Throw Like a Girl by Sarah Henning

Author:Sarah Henning
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2020-01-06T16:00:00+00:00

21

MONDAY MORNING, I WAKE UP TO MY LAPTOP AND phone sitting on my desk. Not charged. No note. No suggestion that this means I can play football—just that my grounding is over.

I plug them in and they both light up like that one huge-ass Christmas light display in our old neighborhood.

Texts. Texts. Texts.

Missed calls.

All from the people who care about me enough to wonder where the hell I went Saturday. Addie, of course. And Grey.

A little flutter flips alive in my tummy when I think of Grey last night—of him grabbing my hand under the table and making a case to Dad, of him saying good night with yet another great kiss. The flutter swells for a faint second before I blink and see a slip of orange in my field of vision.

My game jersey.

Ready for return. The red practice one, too.

The flutter dies a quick death as I collect my stuff for a shower.

An hour later, Grey’s there on the Northland steps as I walk up to school. Foot kicked up against the faded brick, wet hair curling against his temples, signature half smile in place.

I will myself to look thrilled that he’s there. I mean, I am thrilled.

I am.

But all I keep thinking is that I won’t get to see him tonight at practice. It’ll just be our walk to Spanish, lunch, calc. That’s it. He’ll be at practice until seven, and I’ll be at home, probably working on my jump shot for basketball tryouts in a couple of weeks.

“Hey,” I say and he smiles in answer, his hand kissing mine as he holds open the door for me. I wish it were a real kiss, but I’ve never gone to the same school as my boyfriend, and I’m not sure of the etiquette.

“Liv!” I turn around and a freakishly tall guy I’ve never seen in my life is there, grinning like we’re BFFs. “Awesome game Friday.”

He fist-bumps both me and Grey and stalks off. When Shaq’s body double is out of earshot, Grey leans down. “Micah Jellison. Starting big man.”

“Oh.” Okay. Basketball—so other athletes noticed. They also had no idea I didn’t show up for practice on Saturday.

We keep moving and, like the first day, Grey grabs my fingers and tugs me around the corner, his lips to my ear. “Jellison wasn’t the only one who noticed your kick-assery.”

And it might be true—the collective masses are parting for both of us this time, eyes lingering on my face before skipping to our intertwined hands and then up to Grey’s familiar features.

“Hope they savored their one and only chance to see Liv Rodinsky, backup quarterback, in action.”

His shoulder taps mine. Which feels approximately 3 bazillion percent more sexy than it did a week ago. “They’ll get an encore.”

When I enter the classroom and take my seat, Jake Rogers wastes exactly zero-point-oh-nada seconds before pouncing on me. The moment my butt makes contact with molded plastic, he’s snared my forearm, his eyes pinned to Coach Kitt’s turned back.

“Where the hell were you, big shot?”

I almost remind him he could’ve texted me.

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