Page 6 of The Americana Playbook

“We always bail each other out,” she reminds me, pulling out a black marker. “Isn’t that what we agreed on?”

Parker pulls the cap off, sticking it between her teeth, and lifts the marker. I smile because I know what she’s going to write. It’s not our initials in the middle of a heart with an arrow going through it. What she’s going to write is something more than that. What she writes is our secret.

REBELS ONLY.

The inscription on the bleachers doesn’t differ all that much from where she carved the same saying into the outside of the clubhouse that no longer exists.

Parker plucks the marker cap from her mouth. “Let’s see if it’s still here at our tenth high school reunion.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Will we still be rebels then?”

Most of Parker’s face disappears when she turns to tuck the marker into her backpack, now hidden by her dark wavy hair. But I can see the smile on the side of her face. And even if it’s only half, it’s enough for me. I wish I was brave enough to tell her,she’senough for me.

And for a second, during what might be the last time we’re ever on the campus of the same school, I contemplate it.

But Parker’s right. I’m a chicken. Because to have her, I risk losing some things. Our friendship, for one. And, according to Coach, my future.

Parker fully faces me once more, the whole of her smile coming into view. “We’ll always be rebels, Fitzy.”

I storm into the bathroom, ripping my clothes off, watching my chest expand and shrink quickly. But my uneasy breathing isn’t what I remain focused on. My eyes fall to the black lettering just below my right hip bone.

REBELS ONLY.

Nick is wrong. The words forever etched into my skin will never not hold meaning no matter the uniform I wear.

I was a rebel long before I signed with the team or even before I got this tattoo the night I graduated from high school, months after Parker left home without ever saying goodbye.

I trace the letters of her handwriting copied into my skin.

I’ll always be a rebel. And Parker—wherever she is—will be too.

A rebel with or without a cause. The rebel who will always hold a piece of my heart.

“I’m cutting you, Clara.”

I spin around from the bar, almost knocking over one of my table’s drinks. “What?”

Joe holds a hand out. “Relax. Go home. I’m going to need you tomorrow.”

“I don’t work Sundays.”

Sundays aremine. I drive an hour outside of Atlanta to where I work what should technically be considered my second job. But since I get to ride in return for cleaning out stables, someone would probably consider it more of a hobby. It just happens to be one I was only able to enjoy in my past life when someone else was paying for it.

Joe nods. “I know you don’t. But I need all hands on deck. Jackie called out with the flu, and the whole club is booked.”

In the six months I’ve been here, I’ve never seen Joe shut down the club to the public.

He leans on the bar. “Tips are already set,” he entices me.

Under normal circumstances, I’d tell him I can’t. But I do have to fix my car that’s about to die if I want to actually get out of Atlanta on Sundays or when I make a break for it this summer.

“Do I have to remind you I pay you entirely incashand off the books?”

I hate when people act like they’re doing something out of the kindness of their hearts and then toss it back into your face when they need something.

“Tomorrow is the Super Bowl, Clara. Did you even realize Atlanta was hosting it?”

I guess that explains the traffic earlier today.

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