Brandt nods. “You trying to scope her out since you’ll both be on homecoming court? Trust me. She’s cute. You’ll like her.”
“I already know her,” I say.
“Nice,” he says, but our conversation is cut short when Coach makes us begin drills.
I go through my practice drills on auto pilot. Zara is going to be homecoming queen. This is news. It’s the kind of thing that would turn me off of dating her simply because my experience with girls who want me for the football fame is so awful. But… Zara is different. At least I think she is. I really like her, but maybe I’m wrong. I was wrong before. Maybe I’m wrong now. Maybe Zara only acts normal around me just to try to win me over, but once we start dating, she’ll unleash her crazy football girlfriend side.
The thought makes me nauseated.
I make it through practice, and I’m no closer to a decision on what to do. On one hand, being on the homecoming court with Zara could be romantic and fun. On the other hand, the popularity could tear us apart. I liked it better when she and I were just friends who had nothing to do with football.
I’m walking back to the locker rooms when someone calls my name. At first, I wonder if maybe it’s Zara. If she walked back to school just to watch me practice. Then I look up and my stomach drops. The person waving at me from the sidelines is not Zara. I have a hard time believing it’s the person it looks like, to be honest.
My ex-girlfriend, Andrea.
How is she even here?
“Zane!” she squeals when I get closer. “Hey! I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I go to this school,” I say, stopping a few feet in front her. “What are you doing here?”
“I go to this school too!” She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tightly. I’m overwhelmed with the vanilla scent of her perfume, a smell I remember very well. It’s been a year since we broke up, but everything about her is the same.
“I’m so confused,” I say, pulling out from her hug. “You changed schools?”
She nods. “We moved out here over the summer. Then I heard that you moved too. Crazy coincidence, huh?”
“Extremely crazy,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. How is this real life? “Did you know I moved here?
She shakes her head, and for once, I actually believe her. She’s just too genuinely excited right now for this to be one of her schemes. “I heard you moved here and it was kind of weird. Like… how is that even possible that both of our families happened to move to the same school?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
I start walking away before I say something polite like,nice seeing you!OrHave a good day!Andrea doesn’t exactly deserve polite niceties from me. She used me and left me and she never showed any remorse over it. We’re not dating anymore. We’re not even friends anymore.
“Wait,” she says, walking in step with me. “Let’s hang out.”
“Can’t,” I say, walking faster. “I have a date tonight.”
It’s not exactly true. But she doesn’t know that.
Eight
Zara
I feel soawkward about how things went down with Zane after school. Awkward and guilty. Why was I so quick to tell him he didn’t want to date me? I guess it’s because I know he’s out of my league. I may be mildly popular, but Zane is at the very top of the list of popularity in my school. He’s only been there a week and yet everyone loves him. He could date any girl he wanted, so why did he want to ask me out?
It’s the guilt that makes me sit on the porch for hours after school, waiting for him to arrive back home. I feel guilty because I know, deep down, that I really like him. And I know I want to date him. But I also know that he’s out of my league. Plus, he thought I wasn’t in the football world when I very clearly am.
That’s where the guilt comes in.
His truck pulls up to his house just after six. Practice ran later today, but they have a game this weekend so they’re probably working even harder. When Zane gets out of his truck, I call his name.
He looks in my direction, eyebrows crumpled, like maybe he thought he heard his name but isn’t sure. I stand up and wave to get his attention. His confused face smooths out and he smiles when he sees me.
“Hi,” he says, walking toward me.
“For some reason I pictured you in a football uniform,” I say, taking in his appearance. His hair is wet and tussled on top of his head. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt. As he approaches, he smells amazing.
