“You’re going down!” Laurel screamed at Emma from across the field. Emma rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Not long ago, a threat like that from Laurel would have scared her, but she and Laurel were now on good terms. And Laurel definitely wasn’t Sutton’s murderer.
“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Mercer said, tucking a yellow flag into his waistband and gesturing for the group to huddle. “Madeline, Charlotte, you girls flank us and keep those blues off our backs. After the snap, Sutton, you run downfield as fast as you can. I’ll pass it to you when it looks clear.” Then he squeezed her arm. “I’m glad you’re playing this year.”
Emma couldn’t keep the smile off her face. Since she’d discovered Mr. Mercer was her grandfather, she’d felt close to him, not just as Sutton but as herself. But then the usual guilt flooded back. He didn’t know her secret. And as much as she wanted to tell him, she couldn’t. She thought about the locket tightening around her throat at Charlotte’s house, the stage light that had crashed dangerously close to her head, all the times the murderer had warned her never to tell anyone. She couldn’t bear the thought of her grandfather being hurt—and if he knew the truth, his life would be in danger, too.
The referee blew the whistle again. Emma saw the ball snap back and bolted, weaving quickly in and out of blue cotton shirts. The Twitter Twins’ high voices chanted from the sidelines: “We’ve got beauty, we’ve got class, the other team can kiss our …”
“Sutton!” Mr. Mercer cried, drowning out the rest of the cheer. Nisha was in front of him, trying to grab the flag from his belt, but he danced backward a few steps and threw.
Emma’s body tensed as the ball hung in the air. It fell neatly into her arms, and she took off toward the goalpost.
“Where do you think you’re going?” From the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. Mercer come her way. Her grandmother was surprisingly dexterous, limber from the hot yoga she did three times a week. Emma zigzagged around her and put on a burst of speed. Laurel joined the chase, and she and Mrs. Mercer flanked Emma as she pelted up the field.
Emma’s hair came loose from its knot and billowed behind her. I was pulled along by her speed, but I couldn’t feel the wind in my hair or the earth pushing away under my feet. I wondered how many times I’d gone to this tournament only to stand on the sidelines with my friends, complaining about the heat. Maybe I should have actually played once, just to experience it for myself.
The goalpost loomed in the distance, so close Emma could taste it. Suddenly, a pair of arms encircled her waist. She tumbled to the ground, the football rolling away from her. When she flipped to her back, Thayer’s face hovered over hers. “Gotcha,” he said softly, in the same feathery tone of voice he might use to say I love you.
Time stood still for a moment. Emma smelled the sweet grass, saw the light freckles on his cheeks. His face was so close to hers, she thought they might kiss.
I would have given anything in that moment to be able to feel what Emma did.
Then Thayer cried out as someone lifted him from behind. Emma looked around, confused, and saw Ethan shoving Thayer to his feet.
“This is flag football,” Ethan said angrily. “You’re going to hurt someone.”
Thayer pushed Ethan away. “Touch me again, man, and I’ll hurt you.”
“Oh yeah, you going to knock me down like you did my girlfriend?” Ethan shoved him again, this time a little harder.
Thayer took a few steps back. A dangerous grin broke over his face. “I’m going to enjoy kicking your ass,” he snarled. Then he lunged. Soon the two were a tangle of limbs and dirt thrashing around on the ground.
“Stop it!” Emma cried, struggling to her feet. There was blood on Ethan’s cheek. Thayer’s shirt was torn at the collar. The referee’s whistle blasts kept breaking through the air uselessly. Spectators stood with their hands clapped over their mouths. People ran toward them, including Mr. Mercer.
“Break it up, boys!” he yelled. But only a few feet from the fight, a divot of grass snagged his foot. He went flying face-first into the turf, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop. A low groan of pain escaped his mouth. Ethan and Thayer stopped fighting and stared at him.
“Dad!” Laurel screamed, dropping to his side. Emma and Mrs. Mercer were just behind her.
Mr. Mercer let out another groan. Both of his shins were skinned, and blood trickled into the grass. He clutched his left knee, which had already swollen to twice its usual size.
“Oh, man,” whispered Thayer, wiping his own blood from his purpling nose.