I glanced around. People were pairing off fast. I locked my eyes on Ezra Lynley as he left the locker room and strode over to him.
“Hi,” I said when I reached him. “I’m Devon.”
I extended a hand toward him. He stared at it for a second before taking it briefly.
He didn’t introduce himself. Of course I already knew him, but there was something instantly off-putting about that. Still, it was better than partnering with Foster, which was my only other option—an option that I could clearly see ending with Foster’s beaning me in the face with the football and breaking my nose, Marcia Brady–style.
“Do you want to be partners?” I asked, forcing some brightness into my voice. “Seniors, uh, sticking together?”
Ezra stared. “You’re a senior?”
I would’ve liked to think I looked a little more mature than the rest of the girls in the class. Then again, with the majority of them being PTs, I probably looked the most like a fourteen-year-old.
“Yeah. I’m a senior.”
He evaluated me for a moment and then said, “Get a ball.”
“Get it yourself,” I replied, because who did he think he was? Who did he think I was, for that matter—some football groupie eager to bask in his glory?
Ezra just looked at me, expressionless, and I felt like I was being tested without knowing the criteria.
Apparently I passed, because he turned and crossed the gym to the bin of footballs by Mr. Sellers’s office. Turning back with a ball in hand, he chucked it from right where he stood, one smooth sweep of his arm that sent the ball sailing across the gym. Of course I didn’t catch it. It soared over the fingertips of my outstretched hands and bounced lopsidedly off toward the basketball hoop.
Ezra just stood there.
I turned and retrieved the ball, jaw clenched, and then sent it back hard, half because I was mad and half because I couldn’t throw worth shit.
It was an insane pass, too high and arcing too far to the left, but in a few great, effortless strides, Ezra thrust out his hands and closed his fingers easily around the ball.
Some of the PTs gasped in admiration, but Ezra didn’t look gratified. He just sent a soft, slow pass to me. I caught it, begrudgingly, and sent it back.
After what seemed like way too many minutes of this, Mr. Sellers told us to break into groups of three to run drills. I scanned the room for a lonely pair of girls to join, but Ezra was lingering close by, and before I could grab hold of a couple of freshmen—any freshmen—Foster loped over.
“Can I be in your guys’ group?”
I glanced at Ezra; he was staring at the wall as if it were staring back.
“Yeah, sure,” I replied, and tried to extinguish any thought of broken noses from my mind.
Mr. Sellers explained the drill to us, a confusing pattern we were supposed to execute across the length of the gym, one group at a time. He told us all to form three lines under the basketball hoop, and because Ezra, Foster, and I were the ones standing closest to that spot, everyone queued up behind us.
I cursed inwardly. How was I supposed to see how it’s done if I had to go first?
“What are we supposed to do?” I hissed to Ezra. He didn’t reply.
“All right!” Mr. Sellers clapped his hands. “Let’s go, first group!”
I had no choice but to take off across the floor. Ezra pitched the ball to me and then took off running behind me. I missed the ball and had to go back for it, and then I threw it to Foster, who seemed to share my aptitude for sports. Mr. Sellers had said something about people shifting places, so I moved over to the spot where Ezra had been and managed to grab the tip of the ball as Foster chucked it back at me.
“You were supposed to lateral it,” Ezra said, slowing to a stop behind us. “And you”—he pointed at me—“are supposed to be there.” He jabbed his finger at the spot where Foster stood.
I stopped, too, football still in hand. “Well, maybe I would’ve known that if you had explained it to me before.”
“Mr. Sellers explained it just fine.”