I shoulder past them, not bothering to look back. I need air. Need to get away. I need to run. Run to where, though? I’m not going to Brooks. Not now. Not ever again.
By the time I make it outside, the sun is blinding, and the chatter on the quad drills straight into my skull. My throat is tight and sore from trying not to sob until I got past the main doors.
Why can’t I make real girlfriends who would stand up for me? Take me aside and tell me about my boyfriend’sextra-sex-curricular activities? It’s not a new feeling. I’ve always been able to be me around guys—their intentions are obvious, their jokes simple. There’s no hidden battle with guys, no shifting alliances—guys are just easier.
I laugh up a snotty sob, thinking about what my granny would say to me right now. “You’re madder than a wet hen.”
And she’d be right.
I’m sick of crying over Brooks skipping family events or, worse, ignoring me when he is around. But cheating? That’s a whole new kind of hurt.
When I punch in Brooks’s number, it goes straight to voicemail.
My mom would know just what to say. I hold the tears back long enough to force unplanned words from my mouth. “You’re a cheater and a liar. We’re over. Have fun with Tabby.” That’s all. But the tears fall once again. I wipe them away, and through blurred vision, I finally step off school grounds. I text Parker out of habit. He’s my younger brother by eleven months. Mom always called us her twins.
Me: You at home? I need to hang out a sec.
No reply. I should have known better since he’s preparing for workouts, hoping a college other than Dad’s will offer him a scholarship.
Every muscle in my legs burns as I jog to my rental house that I share with two male cheerleaders. As my feet pound the pavement, my backpack slams against my back over and over. College students don’t run. We stroll, enjoying the sights and sounds of campus.
Two weeks from graduation, I should be wishing college would last forever. I’ve loved my classes. I can’t wait to be asports journalist, and I’ve loved cheering for my team and for Brooks, but most of it was make-believe, a fairy tale with a messy ending.
Did I come out with any real, true girl friends? No.
Did I find the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with? I thought I did, but that’s wrecked now, too.
In my room, I collapse on my bed, clutching the stuffed rabbit my mom gave me when I was three. “What am I going to do now?” I ask Bibby.
She stares back at me with her little blue eyes as if she knows the answer.
Greyson will know.
My brothers are all completely different. John David, or J.D., is by the book. Greyson is easygoing. Parker is gentle. Witt is—well, Witt. He rarely speaks and keeps to himself.
I grab my keys and head to Greyson’s house. Even though he’s ten years older than me, he’s always been the one I turn to the most.
His truck isn’t out front, but that doesn’t mean anything—four-car garage. The Corvette in the driveway barely registers.
I walk in without knocking. In our family, doors are always unlocked. Always open.
The kitchen is half-lit. An abandoned bowl. A stack of playbooks on the counter.
And sitting at the kitchen table is someone I didn’t expect.
Matt Stricker.
Quarterback coach for the Austin Armadillos, sitting at the kitchen table studying his iPad.
He looks up and smirks. “Lost?”
I roll my eyes—a familiar, practiced motion. “Just escaping the drama.”
The normalcy of my voice surprises me. I sling my bag off my shoulder and grab a bottle of water like I live here. Honestly, I kind of do, considering I pop in for five-minute hangouts with Greyson’s family all the time.
Matt leans back in his chair, watching me with that half-smile the guys always saymeans he’s about to talk trash. There’s something steady about him. Not a friend. Not a threat. Just... Matt. Greyson’s best friend. He smells like chalk, sports detergent, and old leather.
Home base.
