Page 1 of Quarterback Crush
Chapter 1
MAYA
Oliver Blackwell was my neighbor before he was my crush. And he was my crush before he was the quarterback for Snow Ridge High’s varsity football team.
And he may or may not have been the main reason for trialing for the cheer team after a random and brief encounter with him in the school hallway in my freshman year. A freak flurry of snowflakes had every kid in school rushing for a look, and in the bustle of heading outdoors, Oliver had brushed against me. His arm had knocked mine, tightly clutching my phone in preparation for taking a photo, and he’d half-turned and apologized.
“Hey, sorry,” he’d said with a smile on his face, his dark brown eyes captivating, his half open mouth showing his upper row of perfect teeth. Yeah, 100 percent the smile was for the excitement of the snowfall (which, in fact, had only been hail), but in that split second, it was for me. Only me. My heart swelled, my body rejoiced and I’d suddenly recalled the notice for late cheer trials to boost low numbers.
It was a heart stopping moment of genius because being on the cheer team would not only mean close proximity to the football team, and in particular Oliver, but appeasing my parents who’d been encouraging me to participate in an extra-curricular activity for the good of my high school experience. I’d been quite content to just hang out with my friends—visiting cafes, binge watching shows, watching beauty tutorialsand making our own videos all took a lot of time, but Mom, our school’s English teacher, suggested I join the film club or become part of the recycling team or learn to play Pickleball.
Protesting that I had no interest in any of those things, I feared being compared to my older sister Lizzie. She’d excelled in music and choir and could talk herself to kingdom come and convince you that the moon was made of cheese, whereas I had no spectacular talents. My opportunities had been numerous—piano lessons, tee-ball, skiing, mosaics art class, ballet and gymnastics. But the only thing that shone was my extreme mediocrity. I’d endure a semester, sometimes two, but none of those activities spoke to me, caused a spark. Not like Lizzie and her love for the clarinet or her absolute passion for debate. No, I was happy to coast along with a somewhat mundane life of watching movies, crushing on boy bands, drinking cappuccinos and dreaming about the perfect boyfriend...aka Oliver Blackwell.
My major infatuation with Oliver started back when I was a tiny fifth grader. The Blackwells had lived in the white two-story house next door for as long as I could remember. He and his three older brothers were always riding their bikes down the street or kicking a ball in their yard or playing catch on the sidewalk, big, tall boisterous boys who intimidated me.
But it was the day when I’d been sledding with Lizzie on the little hill at the end of our cul-de-sac that I really opened my eyes to Oliver. Lizzie had dragged me out of the house and down the street. But when my sled collided quite violently with Nick Herman’s on the Cherry Lane hill, it was Oliver Blackwell, and not Lizzie, who came to my rescue. All he did was pick up my sled and ask if I was okay, but there was something in his voice that had been gentle and full of concern, and his friendly smile had made my heart beat like crazy. And when he put his gloved hand on my shoulder to check I could stand okay, I’d looked up into his warm eyes and gone weak at the knees.
“You okay?” That’s what he said, and I’d been so blown away by the fact that he’d saved me, all I could whisper was, “Yeah, I think so.”
“Want me to carry your sled home for you?”
Dazed, I’d nodded, and Oliver had yelled at Nick for being a jerk and then said, “Your sister’s good at sledding.”
And I didn’t even care that he thought Lizzie was a great sledder—which she was, but she was older than me so she should be—all that mattered was that Oliver walked me to my house. Admittedly, he dumped the sled by the gate and raced back to the hill and I took my poor bruised body inside where Mom made me hot cocoa.
But that was the day I decided Oliver Blackwell was the most wonderful person in the universe and he owned my heart. I peered out of every window in our house at every opportunity to try to catch a glimpse of my hero, my crush, my love.
Many more times Lizzie and I sledded on the hill, but I never spoke to Oliver until several years later when his family were packing up and moving to a new neighborhood across town. Mr. Blackwell had hired a moving truck and the family was carting furniture and suitcases out.
Lizzie was chatting to George, Oliver’s older brother and helping him carry out cartons. I stood by the gate watching, a shy thirteen year old, in mourning because the most gorgeous boy in the world was moving away. I was lamenting the fact that I would have no purpose in life anymore, no reason to wake up early and get to the window to see Oliver leave for his morning training sessions or to see him arrive home in the evenings.
“Hey Maya,” Lizzie had called me over, “can you help? Instead of standing around daydreaming.” I’d dashed over to her, thankful for the chance to get closer to Oliver. “There’s a sports bag in there. Can you carry it?”
“Sure,” I said, hitching the duffel up over my shoulder. There must have been a bunch of bowling balls in there because it was heavy, like really heavy. But I didn’t want George or Lizzie to think I was weak, so I struggled with the bag down the driveway to the truck where I dropped it on the ground. George and Lizzie had already gone back to the house to get more stuff.
“Hey, Mia.” Oliver appeared in the back of the truck and jumped down as if the height was nothing.
“It’s My—a,” I corrected him rather indignantly, elongating my pronunciation.
“Oh, sorry,” he said as if he was genuinely surprised. “May—a.” I forgave him instantly because my name sounded magnificent coming from his lips, silky and smooth and mesmerizing. “Hey, thanks. That’s Dad’s bowling bag.”
I nodded, still heaving from its weight.
“He’d hate if that got left behind,” Oliver said.
I nodded again—it was all I could do, my lungs already at the extent of their breathing capacity. Oliver was gorgeous, he was like a greek god, a movie star with tousled hair and muscular arms. With complete ease, he single handedly hoisted the bag onto the truck. But in the next instant, Mr. Blackwell and Lance, another brother, arrived with a bookshelf and I had to scuttle out of their way.
Lizzie directed me to carry out a few smaller things, a box of recipe books and containers of kitchen gadgets. Oliver passed me by often with big items like an office chair and a stepladder, and when the truck was full, Oliver hopped in the front with his Dad and they drove off.
I left after that, but Lizzie stayed to help load up George’s car with his clothes and all his things. I danced on the front porch listening to music, waiting for the truck to come back, hoping for another sighting of Oliver before he disappeared to the other side of Snow Ridge.
But it took a long time and it was getting cold and I headed inside, jealous that Lizzie was still helping. Ages later, there was a knock on the backdoor and I rushed to answer it, but Dad got there first.
Mr. Blackwell was saying goodbye and Dad was wishing him good luck and they shook hands and I stood there, already feeling the loss of my daily sightings of Oliver from the window.
But Oliver jogged up our path, something tucked under his arm. And his eyes were directly on me.
“Oh hey, Maya,” he said. “Do you want this? I can’t really hang it out in our new house. And I’d hate to throw it out.”
