Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

“Are we still talking about your dad?”

She sits up, and her hair falls around her slumped shoulders. She stays silent for so long that I’m pretty sure she’s done answering my questions for the night. Just when I’m about to pull her to me again, she says, “I think I break more than I fix.”

Her voice is low and hollow, and it kind of echoes in my ears, until I feel sick with pain for her.

“You know what you need to do?”

“Grow up?”

I brush all her hair to one side of her neck and lean down to kiss her shoulder.

“You need to dance.”

She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “This again?”

“I’m serious. It’s what fixes you. I can tell by the way you talk about it.”

Her answering smile is sad. “How is it that you can see that when you’ve known me for so little time, and he can’t?”

I know she’s talking about her dad.

“Sometimes it’s hard to see past our own broken pieces.”

I want to say that they’re really not all that different. They’ve just found different ways to heal themselves, but I’m not sure it’s the time for her to hear that. I think she might need to figure that out herself.

“Come on.” I take her hand and pull her to her feet. Together, we walk over to the open space in my apartment where she wrapped her arms around me in a hug not that long ago. I pull us back into that position, but this time I keep her hand in mine. It’s nothing complicated, but she lays her head on my shoulder and we sway together. Someday, I’ll learn how to do more, but for now I hope this is enough.

“What fixes you?” she asks.

A month ago I would have said football. I would have answered her immediately and automatically. But now, if I’m honest, and she always makes me want to be . . .

“I don’t know.”

THE ATMOSPHERE IN the locker room the next day is downright arctic. No one likes our chances for Saturday, me included. And when you stick dozens of young guys in a room, most of whom prefer to deal with their feelings through aggression and physicality, too many of us are itching for a reason to break something.

This morning, Maz, a massive offensive lineman from Alabama, put a hole in the wall in the weight room. Well, two holes technically, one with each fist. And the locker room is short two chairs—one broken by a player and the other by a coach.

I’ve managed, just barely, to stay above it and stay focused, and I suppose that pisses some people off.

Carter, the defensive lineman who I already couldn’t stand for talking about Dallas a few weeks ago, is the first to push me.

“Saw Firecracker sitting on your truck last night, McClain. What’s that about?”

“It’s about being none of your business,” I answer, lacing up my cleats.

“Wasn’t enough for you to take over QB from Abrams, you had to go for his sloppy seconds elsewhere, too?”

I drop the cleat I’m holding, and I slam him hard into the wood bracing between cubbies. Something splinters, and the uneven edge probably hurts like hell, but I don’t care.

“Say one more fucking word about her, and I swear to God, I’ll lay you out, Carter. And once I’m done beating every ounce of shithead out of you, I’ll hand you over to Coach and see what he thinks of my work.”

He snarls, “Fuck you.”

I’m ready to slam his head against the wood frame behind him when someone grabs me and pulls me off. Strong arms loop under my armpits, forcing my arms up.

Whoever’s holding me growls, “Get that idiot outside. All of you, go.”

Torres and Brookes both step toward me, but they hesitate, look at whoever has me, and then leave with the rest of the team. Only when everyone is out does the guy release me. And when I see who it is, I’m ready to go postal all over again.

Silas Moore.

He’s too fucking close, and I push him back, struggling to stop myself from doing more.

“Don’t you say a fucking word about her, Moore.”

He holds up his hands in surrender.

“I get it. I’m not exactly at the top of your list right now. Understood.”

“Try right at the bottom.”

“I’m an asshole. I know it. You know it. But I’ve got nothing against you, and I’ll stay far away from Firecracker.”

“Stop calling her that.”

“Done. I’ll make sure the rest of the team lays off, too.”

I grit my teeth because even though he’s not said anything wrong, I’ve got nowhere for all the anger to go.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I might have been friends with Levi, and sometimes we might have gone too far with some things, but I’m not him. What he did was stupid and careless, and it makes us all look bad. I’m not going to tank this team over some misguided loyalty to him. I care about this team, and we all, myself included, need you to be on your game. So if you need something from me, it’s yours. Whether it’s to shut up idiots like Carter or run plays or lift—whatever it is, I’ve got you.”

