Page 36 of Built to Fall
I didn’t even realize we’ve been standing out here for as long as we have until the first hint of light begins to creep over the horizon. The darkness is finally starting to give way to a muted gray, and I should probably head back inside, despite knowing I will not be sleeping.
When I make it to the steps, Grant is right behind me. “You don’t have to walk me all the way?—”
“Didn’t do it for you.” He adjusts his bag. “Just needed the run. Plus, I’m going up to the apartment to drag Braxton out of bed, anyway.”
My eyes narrow. “Right.”
“Try not to get murdered next time.”
“I’ll pencil it in.”
He pauses. Just a second. Then he dips his head in goodbye before turning and walking toward the stairs while I head for the elevator.
“Goodnight, Lina,” he calls from the doorway of the stairwell.
My smile grows, despite myself. “Good morning, Grant.”
CHAPTER NINE
GRANT
The sun’s barely climbed above the tree line, and my legs already feel like concrete. There’s dew on the turf, mist clinging to the sidelines, and I’m not all that happy to be here.
Coach is screaming something about footwork and hustle and “stop standing around like you’re posing for a magazine ad. This is football, not GQ!”
And yeah, okay, I might’ve adjusted my helmet a little dramatically when he said that.
It’s a typical early morning practice, and it’s gotten to the point in the season where it’s cold enough for my breath to fog in front of my face and for me to be questioning whether or not I can feel my fingers. All before my brain has fully woken up.
Braxton jogs up beside me, sweat dripping from his temple. “You’re in a mood today.”
I grunt. “Don’t start.”
Braxton might be my best friend, but he’s also pushy, and it gets annoying when he knows exactly what to say and ask about the things I don’t want to talk about.
“Alright, huddle up!” Coach bellows.
We break into formation, hands on our knees, everyone trying to catch their breath before the next drill. Cam leans over and whispers, “Vandenberg, you good?”
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
Braxton lets out a breath. “That’s your favorite sentence, huh? Followed closely by‘it wasn’t a big deal’and‘she knew what this was.’”
The two of them live with me, after all. They would know best.
I glare at him. “You wanna give me a TED Talk, or do you want to actually run plays?”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ve got a whole thesis prepared:Grant Vandenberg and the Emotional Black Hole He Calls a Heart.”
A couple guys around us snicker.
I met Braxton when we both were recruited to the football team freshman year. Since then, he’s been the best damn quarterback I’ve ever played with, and he’s also become my best friend. It’s the only reason he’s allowed to rib me this bad.
I shrug him off and jog to the line of scrimmage, fingers twitching.
We run a quick set—slants, hooks, a fade route that goes wide—nothing fancy. My muscles move on instinct, but my head’s still stuck in that stupid 5 a.m. fog, tangled up with Lina’s voice, her stupid sarcasm, the way she looked at Savannah like she was an angel, and then as if that’s the way I saw her too.
I don’t like where my brain continues to wander. I’m so used to football being the one place where I’m entirely in control; it’s the one thing I love most about the game. The structure gives my unruly thoughts somewhere to land when everything feels scattered.
