Page 25 of Home Field Advantage

“The boyfriend is apparently not a real boyfriend. It’s a fake-dating arrangement, and she actually likes girls, and by girls I mean me. She came over after that victory party the other night and we, uh, hung out for a while.”

I expect more squealing from Sage, but both she and Morgan look way too serious for my liking. “Is shestillpretending to date this guy?” Morgan asks.

Sage adds, “And does the guy know about you?”

“And how do you know she’s actually telling the truth about the relationship being fake? I mean, what’s in it for him?”

“He’s trying to keep his parents off his back, so…” I trail off as I realize how ridiculous this sounds. More and more, I’m thinking my instinct from the parking lot—that Miguel is hiding just as much as Amber—is correct.

I certainly hope it is, anyway, because if she was just straight-up lying, this is bad.

“Anyway, she and I aren’t anything official,” I finish, before this conversation veers into sexuality-speculating territory. “We’re just having fun.”

“Oh okay,” Morgan says slowly. “Well, I’m glad it’s fun. We just don’t want you to get hurt. Remember—”

“I remember,” I snap. I couldn’t forget if I tried, and I definitely try. Pretty sure no one at my old high school will be forgetting Amy Jelinsky publicly declaring that she was tired of dating a wannabe football player, or Jenna Pressley saying no one should date me because I had gross callused hands, or Iva Kellerman hooking up with me for weeks until we got caught and she spread some lesbian predator shit about me rather than admit that she literally begged me to get her off in the back seat of her car. Yes, there were things I loved about being there, especially the two people I’m talking to right now, but coming to Atherton wasn’t exactly leaving one Garden of Eden for another.

Every high school has its people who just fucking suck, especially when you’re queer.

“It’s not like that,” I add flatly, but I don’t have proof it isn’t and they know it and this conversation is over before it even began. (Why was I so excited for this virtual friend date again?) “But anyway, I should go. I rolled my ankle at practice and I need to go ice it some more.”

We all know it’s a lie—they’ve seen me ice my various injured body parts plenty in the small tub I keep in my room—but the awkwardness and discomfort are palpable, so they take the excuse and we say goodbye.

And once again, I’m alone and wondering what the hell iswrong with me that I keep making choices that everyone but me thinks suck.

When I get to practice the next day, I’m feeling up for a fight, and my timing is perfect, because it looks like the entire team feels the same way. Fucking great. While I was suiting up in the empty girls’ locker room, they were turning into a single-minded force, just waiting for me in a semicircle on the grass, arms folded and eyes blazing.

Coach is nowhere to be found.

Dan Sanchez steps forward, apparently the appointed spokesman for the team. “Duggan wants his spot back,” he says without preamble.

Jesus H. Christ. Who has time for this shit? “Oh really?” I turn to Tim, whose biceps in his cutoff T are proof he hasn’t been hitting the weight room beyond our required biweekly sessions. I could take this kid in my sleep. “You want ‘your’ spot back, Duggan?”

Everything in his shaky nod tells me what I need to know.

“Okay, so, you want to be QB1 again—a spot that’s yours, not mine, apparently—despite the fact that I threw more yards in my first game than you did all summer? That you fumbled your first snap in every fucking game? Yeah, I’ve seen the videos. Or that I’ve run in two TDs—something you’ve nevereven done once? You want back the hours you sit in ice baths because you don’t spend half the time on conditioning I do? And I assume you’ve run this by Coach, who very specifically put me where I am.”

“Someone’s on her period,” Zach Sawyer spits. “Way to be a fucking bitch.”

I wheel on him. “These are facts and stats, asshole. And the only one being a little bitch is you, trying to shove your friend back into a position he doesn’t even want because you all can’t fucking stand that the first time in your entire careers you have a winning season, it’s thanks to your quarterback who happens to be a girl. Grow the fuck up.”

“Yougrow the fuck up,” Sanchez snarls. “Just because we happen to be winning while you keep Duggan’s spot warm doesn’t mean it has shit to do with you.”

I blink. “What does it have to do with, then? You think the spirit of Robbie is nudging the ball into your hands? Or do you maybe finally have a QB who’s found your sweet spot and actually has the accuracy to hit it? You’re welcome for helping you suck less, by the way.”

There’s a low whistle from somewhere in the crowd and maybe no one is coming to my side, but no one’s coming to Sanchez’s, either. No one says a word at all, including Duggan, who’s suddenly a little less determined to put QB1 back on his résumé.

“You’re so fucking lucky I can’t hit a girl,” Sanchez spits, and I knew—Iknew, the way I knew a stupid comment aboutmy period was coming, the way every girl who ever stands up for herself knows—it was only a matter of time till he pulled that one out. My brothers try that shit all the time, like if only they could swing a punch at me, they’d win every argument, even if they were being complete dumbshits. Whereas with my brothers I’d fight back with words, here I honestly feel done talking. Finally standing up for myself has adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I want the fight just as much as Sanchez does.

“Let’s just say today you can. Go on.” I put up my fists. One thing I’ll say in favor of my brothers—they definitely made sure I knew how to throw a punch. “Give it your best shot. Let’s see if your arm is as weak off the field as it is on it.”

“Oh, you think I won’t?” Spit flies from Sanchez’s mouth and he rears back, but his swing is predictable enough to catch in my right fist and my left returns the favor straight into his gut.

“Y’all,stop.” I’m not sure who yells it. Santiago, maybe. But I’m not taking my eyes off Dan to look and I’m definitely not stopping.

Neither is Sanchez, even though my punch knocked the wind out of him for a second. “Fucking bitch,” he growls, diving for me, but at least two sets of hands hold him back.

“Sanchez, she’snotworth it,” Devlin declares, which makes me want to take a swing at him, too. But none of the guys are coming near now, and in fact, they start backing up.

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