Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

There’s something really fucking sexy about listening to a girl like her talk about football and actually know her stuff. I’m used to having to explain what a first down means to most girls.

“You make it sound so easy. If only I could write about football instead of current events.”

She grins at me. “Yeah. I’m sure you would love that.”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought up football. Not me. I wasn’t going to even utter the word for fear that it would scare you off.”

Now that I’ve brought attention to it, she looks a little like she wants to bolt, but she doesn’t.

“The trick with papers like this is to pick a current event that interests you or that connects to a subject you’re familiar with.”

“I don’t know anything about anything but football.”

“That can’t be true. What kind of stuff were you interested in growing up?”

“Girls,” I answer.

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think girls count as a current event.”

“I didn’t do anything growing up except work for my dad and play football. That’s all I know how to do.”

“What does your dad do?”

“He’s a rancher.”

“Why don’t you write about the drought? I saw a thing on the news just this morning about the decline in the number of cattle in Texas. If it’s on the news, I’m sure you could find an article somewhere about it.”

“I can talk about that?”

She smiled. “Yeah. As long as you find some articles and more official information to back it all up.”

“I could write about that in my sleep. I’ve got my dad’s whole rant about it down pat.”

“Then do that.”

She does a quick Internet search and on the first page alone, she points out three or four articles that would make good sources. And in five minutes, I’ve got all my main points mapped out.

“I think once I’ve read a few of these articles, I should be able to wrap up the rest of this pretty quickly.”

This would have taken me hours by myself.

“Yep. I think you’ve pretty well got the hang of it.”

I look up from my computer to face her, and I notice that she’s closed the gap between us on the couch, leaving a scant few inches between her leg and mine.

“Thanks for this, Daredevil. You’re a lifesaver.”

She shakes her head.

“I’m no daredevil.”

“Any girl who can jump off balconies and hold her own in a fight with Coach Cole is a daredevil in my book.”

Her face falls, and I immediately regret bringing up that night.

“Like father, like daughter, I guess.”

“It’s not such a bad thing . . . being like your dad. Yeah, you’re both stubborn and proud. That’s for sure. But you’ve both got big hearts.”

She looks at me like an extra head has just sprouted from the socket of my shoulder.

“No one in my entire life has ever told me I have a big heart.”

I touch the hand she has braced on her knee, just for a few seconds, and say, “Then no one in your entire life has been paying much attention.”

THE NEXT MORNING Ryan approaches as soon as I enter the weight room. He doesn’t ask if I need a spot; this has become our routine since the first time he helped me.

He helps me load weights on the bar over at the bench press, and he wordlessly adds an extra ten pounds.

I might have mentioned Coach’s words about improving my arm in passing, and Ryan has unofficially taken on the role as my trainer.

I’m not as chatty today, not with an extra ten pounds to worry about, and not with my head still dissecting every moment I spent with Dallas last night. But Ryan picks up the slack.

“You’re later today than usual.”

I push out a breath as I lift the bar away from my chest.

“Up late,” I breathe.

“Something to do with the message you left?”

“Oh, that. I just had a question, but I worked it out.”

“Okay,” he says, but doesn’t comment further as I finish out my set. When I rack the bar and take a quick breather he adds, “I hope you’re coming during your lunch break today.”

I had been thinking of trying to catch Dallas after environmental science to thank her again for her help, but that will just take a few minutes.

“I’ll be here.”

“Good. Otherwise I would have two pissed-off receivers on my hands.”

I take the bar again, readjust my grip for a second, my hands burning slightly where some new calluses are forming. Then I start another set.

“What do you mean?”

“Torres and Brookes are meeting us at one. Thought we could spend some time throwing today. Work on that arm. It will give you a chance to get to know them, too. Build a rapport.”

Torres and Brookes? They’re both first string.

Ryan sees my expression. “They’re good guys. And they’re taking shit from Abrams about not being able to get open, so they’ve been hanging around, putting in some extra work. Seems stupid not to take advantage and let you guys work each other.”

“Yeah. It does. Thanks, man.”

“Don’t mention it. Now tell me what was so important that you broke your strict schedule for a late night.”

