It’ll be just like playing football, I think to myself. I'll show him I can have a mean defense when he tries something with me. What's that they say sometimes—stuff the ball carrier?
“You did, and if you don't believe it yet, well you'd better, and you’d better start thinking about what you're going to wear tomorrow night. I won't have you dressing in those ugly mom jeans you like to put on,” Dani says with a grin and a soft squeeze of my arm. She seems genuinely happy for me, which surprises me, because Troy is one of the most desirable guys at Silver Lake. I thought for sure she'd be pissed off that he hadn't asked her out. "You're gonna look hot enough to melt those steely muscles of his and make him silly putty in your hands."
She seems to be the only one happy for me, though. All the other girls seem pissed, and several of them have walked off to the side and are standing in a group, talking to each other and casting glances my way.
Dani waves away my concern, noticing me looking at them. “Don't worry about those jealous bitches. They get mad over the littlest thing, like whose butt looks bigger on a given day or who gave the best head to the latest jock. So don't let a few glares bother you—let the haters hate.”
“That's easy for you to say. You're friends with most of them. In case you haven't noticed, I've been the perpetual third wheel in your group of friends since . . . well, forever. It's easy for you.”
“You're right. It is.” Dani gives me a devilish grin and I know she's planning something. “But you still shouldn't worry about any of them. Besides, they're about to be madder anyway.”
I stare at her suspiciously. “Why's that?”
“Because I'm looking at Silver Lake's newest cheerleader. Congrats.”
“You're kidding me!”
Dani shakes her head. “You earned it. Besides that little tumble, you did great. Shit, I even got a little jealous. I was never that good when I first started.”
I pull Dani into a tight embrace.
“Jesus, Whit, break my ribs, why don't you! You get superpowers along with those new tits?”
I quickly let her go. “Sorry.”
I can't believe my luck. A hot guy has just asked me out, and I've earned a spot on the cheerleading squad. Not bad for the first day of my senior year. And I have a feeling there will be more good things to come.
They always say the last year is the best year, I think with giddy excitement. I know it isn't always true . . . but damn if I ain't getting off to a great start!
“Don't be,” Dani says, nodding at the petulant cheerleaders who are still gossiping about me. She claps her hands and raises her voice, back in cheer captain mode. “All right, let's try that pyramid one more time before calling it a day . . . but try not to fall this time.”
Chapter 4
Troy
Those hips. That ass. That smile. Most of all, the way she felt in my arms.
I shake my head, getting my shit together. I may have a date with an uber-hot girl at seven thirty, but at four thirty, I have the scout team defense all staring at me, ready to prove to Coach Jackson that they deserve playing time with the varsity instead of dressing Thursday night with the JV squad.
"All right, boys," I say, looking around the huddle. "Split left, motion 37 option flip boogie on two. Ready? BREAK!"
I go up to the line, making sure my mouthpiece is in. I may be Superman on the football field, but even Superman's gotta have some receivers, and ours are . . . well, they suck. There's a reason that Coach Jackson decided to go with a single-wing option offense since I took over as starting QB back in my sophomore year. Silver Lake may produce track teams that go to region and state on a yearly basis, but that doesn't mean they can catch a football. In fact, the only time they can catch anything is on play-action passes like this, where I can use the running backs to sucker in the defensive backs and either take it myself or flip it to Charlie Watkins, who is playing that left side split end.
"Ready! Down . . . Red fifty-eight, red fifty-eight . . .” I lift my right leg, expecting the wing back who lined up on the right side to come behind me on his motion, "HUT! Hut-hut!"
Pete Barkovich, my center, snaps me the ball, and I pivot to my right, too late realizing that not only had I not given the wing back enough time to get across the line, but I'd turned the wrong direction to boot. I run straight into the him, stumbling and getting smacked by some freshman try-hard nose tackle who gets lucky, driving me into the ground. Shit.
Coach Jackson's whistle pierces the afternoon, and the freshman realizes he just signed his own death warrant. Even if we run a single-wing, and even if I’m the fucking starting strong side inside linebacker, you don't tackle the QB in practice. The freshman's face goes pasty, pimply white, and he gets off me, looking like he's waiting for someone to lop off his head.