A shy high school senior jock and a closed-off girl battling an immune disorder fake a relationship to win a social media contest.
Being shy isn't easy, especially when you're the new kid at school. Scotts Valley's football program is subpar compare...
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On my first day, I fucked up my priorities and needed to refocus. Dad's texts and the Falcon's tryouts slapped me with the much-needed reality check of why I was here.
After I announced my trying out, word spread through the gossip mill. I knew of guys on the football and baseball teams from playing against them, but no one personally. Half of the team hated me before I stepped onto the field—no when I finished tying my cleats. Silent stares from the linemen and D-backs and narrow eyes from the receiver core welcomed me. My fingers and toes twitched to incinerate those cocky egos.
My first step onto the uneven field flipped on my confidence switch, rippling away the uncertainty tensing my shoulders. Why my personality was different, no idea. Maybe I was too fucking good not to be proud of my abilities, playing on varsity since freshman year. Results spoke for themselves, and mine were all-state level. Or, maybe I was comfortable in a solidarity uniform, even if it was the only practice version that fit me and a helmet. Our uniforms sported numbers, no names on the back.
Here, I wasn't shy, tongue-tied Brody. I was just a talented football player. And it was time to shine.
Dead grass crinkled under the pressure of my fingertips. Helmetless, a dry breeze tickled the hair on my forehead. I lifted my ass and took a slow breath. Nico wore a tight smile around his mouth guard as he crouched one shoulder width from me. Short, excited breaths hit my ears, excitement building for the first challenge.
Coach Walters' shrill whistle blew, and I shot off my block. A half-second start ahead was all I needed. I pumped my legs in short stutters to build speed and energy, engaging the muscles in my quads and calves with warm pressure. Six steps out, I unleashed that pressure into longer strides and gained two yards on my competitors. Adrenalin surged through me, warming my muscles, buzzing my veins, and increasing my heart rate.
With pounding steps, my cleats clomped over hard, compacted soil. I trudged through quicksand compared to Santa Cruz's pristine Astroturf, pushing through the bumps to leave a herd of grunts behind. My heart pumped with my arms, sending warmth and power through my limbs. I grinned when the breaths and thundering feet behind me faded.
I slacked my hamstrings, relaxing from the warmth flowing up my legs. Surging forward, I settled into sprint mode. The Falcon's practice field blurred as I ran two, three, and five yards ahead. Coach's dropped-open mouth and unhinged jaw were worth the effort. I ended the forty-yard sprint six yards ahead of the second finisher, Caden, the quarterback, followed by Trayvon Dirks, a defensive back and special teams return man. I almost felt sorry for the receiver core, except they were my competition.
Caden leaned over and palmed his thighs. "Shit...huh-how, bro?" Sweat glistened at his hairline, clumping his black curls, and his ruddy cheeks puffed for breath. Arching his eyebrows, he wrinkled his forehead and peered at me.
I widened my smirk. "Warm-ups."
With an eye scan over my relaxed state, his mental gears were set in motion. He saw the dynamic shift and the opportunities a faster speed could open up for him. One good receiver could elevate his game. And I was better than damn good.
