what’s going to happen.

“Listen up, boys.” Coach Carter claps his hands once and the entire locker room falls silent, waiting to hear what he’s about to say. “I know y’all have heard the rumors about the Sandalwood team and the wide receiver already getting recruited. Yes, he’s good. But we’re better. We train harder, longer, and more often than any other high school team. I have absolute faith in each and every one of you. Now, huddle up—Mustangs on three.”

Everyone puts their hand into the tight circle and counts down: “One, two, three, go Mustangs!”

The deep roar of the chant echoes off the metal lockers and it’s go time. Helmets fastened, mouthguards in, the athletes run out of the locker room and the coaches follow quietly behind.

We’re each lost in our own thoughts, thinking about plays and the lineup. None of us speak as we make our way out onto the field, bright white lights blaring down on the grass, the band playing the school fight song. I block out all the background noise of the crowd and thumb through the playbook as I take my usual position on the sideline. Baker’s next to me on one side and Coach Carter’s on the other, huddling with the offense.

“Sandalwood won the coin toss, so we kick off. Mack, what you got?” Coach Carter elbows me and I call out my starting line. The players take the field and the game’s on.

Within five minutes, Sandalwood scores. The quarterback finds the infamous wide receiver and it’s all over, my guys totally blowing it. They somehow manage to forget every defensive play we practiced all week, and the ball’s in the end zone before the stands fill up.

“Shit!” I mutter under my breath, crushing the pages of the playbook as the kicker launches the ball through the uprights to score an extra point. I wave my arm through the air and my guys jog off the field, shaking their heads in disbelief.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath of cool air, I work on keeping my temper at bay. Not an easy feat, hot anger burning my chest.

“Boys, have a seat.” I motion at the wooden bench and they slump down one by one, helmets dropping to the ground.

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