“I still think you’re an asshole.”

“Yes, but I’m an asshole who’s got your back.”

He holds out a hand, and after a few deep breaths, I take it.

“Let’s go to work.”

I didn’t think there would ever come a day when I would willingly step foot into another football stadium to watch a game. Add to that the red Rusk T-shirt I’m wearing (which clashes oh so horribly with my hair) and the fact that I’m kinda, sorta, definitely dating another football player (which I swore I would never do) . . . and yeah, it’s a day of improbable things.

The crowd is absolutely huge. It took Stella and me nearly an hour just to drive the few miles to the stadium, and then another forty-five minutes to park and walk to the nearest entrance.

Between our fans in red and the Dragons’ in green, it looks like Christmas threw up all over everything. I could have gotten tickets from Dad to sit with all the other coaching families and school administrators, but I didn’t want to tell him why I was coming. There are plenty of things my dad hasn’t picked up on over the years, but my abhorrence for football is not one of them. My sudden interest wouldn’t go without questions.

I think I might actually be ready to tell Dad about Carson, but that’s not just my decision to make. Carson has enough on his plate at the moment without worrying how my father will react to the news of us together.

One thing at a time.

That’s what I’ve been telling him since the news broke about Levi.

We’ve both just got to take it one thing at a time.

It’s still over an hour before kickoff, and the student section is basically full. Stella and I cram ourselves onto the edge of a bleacher right next to the band. We won’t be able to hear ourselves think, but we’re only ten rows up, and we’ve got decent visibility as long as we stay standing up.

I pull out my phone to text Carson, but I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him something that matters, something big, but the only thing that comes to mind are those three little words that we are so, so not ready for.

I tell Stella as much, and she pauses in unwrapping a piece of gum to say, “I’ve got three different words for you. Winning = BJ.”

“Stella!”

She pops the gum in her mouth. “You said you wanted something big that matters. I think that qualifies.”

“You’re terrible. And no help whatsoever.”

“Speaking of big things . . . ” Her slow-spreading smile reminds me for the thousandth time how different we are. “How big is it? You can tell me.” She bounces her eyebrows a few times.

“We’re not there yet.”

“You spent the night last night.”

“Yeah. But we just slept.”

“I mean, I know you’re not having sex. You would have told me that. But you haven’t done . . . like anything?”

I wince. I really do need to tell her about Levi, but at this point, I’ve lied for so long, I almost think it will cause more damage to tell her the truth.

“We’ve both been a little preoccupied with other things.”

“All the more reason to find a little distraction in each other. It’s good for the mind. And the body. And the personality. Just about everything, really.”

I ignore her and stare at my phone.

I type out a text.

Sending you all my daredevil vibes. I’ll

wait for you at your place after.

“Naked,” Stella says, reading over my shoulder. “Tell him you’ll wait for him naked.”

“I’m going to have to lock my phone, aren’t I?”

“Jesus, you don’t lock your phone? What century are you living in?”

“Not all of us spend our days sexting.”

“Oh my God, speaking of sexting. Carson’s friend Ryan is surprisingly dirty.”

“You’re sexting Ryan? Seriously? I thought you weren’t interested.”

She shrugs. “I’m not. But he’s fun. That’s all it is.”

My phone buzzes.

I wish we were already there.

“He’d be wishing a lot harder if you’d added my suggestion.”

“Why don’t you go mentally scar a band member or something?”

She takes me seriously and starts scanning the bleachers next to us for potential victims.

I want to keep texting Carson, but I don’t want to distract him. This was going to be a tough game to win before everything that’s happened. The whole team will need to really focus and come together to pull it off.

So I shove my phone back in my pocket and sit down. I bounce my knees and force myself to think about something else.

I’m really close to mastering the dance I choreographed on the night of Dad’s birthday. I’ve been working on it gradually, trying to re-create the piece that I imagined in my head.