The scouts aren’t hard to spot in the audience. By the time half-time rolls around, I know exactly which ones they are. They rarely smile, but they get excited when Zack does something just right. Jalen, too, for that matter which sucks. Jalen doesn’t deserve to be quarterback, doesn’t deserve to be scouted. I learned from Miranda during one of our slumber party chats that he used to lie to Ebony and tell her he was wearing a condom when he wasn’t.
That’s sexual assault, in my book.
Now I don’t feel nearly as bad for revealing that she was planning on cheating on him.
Just before our half-time show starts, I notice Zack slipping money into a player’s hand from the other team. It’s such a weird thing to notice, this subtle clasping of palms. But I don’t miss the wad of green that passes between him and Corb Lambert, the star player for Grenadine Heights.
Huh.
Is Zack paying him to throw the game or something? He wouldn’t though. I mean, I don’t think Zack would do that and I don’t believe that Corb would risk his chance of getting scouted for some chump change.
I don’t have time to worry about it before the show, getting in formation with the group, and executing our dance. We’ve been using these games as practices for our own competitions, rather than anything more than that. Cheerleading isn’t what it used to be, just some throw away sport to support the boys. It’s a full-blown athletic endeavor now.
We move from the dancing portion to the stunt segment of the routine—the part where we throw girls into the air—and I end opposite Kiara, lifting Ileana’s tiny form into the air. Everything goes as planned until it comes time to have her dismount. Normally, Kiara and I would bend our knees and then lift up with both our legs and arms at the same time, throw Ileana up, and then catch her with linked arms. Our spotter is some random third year that I hardly recognize, and she’s supposed to support Ileana’s ankles, and catch her under the armpits when she comes down.
This isn’t how things go during that session. Instead, both Kiara and the third year girl let go of Ileana, and she turns in mid-air and quite literally kicks me in the face.
Pain rackets through me as I stumble back and end up on my ass in the grass, blood pouring down my face and into my mouth. Kiara and the other girl manage to catch Ileana anyway, and I’m the only one left hurting.
Coach Hannah runs over to help me up, but I’m too dizzy to stand.
I just got nailed hard—and not in a good way.
The music keeps on pounding through the stadium, and the other girls finish their dance to cheers and clapping from both sides. Pretty sure everyone thinks that was accidental. Except for me. And Zack.
He storms over in a rush, panting hard and soaked in sweat, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. I manage finally to find my feet and push past Coach Hannah to intercept him on his way over.
“Don’t,” I murmur through the blood. I’m starting to wonder if my nose might be broken. It hurt too much, and now it doesn’t hurt at all … Not a good sign. My body’s trying to protect me from the agony. “Zack, don’t.”
“I don’t care if they are girls, I’m going to break their faces.”
“No, you aren’t.” I put my palms on his chest as he stands there, huge and muscular and panting, trying to come to my rescue in the only way he knows how. Just like with Tristan, I try to get ahold of that dark streak inside of him by drawing his attention away from them and over to me. “The scouts are here. I know you love football; I know you want to play for the NFL, even if you won’t admit it.”
“I can have my grandfather buy a team and put me on it,” Zack whispers, but he sounds almost sick when he says it. Sure, he could do that. But he’s like me: he wants to earn his own way. He doesn’t just want to play; he wants to deserve to play.
“They will get theirs. I promise you that. I promise you.” Because this first month at Burberry Prep, I haven’t been doing nothing. I have my notebook. I have my rules. And last year, I let the guys do a lot of the revenge-getting for me.
This year is going to be different.
I’m graduating Burberry Prep, and I’m going out with a bang.
“You fucking trolls,” Zack growls, but the girls behind me just laugh, and this time, it’s my turn to reach up and grab his face in my much smaller hands. He turns his bittersweet chocolate eyes down to me. They’re narrowed and dark, and I know he’d destroy them if I asked him to—even if it meant losing his spot on both this team and his future college career. “You best watch your backs.”
