An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
It's too cold for shirts and skins, but Wednesdays are recreational for Pemberton Academy's varsity football team. The coaches let the boys choose their drills, call their own plays, and wear whatever they want. It's January, yet the offensive team are bare-chested and helmet-less.
"Idiots," I grumble, flipping the page of my book.
Mr. Higgins cancelled choir, so I'm waiting on the bleachers for my brother to finish practice. I could've texted Mason to get me early, but then he'd have to make two trips. And I admit, the football field is an entertaining place to be on Wednesdays.
The boys are less regimented, more creative, and full of laughter. I enjoy the sound, although it's like I'm listening to it from underwater. It's diluted, warped. There's a plastic film separating me from the world, and I haven't figured out how to tear it down.
"Set, set, hut!" a deep voice shouts, slicing through the invisible barrier with ease.
My gaze snaps to the quarterback. Payton holds the leather ball, his fingers gripping the laces. He pivots to avoid a tackle, keeping his feet light. He stares forward amidst a slew of colliding bodies, analyzing his options. My brother sneaks past his guards, holding his hand aloft, showing Payton where to lead him. Payton launches the ball into the air, his movements a blur. Aidan dives, arms outstretched, and makes the catch.
Momma is going to have a hell of a time getting the grass stains out of his gym shorts.
Sixty yards. That's how far Payton just threw. There are some QBs in the NFL that wouldn't feel comfortable making that play. Payton is fifteen years old, and he didn't break a sweat, although his lack of perspiration could be a result of hypothermia. It's the dead of winter, and he's not wearing a shirt. Testosterone is a mysterious hormone. I'm grateful I don't have to suffer from it.
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"Idiot," I repeat.
Payton turns in my direction, as if he heard the insult. His eyes scan the bleachers, spotting me. Apart from a few diehard parents, the stands are empty. Payton licks his lips, then rips his gaze away. He steps into the huddle, commanding his offense. I glare at his muscular back, knowing he can feel it.
The cheerleaders are practicing their drills as well. They are gathered in one of the endzones, chanting at full volume. Olivia's voice is deeper and less enthusiastic than the rest, yet hers is more distinctive to my ears. It grates on my nerves, warming my blood. I don't dislike her, but she's playing with someone I consider to be mine.
Payton and I have been dancing around one another for years, and things have only gotten more strenuous with age. Bodies are changing, emotions are running high, and post-graduation plans are being formed. He has his heart set on colleges in the deep south, and I have auditions lined up with Juilliard. We have little time left, yet Payton is pulling back. From me, from Aidan, from everyone. He has a singular focus—escape. And his means of attaining it? Football.
