“Wedon’t need a label,” I rush to downplay everything. My inflections mirror her cautionary ones. “But I want you to know I’ve enjoyed spending time with you.”
Her lashes flutter, the way they always do when she’s trying to avoid blushing. “Me, too.”
“Good,” I assert, pulling my lips in, and biting hard, as it’s a struggle. Her hesitation to put a label on us makes me think she might not be ready yet.
A horrible thought enters my brain. What if she’s just being nice to me so I’ll help her clean out all that junk? Even if that is the case, I offered to help, and I’m a man of my word. I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at the door. “What do you say, I help you clean another stack of boxes?”
“Well, I’m hoping to take a load of boxes to the dump. Would you want to help with that?”
“Yeah.” I slip on my tennis shoes and grab my keys. “Let’s go throw out some trash.” Loving how the least desirable chore in the world can feel like I won the lottery when I get to be next to Gia, I’m unable to stop grinning as we stroll through the door together, and head back across the yard toward Mr. Bella’s loaded-down-with-junk truck.
It only takes about an hour to drop everything off, and when we return, we spend the rest of the day cleaning more boxes. This time we find a stamp collection, and something a little odd, an assortment of dog toys—even though Gia swears they never owned a pet. That discovery made us both burst into fits of laughter, and just like all the other days we’d worked, time got away from us, and it’s time for me to go home.
With Mr. Bella lingering in the kitchen, we say a quick goodnight, and I head across the yard to my house.
What do you know, I’m not alone.
Rocco’s wringing his hands together, blocking my front door. “Well, well, well . . .” His sinister grin cements on his face. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”
Grinding my back teeth together, I fight back every urge I have to flatten his smug expression. As good as it would feel to hit him, that’s not going to solve anything. He clearly didn’t get the hint that I’m not giving up Gia.
My hands shake, but I squeeze my fist into a ball and stuff it in my jacket—for now.
I’m not going to let him control me—or Gia anymore.
“Look,” I growl. “If Gia doesn’t want me around, she’s perfectly capable of letting me know that herself. She doesn’t need you butting in. I’m sorry if that hurts your tiny feelings.”
Rocco’s head rolls back, and a haughty laugh pipes out for an egregious amount of time before he finally forms actual words. “We will see who’s sorry.” His eyes narrow into slits before he spins on his heel and strides to his black car, parked at an angle in my driveway, blocking me in.
If this were a movie, the only thing that would have been missing is the evil mustache twirl before he stormed off. I have no idea how he got this way, but that man is delusional. I’m not above calling the cops if it gets to that level, but I just hate to do anything rash that will upset Gia. He may not be able to keep me away, but there’s burning in the back of my brain telling me he will do something.
sixteen
North
I clear my throat and steel my shoulders back in the doorway. “You want to see me, Principal Lane?”
“Yes. Come on in.” Principal Lane swivels on his computer chair to face me while gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. It’s Monday morning, and first period is just about to begin, but I had an urgent message to come here. “Have a seat, please.”
Principal Lane leans back in his chair and adjusts his beige sport coat collar to lay flat against the high-back leather chair. His suit is practically the same color as his hair, his mustache, and his skin tone. It’s so monotone, it makes it hard for me to find his face, but he’s always worn this color. “I’m afraid I’ve had some bad news about the football budget. Our biggest sponsor, Rocco’s Motors Company, has not renewed their sponsorship for next year.”
“Wh-what?” I stammer and jump to my feet, searching for something—anything—on this desk or computer screen that hasevidence this isn’t some practical joke. Rocco mentioned pulling support, but I didn’t think that he actually meant it. His ego was making the threats. Swallowing down my shock, I look Principal Lane in the eye. “What was his reasoning?”
“He’s had a change of priorities. He said he’s running for Senate and wants to use his philanthropy funds towards more humanitarian missions, such as feeding and clothing the homeless. He did say he feels terrible because the town’s gotten used to his hefty donation, but he said it was God’s calling.”
Nearly choking on my own tongue, I fight every urge to explode with the truth.
This is no spiritual awakening.
This is revenge.
Principal Lane didn’t need to know about my personal life, and how I might have caused this, but there must be some more details. “So, um,” I stretch my neck forward, already feeling the strain of this financial burden move into my body. “What are we looking at for cuts? Do the boosters have a plan, or fundraiser?”
“The boosters haven’t been doing a whole lot other than the Homecoming auction and raffle. Rocco’s made their job easy, but I’m not going to abandon you, and it’s early. I’m sure we can plan something. A good car wash fundraiser, and perhaps the guys could sell those pizzas the cheerleaders always sell?”
“Right.” My mouth dries up. Selling frozen pizzas is not going to come close to replacing the money that Rocco donated.
“Effective immediately, we’ll have to eliminate assistant coach, Rod, from the payroll, and we’ll do our best to keep your hours as is. However, we’re in need of some major fundraising and possibly cold calling businesses for donations.”
