Caleb.
I finish entering my last note, add a task in Reminders for the assignment, and shove my laptop in my backpack. Gabriel Fleiss will not shut up. He attached himself to me after our season opener—much like a strong-side linebacker—to block my forward momentum.
We share the same philosophy and calculus classes. He’s an odd mix of football groupie, armchair analyst and gamer geek. The type to never get beat in the latest Madden game, but I doubt he’s ever carried the ball in real life. He chose the seat next to mine and whispered an entire breakdown of our first football game under his breath in a nonstop litany. He didn’t wait for my answer.
My participation is not necessary.
Since we lost that game, I battled the urge to stomp him flat. Too much like kicking a puppy—an annoying one who won’t stop yapping. But still, a smaller, weaker, pathetic animal that requires your complete attention and maybe the chance to hump your leg while you’re distracted.
I consider whether slipping him a five-dollar bill to send him off to buy me a Gatorade will make me an irredeemable human being. But I don’t want to spend the next half hour before calculus listening to him drone on like last week. Something tells me he might gripe about the errand but be secretly pumped by the request.
“Hey, man. I need you to do me a solid.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “What?”
I reach for my wallet, but another classmate approaches Gabe. “Dude, wait,” the guy says to Gabe. “Need to pick your big-ass brain.”
“Never mind. Later.” I swing my backpack onto my shoulder and make my way toward the door like it’s the end zone and I’m about to score a touchdown.
I choose a bench outside the building of my next class, far enough away that Gabe won’t find me. My phone pings with a text from an unknown number. Dana’s using someone else’s cell to reach me. Again. I swipe to read the text:
Don’t block this number. It’s not what you think. D.
My right eyelid tics. I block the contact and absorb the warmth of the sun as it bakes heat into my body. Avoidance is my current game plan. Dana. Dad. I never imagined distancing myself from the man I once believed incapable of destroying his moral code. Now I can’t imagine a day when his betrayal won’t matter. I concentrate on things I can control, like studying hard, making sure my performance on the football field gets noticed, and helping Mom start a life without Dad.
The next time I get involved with a girl, it will have to be different. There has to be mutual trust and respect or I’m out. I spent so much time proving my love to Dana that I failed to realize she never proved her love for me. Whatever. It’s done. I’ve learned from my mistakes.
From my vantage point, I’m able to see between buildings and the spot where the sidewalks intersect. In front of the math building, a guy on a skateboard bullets toward the blind corner approaching warp speed. Oblivious to the impending collision, a girl power walks between the two buildings heading toward the intersection. She’s wearing oversized fleece in eighty-degree heat. Sleeves pushed to her elbows, her flip-flops slap against the concrete and merge with the whir of the skateboard’s wheels. She’s got earbuds in, head down, watching her feet.
A spark of recognition fires along my nerve endings. It’s the girl I smacked with the Frisbee a little more than a week ago. I stand, wave my arms, and shout, “Look out.”
She doesn’t hear me. She reaches the intersection and glances up. The skateboarder veers to the left. Shock etches across her face, and her lips form a silent “oh.” Her arms wheel backward, she lands on her ass, and her backpack tumbles two feet to her right. The f-bomb she drops booms, even thirty yards away.
The dude lifts his hands palms up—like he’s too busy to stop and check on her.
For the second time, her exotic face, those dramatic eyes, and full lips snag my attention. She turns sideways to her knees. I get a view of her backside when her hoodie rides up her torso, and her cargo pants pull tight over a round ass, contrasting a smaller waist. It’s wrong to stare, but I can’t help myself. Her body could have been built, feature-by-feature, in my head. My stomach muscles seize. Fantasy girl.
She pops up off the ground and yanks her hoodie down to midthigh—obliterating those amazing curves. Fantasy girl dusts off her sexy butt, pulls out her earbuds, and shoves them into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. She picks up her backpack and slings it over one shoulder.
There’s only one place she could go since the path dead ends at the math building.
On the football field, I excel at reading the line of scrimmage. I make split-second decisions to veer left or right to avoid the tackle, carry the ball for at least ten yards, and get the first down. I’m not going to blow this second chance to apologize for bashing her head the other day. Timing is crucial when making the play. I stand and grab my backpack from the bench. If I cut across the grass I’ll reach the building door first. Be a gentleman. Hold the door open for her.
I move to grab the handle, but it swings open wide enough to smack against the building. A quick sidestep left to avoid collision, and another to my right once I’m clear. Gabe materializes in the doorway. He must have been waiting here instead of the classroom, where I expected him to troll for me. The door hits my ass, and I’m knocked forward into the entrance.
Gabe says, “Get a move on, we’re going to be late. And you need to pay attention to the Lobos’ strong safety next week.”
He nudges me toward class, and I shake my head. “Grab us seats inside. I’ll join you in a minute.”
I glance over my shoulder and see fantasy girl shaking her head at the two douche bags who can’t be bothered to hold the door open.