“Eh.” My hesitation turns into a groan as I struggle with my next to last rep. Ryan touches two fingers to the bottom of the bar, letting me know he’s there.

“One more.”

I take a few ragged breaths, and then I let my shaking arms lower toward my chest.

“Tell me this,” he says. “Was it more important than outplaying Abrams? Because that’s what all this is for, right? No one works this hard to ride the bench.”

Sweat runs in my eyes as I began to push up one last time. Ryan’s two fingers under the bar disappear and now both his hands grip the bar, pushing down just enough to add resistance.

I growl as I try to push past him.

“Was it more important?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word by letting me gain just a centimeter. My arms are shaking badly now, and the ache extends from my wrists to my shoulders.

I think about Dallas, and rather than answering, I grit my teeth and push up as hard as I can, dislodging Ryan and depositing the bar on the rack. I sit up, and my arm screams with the effort to even just lift up the hem of my shirt and wipe at the sweat on my face.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a bastard?” I say.

“Once or twice. Who is she?”

I stiffen and stand up, stretching my arms above my head. “What do you mean?”

“If it were anything else, you would have just said yes or no. When guys start having trouble giving straight answers, I find that it’s usually about a girl.”

“For your information, I was up doing homework.”

“Riiiight.” He raises his hands does those lame air-quote things. “Homework.”

I shake my head, pushing the sweaty hair off my forehead. “Doesn’t matter. We’re just friends.”

“I knew it!”

“Watch it, Blake. Don’t make me shove that dumbbell up your ass to keep your head company.”

“Fine. Fine. Go shower. Rest up so you don’t embarrass yourself in front of Torres and Brookes this afternoon. Then you can just concentrate on the friend zone . . . I mean end zone.”

I shove him, and he just laughs in response.

“Bastard.”

“Yeah, well. Let’s both get our heads out of our asses before this afternoon, hmm?”

I’m heading out when Stella comes home that evening.

“You going to the cafeteria? I’m starving!”

“Uh . . . no. I already ate. Sorry.”

She nods, stripping off a paint-covered T-shirt. “Dance class or work?”

God, why couldn’t I have just left five minutes earlier?

“Neither. Studying.”

She gives an exaggerated snore. If she knows where I’m actually going, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.

“Fine. Go do your thing. But first . . . I made something for you.” She drags her large portfolio bag that she uses to carry her artwork onto the bed. She unzips the top and reaches inside. “Ta-da!”

She thrusts a small canvas painting in my direction. In the center in thick, deep red is a heart (the metaphorical, not anatomical, kind). It’s painted so that it looks three-dimensional, like I could pick it up off the page. And down the center of the heart are black, string laces, pulled tight, and squeezing the heart, exaggerating its shape.

“It’s your corset heart. Remember?”

I remembered our discussion in the library before Carson had interrupted us, the one all about how I am laced too tightly to ever let myself fall in love. When I really think about it, that oppressed heart is a pretty damn accurate depiction, but as I hold it in my hands, I feel my stomach toss. I might be sick.

“You hate it,” Stella says.

“No, it’s really pretty. I love the colors.”

“But you’re not exactly a hearts-and-flowers kinda girl. I know. It’s fine.” She moves to take it back. “I’ll just paint over it. Try something new.”

“No!” I jump back, holding the small painting away from her. I clear my throat. “No. I’d like to keep it . . . if that’s okay with you.”

Stella looks even more shocked than I feel. “Really?”

I nod.

“Yeah. It’s all yours.”

I slip it in my oversized purse, say goodbye, and walk out the door.

I’ll keep the painting because it’s pretty, because Stella made it and against all odds, I love her. I’ll also keep it as a reminder of the person I’ve let myself become.

I DIDN’T LIE to Stella, not really. I just didn’t elaborate on what studying meant. Or more specifically, with whom I’ll be studying. I ran into Carson earlier today on my way to my geology class as he was leaving. He asked what I was doing tonight, I said homework. I asked him, and he answered the same. And when he suggested we do our homework together . . . at the same time . . . in the same place . . .