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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Ma!" I slammed my truck door. "What did you do?"
"Brody!" Mom's shrill voice made me wince. With her hair pulled back and wearing tooth-patterned scrubs, she hadn't been home long. "How were the tryouts? Did you—"
A fireman exited the building with a blackened pan held with tongs. "Is this yours, Ma'am?"
"Oh, yes." She smiled and stuffed her hands in her pockets. "Sorry, I was in the bathroom when the smoke alarms sounded."
Her guilty eyes shifted to me. "I was making spaghetti to celebrate your tryouts. To bulk up those carbs—"
"Ma." I palmed my magma-hot forehead. Absent sauce splatters on her shirt, she boiled water. Correction: She boiled too much water, burning the pasta. The fireman dumped black spaghetti strands onto the lawn, looking like the grossest flavor of licorice. I should be grateful flames weren't leaping out of our windows.
Mom's arms choked my neck, the smell of smoke in her hair. She pulled back, cupped my arms, and gave me a scrutinous inspection. "Why are you so red-faced and sweaty?"
Before I answered, she plugged her nose and fanned the air. "Woah! Phew! Pee-Ew, Brody! You stink." Her loud, nasal shriek drew the neighbor's eyes before her eyes widened and she gasped. "Why so sweaty? Did you meet a girl!? Oh, Brody! I didn't think—"
"Wuh-what?" I sputtered. "No." Why did she think I was with a girl? I wasn't sure what bothered me more, that she thought that was what I was having a parking lot quickie given the time, or that I was out of shape. She circled today's tryouts on our fridge calendar.
"You didn't shower? Brody! Oh boy, this is going to be a long four months." She palmed her forehead while still holding her nose. "And baseball? I'll buy some car Christmas trees for the condo, to hang on all the doorknobs."
How had we transitioned from her attempting to burn the place down to my nonexistent sex life to hygiene scolding? Thank fuck it was dark, so—
"Brody?" a soft voice preceded a tap on my shoulder.
I turned and rooted my feet on the sidewalk. Nia stood with her hands clasped and a soft smile on her pale lips. My heart lurched. Hopefully, she hadn't heard Mom's accusations of me being loose and unhygienic. A hand swipe over my damp forehead and a discreet sniff confirmed I was due for a shower. Great.
Red flashes highlighted her round cheekbones and white teeth, and her brown eyes were black under the dim lights. Her hair was in a braid draped over her shoulder, and she wore a light purple robe over light-pink flannel pajamas. "Nuh-nuh—" my voice wasn't my friend, crackling like static. Neither was Mom.
"Hi," she gushed. Her hip shoved me aside, and she took Nia's not-outstretched hand. "I'm Grace, Brody's mom. Are you a new friend from school? Or your parking lot girl?"
Nia's eyes widened, and I wanted to melt into the sidewalk cracks. "Your what?"
Mom pumped Nia's arm so hard, I was surprised it stayed attached. "Ma, stop hurting her."
