I’d be embarrassed, too. Maybe he realized he sounded like a total douche—hawk or not.
Then he started to speak again, and she decided it was probably sun and not sense coloring his cheeks.
“My number’s really easy to remember. It’s just—”
Foster held up her hand. “No. Just no. Not if my life depended on it. But good luck out there, Douchehawk.” She gave him a salute, spun on her heels, and headed to section one twenty-five, her feet clomping noisily as she trudged up the aluminum bleachers.
Cora was examining the flimsy little one-page program as Foster slid in next to her. “You will not believe what just happened,” Foster said around a mouthful of sour Skittles. “I met the most stereotypical jock douchebag. He asked me out. Sorta.”
“On a date?” Cora’s brow hit her hairline.
Foster snorted, sounding a lot like her adoptive mom. “Not the kind you used to get asked out on to the disco back in the eighties or whenever. This is one of those, ‘show up at this place, and if I feel like hanging out with you, I will, but if not, I never officially asked you to go with me, so you can’t get mad’ things. Total guy garbage logic.” Annoyed, she popped another Skittle into her mouth and chewed sharply. “And I’m sure it was really just about him showing me how awesome he, and everyone in Podunk, Misery, thinks he is.”
“For the last time, it’s Missouri, not misery,” Cora said. “And the disco? In the eighties? Really? Baby girl, you gotta stop watching so many sci-fi shows and start with those history programs that are on your schedule. If you want to graduate, that is.”
“I know a lot about World War Two. You can quiz me, which should get me at least a few extra points toward my history homework.” Foster paused, waiting hopefully for Cora to give her a break on the boring documentaries.
“You don’t get extra points for learning about something that’s not in this semester’s curriculum. You should be doing that regardless.”
“Fine,” Foster huffed. “But back to my interaction with the native Missourian, the guy introduced himself as Tate Nighthawk Taylor. Nighthawk! I swear, I can’t make this crap up. Isn’t that like the most ridiculous dudebro thing you’ve ever heard?”
“Tate Taylor?” Cora asked.
“Yeah, Tate Douchehawk Taylor. Can’t forget that part.”
Cora sighed.
“What?” Foster asked, taking a swig out of Cora’s water bottle.
“The person we’re here to meet, his name is—”
“No,” Foster interrupted. “Don’t do this to me, Cora.”
“Tate Taylor.”
2
TATE
Tate inhaled deeply as he jogged into the locker room. The scent of Icy Hot and sweat said he was where he belonged—home. Guys he’d been playing with since peewee football milled around, popping towels and smacking shoulder pads as they tried to harness pregame nerves and psyche themselves up for Homer High School’s version of Friday Night Lights. Tate didn’t need to psyche himself up. His two favorite things were brewing just outside the locker room—a big storm, and a big game.
His least favorite thing, though, had him staring blankly into his locker as he considered bashing his forehead against its metal sides. Tate Nighthawk Taylor sucked at talking to girls. And if the girl was pretty …
His shoulders slumped.
I actually told her Sports Illustrated was my favorite book. After I already made myself sound like a deluded superhero wannabe by introducing myself as Nighthawk—to a total stranger—a hot, disinterested, total stranger.
“Shit. Maybe I am a douche.”
“Yo, Nighthawk, who was that ginge you was talkin’ to? She ain’t from here, that’s for sure.” Kyle Case bumped Tate with his shoulder. “If you’re gettin’ in on that St. Joe action, you’re gonna be in major trouble with our women. Especially Emma.”
“Emma and I broke up. I can talk to whoever I want.”
“Not if they’re from St. Joe you can’t. She’s a Spartan. We’re Panthers. The two do not fraternize,” said Kyle.
“Fraternize? You been studying your vocab words again, Ky-kee?” Tate waggled his brows at his best friend.
“Dude.” Kyle lowered his voice. “We talked about this. Like, a million times. You cannot use my baby sister’s nickname for me. Ever.”
“Oh, I can. I definitely can.”
“Nope. It’s not cool.”
“Hey, you call me a nickname all the time,” Tate said.
“Nighthawk is cool. Ky-kee is not. End of discussion. Get back to the ginge with the big boobs.”
“Big boobs? What? No.” Tate shook his head. “I wasn’t talking to her because of that.” He’d been so caught by Strawberry’s big green eyes, amazing red hair, and that skin that looked like she could have been carved from marble—smoking hot, flawless marble—that he hadn’t noticed anything else about her. Well, except that she didn’t like football and, more specifically, she didn’t like him.
“Did you say big boobs?” asked Ryan. “Whose?” The linebacker’s head turned in Tate’s direction, along with half the team, making them look like mutant baby birds. “I thought you and Emma broke up.”
“We did. Kyle’s just being an—”
“Nighthawk got his hands on some boobs. Again!” Ryan, who had never been a genius, talked over him, knocking kids aside as he tunneled his six-foot-two, three-hundred-fifty-pound way through the team to get to Tate. “I gotta get me some details.”
“No details!” Tate said. “I was talking to a girl. That’s all.”
“She’s a Spartan,” Kyle said.
“I didn’t say that!” Tate said. “I don’t know what she is, except not real friendly.”
“Definitely a Spartan,” Ryan said. “But I think big boobs cancel out the Spartan-ness of her.”
Kyle scoffed. “Tell that to Emma and her friends.”
“We broke up!” Actually, Emma had dumped him. Two weeks ago. No explanation except “Babe, it’s not working out.” Not working out? What did that even mean? He was still trying to figure out what he’d done wrong.