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.
Watching a football game at a concession stand was as interesting as watching paint dry on the walls separating us. The crowd's roars muffled behind it. The fact they were cheering? Better for business than anything we could've made. Tonight's game was as ruckus as a concert, which started right off the first whistle blown.
I didn't know much about the game, and our school's team was terrible. But blowout games, usually the Falcons getting their asses kicked, led to more people eating concessions. Nail-biting, back-and-forth games rooted people's butts to their seats, forcing me, Morgan, or both of us to climb the bleachers for business. The Falcons were winning, apparently by a landslide, creating concession lines two to three people deep. Brody's name was mentioned over and over and over. If he had fans before, he probably had superfans after whatever performance he put out tonight. Brody, Brody, Brody, his name was on everyone's lips.
"Doing this again?" Xavier teased from behind me. "Should I be concerned you're missing a hairnet?"
Adjusting my Margie's baseball cap, I stepped to the counter with his usual. "Carrot muffin, my good sir."
"Thank you, m'lady," he drawled.
Mom's specialty was based on her version of Mrs. Calvin's baking mix. A nice alternative to pumpkin spice overkill, which the bakery also sold, they tasted similar to Mom's carrot cake except for less sugar and a denser crumb. They were tender and springy but not as soft as our cake texture. An extra sprinkling of brown sugar on top gave them a hardened cap which certain unnamed people –Morgan– peeled off and only ate that part.
Like all the items Morgan and I sold tonight, Mom and I made a hundred of these muffins two nights ago and froze them. The plate-sized sugar cookies were the biggest seller. Mom, Dad, Morgan, and I all needed to pipe on the Falcons logo this afternoon.
Total pain in the ass. Or, wrist. Worth it because we sold out halfway through the second quarter.
Apple cider and pumpkin spice doughnuts filled out the rest of our fall treat display shelf, which the school generously allowed us to sell. We had to give half the money to the PTA, which hopefully went to the school to buy the football team new uniforms. Brody's looked like moths had gotten to it.
Brody though? I snuck a peek during the pledge of allegiance. He put on that uniform as if he stepped into another person's body. His shoulders were square, head high, and he walked as if he owned the field. All of them did, but the way he tore up with the first kickoff catch, taking control with the ball, he ran, and a herd of other players chased him. No comment on those tight pants hiding nothing as his legs pumped in a blur.
My cheeks warmed. "How is–"
"Hi, Xavier." Morgan shoved me aside with a hip bump and beamed at him.
I sighed and gave Xavi an apologetic smile. He knew my thirteen-year-old sister was oblivious to the fact she couldn't have been further from his type, but another guy stood next to him. "Hey, shortie," he teased. "Morgan, Paige, this is Grant. Grant, Paige."
