Page 29 of Quarterback Crush
I pouted and scowled, and Sammy’s voice softened, “I’m sorry, Maya, but you know I’m just looking out for you, watch your back, okay?”
“I will,” I said, knowing my best friend’s concern came from her heart. And yes, she was the grounded one while my head was up in the clouds. Sammy was practical, someone who would check the weather forecast before dressing in the morning, while I’d been known to melt in a sweater and jeans after being fooled by an early morning chill.
“See you tomorrow,” Sammy said. “And hey, don’t forget we’ve got an algebra test .”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “See ya.”
But I wasn’t concerned with study—no the only thing on my mind was whether Oliver’s kisses were fake.
Chapter 12
OLIVER
After taking Maya home, I was on a high. Savannah had seen me walking Maya to the locker room and though she hadn’t seen us kissing, that didn’t matter. And now, not even the thought of starting on my senior project could dampen my spirits. I reached for my laptop, once again clicking on my English assignment. The A grade caused another smile, and Mrs. Shelton’s feedback was all positive. My chest filled with pride, kind of strange because I hadn’t known good grades could bring that sort of satisfaction. It was passing yards, touchdown passes, completions and how much I could bench press that people wanted to know about, where I got my glory.
I opened the handbook on Senior Project requirements, something I was already behind with. I’d already asked for an extension on my submission because of football commitments, but suddenly that two week window had dwindled down to two days and I was no closer to choosing a topic. The Senior Project was supposed to be a passion project, and it could be anything from designing an app, sewing a quilt or creating a podcast. Savannah was doing a video series of makeup and hair tutorials. She’d not offered me any ideas, telling me to do something about football. But football wasn’t my number one passion. Lance had done his project on the impact of AI in the future—all now totally out-of-date, Ryan’s had been a photography exhibit on historic buildings in the district, and George had developed and taught a class on financial literacy. There was no way I could even usetheir ideas—or want to. None of those things interested me in the slightest.
Taking a sheet of paper, I titled it ‘Brainstorming’ as per the guidelines:Write down all the things you are passionate about.My pen doodled on the page as my mind struggled to think of anything. It would be obvious to write football, but only because that’s what everyone else expected.
Maya.
Her face appeared in my head. No, I couldn’t do my senior project on Maya Shelton, but what had Maya asked me:What does Oliver Blackwell like?
I liked M&Ms, though that would hardly be an acceptable topic. I listened to true crime podcasts and could possibly research a case and write a report about it. That would be interesting. And I liked making my own protein balls for post-training snacks.
I wrote down:True crime case and protein ballsand referred back to the handbook. Some of the suggestions were to write a book of poetry, or research and write a guidebook to hiking trails. An idea formed and I wrote downrecipe bookandnutrition guide.
I buzzed with excitement, ideas coming thick and fast. I could write a recipe book with all the different flavors of protein balls and provide a nutritional guide, maybe even some fitness tips, and when presenting my project, I could give out samples of the balls.
This would be fun. I filled out my proposal form, listing the steps, cost analysis, materials required, potential obstacles and my research plan. Signing the sheet, I saw that it required a parent’s signature and that I would need to find a mentor, someone who was a specialist in the field. I chuckled to myself. Were there any experts in the field of protein balls? Maybe I could become the leader in the field of protein balls.
Mom poked her head in my door and asked in an amused tone, “What are you laughing at?”
“What? Nothing,” I said, sitting up on my bed to see her with an armful of my folded laundry. This seemed fortuitous—Dad would likely demand I do something related to football. “Oh hey, can you sign this?”
Mom dumped my clothes onto the end of my bed. “Sign what?”
“My senior project proposal.” I handed her a pen and pointed to the line. “Just there.”
“I thought senior project had to be in weeks ago,” Mom said.
“I got an extension,” I said, again pointing to the space. “There.”
“Let me read it,” she said, pulling the paper from my grasp.
I waited in dread. Let’s face it, protein balls weren’t as impressive as a photo exhibition or financial literacy or even AI.
Mom’s eyelids fluttered. “A recipe book?” I chose not to respond, her voice said it all. It was a lame subject. “I thought you’d coach a tag football team?”
“Just sign it,” I mumbled, “or I’ll get Dad to.” Though there was no way I wanted Dad to sign it; hewouldinsist I coach tag football. From the corner of my eye, I could see her scribble her name.
She held the paper out to me. “You’ll need to find a mentor.”
“Thanks.” I snatched it out of her hands. “I might ask Matt at the gym. He’s a body builder and knows all about nutrition,” I said.
“Or Penny Adlam is a chef.”
My head jerked back as I glared at Mom, my words outright hostile. “Savannah’s mom?”
