Page 4 of Most Valuable Player
That’s an awful idea, but thank you.
I readjust my shoulder pads, secure my face mask, tie my cleats tighter, and try to get serious. I can’t start slacking because I’m in abad mood. Especially because Coach Barnett has been in contact with a scout from the University of Alpine who’s been observing Darius since freshman year and just caught wind of me when I joined the team last year as a junior. I have to keep on top of my game if I stand any chance of earning myself a full ride, or the last two years of obsessive training and bulking will have been for nothing.
As the hum of roaring high schoolers washes over the field, annoyance plucks at my veins. Seriously, it’s not like I have a crush on Mason. I don’t get those. Butterflies? Not in this chiseled abdomen. If anyone is pining nearby, it’s probably for me. I’m one of the tallest and most well-built seniors in school, thanks to my dad’s one good gene and the aforementioned obsessive training and bulking. My skin is a natural, flattering golden brown, which gives me the mysterious and sexy air of an ethnically ambiguous man.
“You aretan, white boy,” Anup tells me whenever I bring it up.
But basically, with my long eyelashes and dagger-sharp jawline, I’m irresistible. What happened here?
It’s the fourth quarter when everything goes wrong.
I huddle up behind Nate, our center, eyes wandering the sea of white helmets clashing with the brutish red of the opposing team. Everyone is braced, waiting for the call. My gaze flicks to the sidelines, where Coach Barnett is massaging his peppered goatee. Mason stands beside him, expression neutral as ever.
Nate snaps the ball, and I close the leather between my gloves while the crowd wails with excitement. Anup is trying to escape the guy on his flank—Ravi’s down the field, faster than the player targeting him. We’re about to score. With twenty seconds left, we’ll tie the game, and all Jody has to do is score the extra point for the win—
Suddenly, a heavy weight collides with my side, drilling me into the ground with enough force that the air nearly leaves my lungs. Iblink blearily, looking into triumphant eyes behind a garish-red helmet. “Stay down, bitch!” he yells.
He’s done it. He’s cracked me. I don’t know where it comes from, but suddenly, I’m not on the field anymore. The turf is a coarse bedroom carpet. The people looming over me aren’t football players—they’re other students. Eighth graders. Laughing, speaking behind hands, looking down on me with amused, disgusted eyes.
Do you think he’s…?
Like mother, like son…
I’m not that kid anymore. I’ve taken appropriate steps to ensure I won’t ever find myself in that position again. But knowing this matters little. The pure, unbridled rage that spills out of me would be extremely ugly if I wasn’t…well, me.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, and I’m tearing my helmet off, and so is he, and my fist lands on his face before he can even curl his hand. He staggers beneath my knuckles and hits the grass, blood spurting from his nose.
The chaos that follows is flattering, actually. As his team surges toward me with an explosive battle cry, my team rushes to keep them off me.
Just like that, the game is over.
Chapter Two
Cam
“I’m the victim.”
I’m seated on the bench before the vacant field, arms knotted over my chest, the evening sun causing my skin to glitter a flattering golden sheen, probably. At this point we’ve had our after-game meeting and the bleachers have been cleared of onlookers, leaving me to look at nothing but gaping emptiness under blazing fluorescent lighting. A warm breeze combs across the green turf and white spray paint, cooling the beaded sweat along my hairline, and the heat radiating from my cleats is intense enough to fry the rubbery track under my feet.
Barnett rubs his gleaming bald head, his light-brown face drawn with weariness. “You punched another player, Morelli,” he mutters.
“He called me a bitch,” I point out. It’s the closest to an explanation he’ll get—I’m not going to tell him I had some weird PTSD war flashback. “Look, Coach. I’m a big guy, so I have a lot of testosterone. When someone disrespects me, it’s natural that my response is to punch him. Haven’t you watched hockey? They’re duking it out all the time.”
“You’re an eighteen-year-old high schooler, not a salaried hockey player,” Barnett says despairingly. “Also—and I’m asking this politely—please stop bringing up your testosterone when I speak with you.”
“I’m just defending myself.” I lean my elbows against the helmet nestled in my lap. Since the stands are cleared, there’s no audience to defend my appropriate reaction to being insulted. “I didn’t hit him that hard. He was barely bleeding.”
“The quantity of blood is irrelevant, Morelli.” Barnett looms over me with all of his five feet and seven inches, his expression contorted with severity. “This is the final straw.”
I blink up at him. “Final? Were there others?”
There’s a snicker behind me, and I whirl my head around. Mason Gray is standing on the track, hugging his clipboard, the breeze ruffling his perfectly styled black hair. Has he gotten prettier over the last two hours?
“Laughing about something, water boy?” I demand.
Mason gives me another pleasant, toothless smile. “I wouldn’t dare, quarterback.”
I whirl back to the coach and jam my thumb in Mason’s direction. “Shouldn’t he be sweeping the end zone or something?”
