I knew they’d fit. I’d bought them with Claire in mind.
11
Madeline
That night at the football game, I’d counted on having Claire to talk to, but our parents sat in the middle of us, and five minutes into the game, one of Claire’s friends showed up. She plopped down next to Claire, and the two of them talked to each other and ignored the rest of us.
I wished I’d convinced Selena to come to the game to keep me company, but one of the reasons we were friends was our mutual dislike of watching sports. She said she needed to get a start on her homework. The sad thing about that excuse was that she really would be doing homework on a Friday night. More than once, I had to pry her away from her books on a weekend to do something fun.
I mean, honestly, the way Selena was pursuing valedictorian, you’d think it came with a large cash prize instead of a speaking assignment at graduation. But heaven help her if Rohan Blake—president of the National Honor Society—got half a point more than her on any assignment.
A few rows up, Harper and Kinsley sat with Kinsley’s boyfriend and a few of his friends. Harper and Kinsley were so engrossed in talking to the guys that they didn’t seem to be aware that a game was even happening on the field. I’d have no luck luring them to sit by me.
So basically, I was bored out of my mind and had to endurelistening to my father and Ms. Nash make small talk. I alternated between cheering for Cooper and doing an internet search of football rules so I had an idea of what was happening.
Cooper was sacked once—I didn’t cheer—but when the announcer called out, “Tackled by lions!” I had to laugh because clearly the announcer was making a joke to see if people were paying attention or if everyone was just talking. I was the only one who laughed.
My father sent me a dark look.
I gestured to the field. “I’m pretty sure he was tackled by another player, not by lions.” The other team’s mascot was a bear, so the announcer wasn’t being metaphorical.
“Lyons is the defensive end’s last name,” my father said patiently.
And okay, now that he pointed it out, I did see his last name on his jersey.
“Huh,” I said. “The cheerleaders should be chanting ‘Lyons and tigers and bears, oh my.’”
That’s how bored I was. I was coming up withWizard of Oz–themed cheerleading jingles for the opposing team. I cleared my throat. “I hope during the next play, Cooper tackles him back.”
“That’s not how football works,” my father said.
“It should be,” I said.
Claire chose that moment to tune into the conversation and looked at me in amazed disbelief. “You really don’t know anything about football, do you?”
Technically, I watched a bunch of games to make the video of Cooper, but I’d had the sound off and always fast-forwarded to the times he had the ball.
I shrugged. “When I was a kid, I played a few football gamesat my dad’s company picnic. It wasn’t tackle, though.” The rules had been much simpler.
And come to think of it, maybe those games were the reason I’d never liked football. Well, more specifically, TC Mullins was the reason.
TC was the son of one of Dad’s legal clerks. He lived on the other side of town, so we’d never gone to the same school even though we were the same age. He’d always been bigger than me, with meaty hands, a mop of brown hair, and a pug nose. When we were little and we’d been at the annual company picnic, he liked to push me in the bouncy house. When we got older, he mostly ignored me—except during the football games, where he taunted me for not being able to throw or catch.
The guy loved football. I stopped joining in any of the competitions because I hated the smug satisfaction he had every time he beat me.
As he got older, he grew into his nose, cut his mop of brown hair short, and his meaty hands looked more normal on a guy who turned out to be six foot four. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he was substantial. A presence. A guy who could easily play the part of a bouncer or a mafia don.
Last summer, he went out of his way to talk to me at the picnic. One could even say he attempted to flirt, but it wasn’t his forte. He told me about his weight-lifting routine and then said, “I could pin you to the ground with one arm. Want to see?”
Uh, no. Hard pass on being attacked, thanks.
He went on to tell me about all the things he could do without even breaking a sweat and also bragged about how college women liked to hit on him.
I said, “Well, if you want them to stop, just tell them thatyou can pin them to the ground with one arm. That’ll scare them off.”
He laughed and wagged his eyebrows at me. “Do you think I’m scary?”
“No. I’m not afraid of men because my father can sue for sexual harassment without even breaking a sweat.”
