Page 16 of Home Field Advantage

“No, Coach,” I say automatically. And I don’t. I feel great. Physically, anyway. “I’m good. Lemme run.”

I get a gruff nod, and then he turns to say something to Devlin, so I let my gaze travel back to the field. Amber and the cheerleaders are doing a bunch of complicated jumps and yelling and, God, the way her entire face lights up when she’s doing this. She looks like I feel, like she can’t believe she gets to do this thing she was absolutely born for. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one on the team specifically checking her out either. But Iamthe one who can’t get caught doing it, so I put my full focus on the huddle, let Coach pep-talk us a little more, and then shout and break.

And okay, maybe I glance in her direction one more time, just to make sure she’s watching.

She is.

Not only do I throw fifteen yards in the most beautifully perfect spiral for our third touchdown, but I end up running in another one in the fourth quarter. A 33–7 win is a wider spread than the Alligators have seen in a long time, even in their luckiest wins, and it feels so damn good, especially when I catch my parents waving and hollering in the crowd. My dad drove four hours to get here, and I’m so fucking happy I made it worth his while. I won’t even dwell on how my brothers opted to stay back and be babysat by my grandma rather than join.

All around me, the guys are leaping on one another and slapping each other’s asses, pouring Gatorade on Sundstrom that splashes far enough to hit the assistant coaches, too. I let myself wait for two minutes for congratulations thatnever come, and I know that somehow, even this win is being attributed to the ghost of Robbie fucking Oakes.

That gets made perfectly clear when Devlin grabs the mic and quiets everyone down. “I think we all know who to thank for this win.” He looks up at the sky, and I’m not sure whether those are genuine tears in his eyes or he’s just blinded by the lights. “Robbie, brother, we miss you, man. I can’t believe you’re not here. But we know you’re watching out for us, guiding our hands, and that you delivered this win. Number one forever.”

My gut twists into knots as I watch the cheerleaders, Amber included, get into formation and do what must’ve been the standard Robbie cheer. It’s somehow rowdy and somber at the same time, something they must’ve practiced, and it’s followed by the marching band’s equally confusing rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Whatever. My parents seeing this win is what matters. They know they didn’t move me here for nothing. And hopefully, one day, the right person to move me forward somehow will join them in the stands, but if not—even if it’s always “just a game”—playing under the lights tonight felt like pure magic.

That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m tolerating teammates who ignore me and cheerleaders who hate me and Amber McCloud’s stupid cute ass. Because the field is where I most feel like myself, and this could make my future. The chance istiny, I know. There’s certainly no future ahead playing QB in the NFL. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t be a sports reporter like Holly Rowe, or a coach like Katie Sowers.

I just have to get through the fucking season.

Even if my parents are literally the only people cheering me on.

(Are they?I wonder, thinking of the number in my phone, the hotline to a “personal pep rally.” But that way lies dangerous thinking. Dangerous, stupid thinking.)

I push that dangerous, stupid thinking aside and pick my way over to the field house, where I stop short, realizing there’s only one visitors’ locker room and it’s currently being filled by a mass of wretched, sweaty boys. This is what I get for spending halftime on the bench, paralyzed by the irrational fear that they’d find a way to start without me if I disappeared to the locker room that apparently doesn’t exist for me.

“Tough luck, Walsh,” Sanchez says with a smirk as the guys watch me try to figure out where the hell I could possibly take off this stinking uniform, and laugh their asses off at my helplessness.

I set my jaw and ignore them, looking to see where the cheerleaders are heading, but none of them seem to be doing anything other than chatting with each other and flirting with the boys who pass by. For all the work they did tonight, somehow none of them look like they even broke a sweat.

How nice for them.

Desperate, I yank out my phone and pull up Amber’snumber.Where do we go to change?Then I remember she doesn’t have my number.It’s Jack btw.

I don’t see her anywhere, but my phone lights up with a message thirty seconds later.Go around front. Someone will let you in and point you to the bathroom.

I do what she says and strip off my jersey and pads the second the door closes behind me. I’m filthy, but a shower won’t be happening until I get home, no matter how much my muscles are screaming for one. The baby wipes I brought will have to do. I’m swiping one down the center of my sports bra when the door opens and I freeze like a deer in headlights.

Chapter Four

-AMBER-

I should stay away from her for so many reasons, but between the pep rally and no one bothering to tell her where to go after the game, I can’t help but check on Jack to make sure everything’s okay. I tell Cara I’m going to the “locker room,” knowing not one single girl will follow me in there because we never change at other schools, and then follow the exact instructions I gave Jack, gingerly pushing open the bathroom door and keeping my eyes on the floor just in case. “Jack?”

No answer, but I can hear her breathing. I step in, lettingthe door close behind me. “Jack? It’s Amber.JustAmber,” I clarify.

“Lucky me,” she mutters.

I follow the sound of her voice, despite how harsh and unwelcoming it is, but as soon as I see her, I freeze in my tracks. She’s taken off the top half of her uniform, and as cute as she is in that, seeing her in nothing but a sports bra and football pants makes my mouth go dry. I quickly look away to give her some privacy, and it takes a few pathetic attempts to get my next words out. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I hear a yank on what must be her hair elastic, and it occurs to me I’ve never seen her hair down. I can’t even picture it, and don’t think she’d like me to. “I just played football. I’m sweaty.”

Me too, I think, rubbing my palms on my cheer skirt. “I’d think you’d be a little happier-sounding that you just won your first game.”

“Yeah, well, guess you don’t know me very well.” A snap of the hair elastic on the skin of her wrist echoes in the bathroom, and then the sink turns on.

“Ooookay.” I lean against the wall and cross my arms as I listen to her splash water on her face, then wind her hair back up into its usual knot with another snap. “I was just coming to check on you. I can go. But are you gonna tell me why you’re mad at me after I just cheered you on for hours?” I usually avoid conflict like the Whelans avoid PG-13 movies,but I just spent hours watching Jack kick some major ass out on the field. While I knew my congratulations fantasies were just that—fantasies—she felt comfortable enough to text me, so I expected a slightly warmer reception than this. “And spare me pretending you’re not. You’re way better at sports than you are at acting.”

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