“Maybe your hair shouldn't be so high,” Daddy suggests with a grin.
I playfully stick my nose in the air. “If I'm not using at least one can of hairspray per dance, I'm not even trying.”
We all share a laugh at that, which is a good note to end our meal on. “May I please be excused?”
“Of course, darling.” Momma rises from the table at the same time I do.
Daddy brings up the rear. “I hope you know what you’re doing?” he murmurs low so my mother doesn’t hear him.
“Of course I do.”
“Don’t break that boy. He’s the linchpin to our success this year. My backup quarterback is so green, he’d give a leprechaun a run for his money.”
“Don’t worry. By the time I’m done with Ace Anderson, the scouts’ll be lining up to draft him,” I declare.
6
Ace
“You ready for the game tomorrow?”
I look up from the playbook to find Julio Fleming, a six-foot, four-inch wide receiver, standing in front of me, squeezing the gloves in his hands so tight the mesh is going to leave an imprint on his palms. The redshirt freshman is making his first start for the Renegades—just like me.
I set my playbook aside. “Yeah. It’s a good team, but we’re better in every aspect. There’s no way their defensive backs are keeping up with you.”
“Right.” He nods, his chin bobbing up and down, but his eyes aren’t conveying any confidence.
That’s not good. Wide receivers are the divas of a football team. They run on self-confidence and Red Bull. If Julio isn’t walking around the locker room with his shirt off, beating his chest, there’s a problem. I take a quick look around the room and find that no one else seems concerned.
Julio doesn’t move. Instead, he gazes at me with stupid hope in his eyes and waits for me to say something inspirational as if I’m Lou fucking Holtz. I rub my palms against my sweatpants. “Okay, so what’s your favorite route?”
“Batman,” he says immediately.
The Batman route is where Julio and Carter line up on opposite edges of the line of scrimmage. When the ball is snapped, Julio runs straight and to the left corner. With two receivers, the pattern looks like a bat’s wings.
“It’s the fifth play we’re running,” I remind him, pointing to the printout I have taped inside the playbook. Coach Johnson always scripts the first fifteen offensive plays.
“Yeah, I know.” Julio scratches his head. Confidence is contagious in a locker room, but so is uncertainty, which is why whatever is bothering Julio needs to be nipped in the bud.
I get to my feet. “We’re going to murder them. The Lions don’t have a chance against our offense and the defense is going to make them call their mommies in tears. You run like you have rockets in your cleats so there’s no way any d-back keeps up. Doesn’t matter which route you run. If you’re open, I’ll find you.”
I slap my hand on his back, but before I can escape, he says, “You got family coming?”
It’s the hesitant way he says it that strikes a chord of understanding. The kid’s parents are coming, and he’s afraid he’s going to fall on his face in front of them. “No, we can’t swing it. Money, you know?”
“You, too?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, my old man is always running behind on the cash.” In fact, the old man called me a couple of weeks ago wondering if I could get some booster to pay for his flight here. I reminded him that’d be an NCAA violation and hung up.
“This is my first game my dad is coming to see,” Julio admits.
“He’s going to be really impressed. I bet you score a touchdown on the Batman play.”
“Too bad you’re not going to be with family.”
“It’s all good. I don’t need—”
“Of course he’s got family. The entire Johnson clan is cheering their heads off for you.” Bryant appears beside me like a ghost, carrying a huge plastic container. “All eighty million of them.” She gives me a saucy wink before turning to Julio. “Look at you, Julio. You’re looking gorgeous this fine fall afternoon. I bet you can’t wait to get out on that field tomorrow and show everyone how amazing you are.”
Julio’s chest inflates like a balloon. He flashes a bright white smile at her. “You know it.” He claps his palms together. “Best hands in the conference.”
“Conference!” Bryant exclaims. “You’re underselling yourself. You’ve got the best hands in the damn country, equaled only by our very own Carter.” She points a finger toward our number one wide receiver, who gives her the thumbs up in return.
Carter calls from across the room. “What you got there, Miss Bryant?”
“It’s a little pre-game treat.” She shoves the container in my hands. “Ace is going to pass them out. Only one per player, except for you, sugar. You get two.” She tugs on my jersey, forcing me to lean down close enough for her to plant one of those too light, too fleeting kisses. The ones that heat my blood but don’t give me any satisfaction. “You’re going to be so awesome tomorrow, Julio. There’s going to be at least one highlight with you dancing in the end zone.”
She squeezes my biceps, which sends a charge of electricity through me. Damn, what the fuck is wrong with me? “Ace, these are homemade granola bars. Those processed ones you guys gobble down like they’re Tic Tacs have too much sugar. I make these with honey so that they’re delicious but nutritious. You like almonds, right?”