Page 21 of Home Field Advantage

“Oh yeah?” She grins, and there’s the tiniest dimple in her left cheek. “How closely were you watching the other girls?”

“What other girls?”

Now she laughs for real, and I wonder if she feels the same unraveling in her chest that I do. “Good answer.”

“I’ve been known to be mildly smooth in my time. And I mean, if you wanted to practice with, say, a cheer for a certain quarterback, I would be happy to offer some notes.”

“Oh, would you now?” Her blue-green eyes twinkle, and suddenly, she morphs right in front of me, adopting a perfect ramrod-straight cheer stance, lightly closed fists grasping fake pom-poms. “J-A-C-K Jack Jack Jack! She’s our favorite quarterback! Watch her throw and watch her score, then watch her come right back for more! Goooooo Jack!”

My jaw is on the floor as I watch her leap and jump and split and shout, forme, and good God this is the hottest thing anyone has ever done for me in my entire life. She finishes with her arms thrust in a V in the air and a huge smile on her face, and when she winks, it’s all I can do not to melt into the floor, leaving my black T-shirt and cutoff sweats behind.

“So, what’d you think?” she asks.

I can barely get words out, but I manage a few. “I think we should make out immediately.”

Her smile grows even wider, and she waves her fake pom-poms. “Go team!”

“Jesus H,” I mutter, but then my hands are grabbing for her overall straps and her cinnamon mouth finds mine and we somehow land in a pile on the couch.

Best.

Victory party.

Ever.

The high of spending Friday night fooling around with Amber lasts a whole lot longer than the high of the game did, especially when I let the memory of her cheer replace the ones of the quiet pep rally and the missing party invitation. In fact, it lasts right up until Monday afternoon’s practice, when all the usual anger, annoyance, and general shittiness comes flowing back. If I’d thought a win would be the ticket to a change, I know now that was a stupid, pointless hope. And even though Coach tells me I did a good job, the fact that he waits until everyone else is gone just makes me angry.

He’s such a damn coward.

The difference the blessing of his shoulder pat would make if the team actually saw it is huge. I know it and he knows it.

But.

This whole fucking school is full of cowards.

I’m trying to get where everyone’s coming from. I am. When we were catching our breath the other night, Amber gave me a lot more background, and I gather that Robbie was well-liked and the guys are taking his death really hard. But why they’re taking it out onmeis still something I don’t get—not when I’m helping them win.

Whatthefuckever. Homecoming is coming up, and given that this isn’t my home, I couldn’t give a shit about making Atherton alumni proud, but these guys should.

I knew they were gonna be weird about playing with a girl. Coach even warned me it might take the guys some time to warm up. But I throw a hundred and sixty yards a game, rush for sixty-five, and had every single play memorized before I even started here. I haven’t asked them to change a damn thing about the way they act or talk around me that might offend my feminine sensibilities. (Not that I have any, but if Idid.) Hell, I’m even fooling around with a cheerleader like most of them are, or at least have at some point, if the shit they shoot around practice is to be believed. What more can I do to get the message across that I’m here to stay and that it’s a good thing I am?

It’s hard to hold on to my rage when I think about Amber, even if she’s pretending to be just as hard-core Team Robbie as the rest of them. Hours of talking and making out kinda dulled that edge. Even now, I’m half pissed about Coach keeping his praise on the DL and letting the rest of the team continue totreat me like crap, and half pissed that I missed out on riding home with her for the privilege of being their punching bag.

Even now, I’m thinking about texting her, seeing if she’s up for company. Is that pathetic? It might be pathetic. Besides, I have to keep up my GPA to hold my spot on the team, and I’m thinking Cheer Princess and I aren’t gonna get much studying done if I hightail it over there now.

Fucking responsibilities.

I give my shoulders a few rotations to help loosen the frustration that’s been building for the last hour and get behind the wheel. I’m about to pull out of the lot when I spot a familiar figure standing a few feet off in the distance, alternately looking down at his phone and looking up for a ride that seems to be very, very late.

If it were anyone on the football team other than Miguel Santiago, I’d probably floor it out of there, but he still seems like my best shot at getting a little human decency on the field. And so, I stick my head out the window. “Santiago! Need a lift?”

He startles, I guess too absorbed in his phone to realize there was still a car in the lot. Judging by his muttered “mierda,” he’s not too pleased to discover that he’s not alone, and even less pleased to discover I’m the person talking to him. He walks over slowly, still darting glances at the entrance to the parking lot. “Hey, Walsh. I’m, uh—no. Someone’s coming to get me, thanks.”

Judging from his frown when he glances back at his phone,he’s not feeling too confident about that, and there’s a layer of subtle agony there that suggests he’s being stood up. “You sure? You can always text them and tell them you’ve got a ride.”

He’s still hesitating, and I’m starting to get antsy to pull away from the building. “How late are they?” I press gently.

“It’s just some traffic,” he grunts. “Don’t worry about it. You can go. You should go.”

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