The Queen B* and the Homecoming King (11 page)

“She’s only one person. And besides, she should make a big fuss about you because there’s a good chance you’re a better debater than her.”

His face brightened, and a half-smile played upon his lips. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

A full grin appeared, and the momentary doubt I’d glimpsed in my best friend vanished. “What
about you? Do you and Brett have any plans for the weekend?”

I shook my head. “He’s leaving tomorrow morning with his dad to scout out some schools in California. He won’t be back until Tuesday night.”

“That sucks. I’m sure you’re going to miss kissy-kissy time with him.” Richard puckered his lips and made exaggerated kissing noises until I threatened to throw a spoonful of my fro-yo at him.
“Oh, well, at least you can go to Homecoming with him.”

“I’m not going.”

“Oh, come on. Swallow your pride, put on a nice dress, and dance like a crazy monkey for a few hours. It’ll be fun.”

“I have nothing in common with his friends, and the evening would be complete torture.”

“Then hang out with me and Sean.”

“You haven’t even asked him yet,” I countered. One by one, I was losing all my
excuses not to go. Except, of course, for the one reason Richard had already hit upon.

My pride.

Ever since I’d started high school with my hard shell of the Queen B* in place, I’d reminded myself time and time again that I was above all my peers, that high school was a level of Hell that Dante had missed, and life would be perfect once I’d gotten away from Summer and all her cronies who’d
humiliated me in junior high. To go to Homecoming would require me to buy into the whole high school ritual thing that I’d wanted nothing to do with.

Until Brett.

“If I ask him and he says yes, will you come, too?” Richard asked. “This will be my first time going to Homecoming, and I’d love to experience it with my best friend.”

I’d already pissed off one of my best friends, and the notion
of disappointing the other worried me so much that I conceded just a tiny bit to appease him. “I’ll think about it.”

Richard must’ve seen the cracks forming in my resolve because he grinned. “Excellent.”

He grabbed my abandoned bowl and tossed it in the garbage with his empty one. “See you at the game?”

“Sure.” After all, I was the star quarterback’s girlfriend. I needed to be in the stands,
cheering him on.

And maybe deciding if I could swallow my pride enough to go to the dance with the guy who’d most likely be crowned Homecoming King next week.

***

The game was being played at Skylake High, and the visitor stands were packed with Eastline students half an hour before kickoff. People squeezed their hoodies and T-shirts over their rain gear, proudly displaying the school colors.
The marching band cranked their volume up to drown out Skylake’s fight song, and the cheerleaders seemed even more annoyingly peppy tonight. Adding to the craziness were the news crews crowded along the sidelines, all there to document the intense rivalry between two of the best teams in the state and the play of possibly the best quarterback on the West Coast.

Richard had arrived early enough
to snag a seat for me, but I was still struggling to get through the line of people at the gate. The early October night was damp and cool with the threat of rain coming from the thick clouds overhead. I’d lost my favorite denim jacket at the frat party last week, so I’d opted to wear a long-sleeved shirt under Brett’s team shirt to the game. The number on the back garnered me more attention than
I was used to, and I hesitated along the fence, uncertain if I should bother to tell Brett good luck before the game or just disappear into the stands.

He spotted me from the field before I had a chance to make up my mind and motioned me over to the fence. “Are you ready for this, Lexi?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” I leaned in closer, the cold metal latticework of the fence penetrating
my layers of clothes. “So, should I say good luck or break a leg…?”

“How about a quick kiss for luck?” He came as close as he dared and waited for me.

With so many eyes watching us, how could I refuse? I reached over the fence and wrapped my arms around his neck. I’d intended to just give him a quick peck on the lips, but as usual, I ended up losing myself in his kiss. His touch drove away the
chilly night air, and all the chaos around us seemed to vanish. It was just me and him, as close to perfect as I could imagine the world being.

But a loud blast from a tuba shook me from my blissful dream, and I pulled back, completely unembarrassed for the first time about being caught kissing Brett. Maybe I was moving along with this whole relationship thing better than I initially thought.
I whispered the same words of support Richard’s grandmother had given on Monday. “Kick some ass.”

He laughed before walking back to his teammates.

By the time I’d reached the spot Richard had managed to carve out for me in the stands, Brett had his game face on. I’d watched him play enough by now to recognize it just before he fastened his helmet. Everything else faded away when he was on the
field. He didn’t care about me or the throngs of reporters or the records he could demolish. It was all about winning the game, and he’d ignore everything else until the clock ran out in the fourth quarter.

Once the game got under way, I realized why Brett had spent so much time reviewing film on Skylake. They were good. Probably the best team we’d played all year. And given that they were literally
a few miles down the road from our school only added to the intensity of the grudge match. And after a few plays, it also became clear that they’d been preparing for us as much as we had them.

Toward the end of the second quarter, the almost unthinkable happened. Brett was intercepted. He’d thrown the ball toward Sanchez in a route I’d seen them run dozens of times before. Unfortunately, so had
the Skylake defense. One of their players jumped in front of Sanchez, ripped the ball out of the air, and ran it back for a touchdown. By the time halftime rolled around, we were down by ten points, and the enthusiasm on our side of the field had deflated like a leaky balloon.

Brett walked off the field with his team, his face a mask of fierce determination. I didn’t know what was going to be
said in the locker room, but I knew Brett was the kind of leader who would do his best to rally his teammates and keep them focused on the game.

“Ugh,” Richard grumbled. “This sucks.”

“Brett can do it.” It came out sounding like some kind of mantra, but if I believed in anyone on the team, it was him. “He’ll come up with some sort of plan.”

“At least we get the ball back to start the second
half.” Richard stood and jerked his thumb toward the concessions stand. “I’m going to grab a hot chocolate. Want one, too?”

“Sounds great.” I’d welcome anything to chase away the worried chills that trembled along my spine.

There was so much riding on this game, on Brett. If Eastline lost, would the student body use me as the scapegoat for the loss? After all, he’d been nearly perfect until
this week—the week I officially became his girlfriend.

Worse, would it jeopardize his chances of getting a football scholarship to the college of his choice? Would he blame me, too?

The fear churned in my stomach until Richard returned and handed me a hot chocolate. “You okay?”

“Just worried about what would happen if we lose.”

“You’re worrying over nothing because we aren’t going to lose.”

I pointed to the deficit on the scoreboard. “What about that?”

“It’s halftime.” He blew on his hot drink before taking a sip. “Relax and let Brett do what he does best—win games.”

I wished I shared Richard’s confidence, but when the team came back onto the field, their pep had returned. They bounced around and high-fived each other as though the scores were reversed and they were in the lead.
Whatever had been said in the locker room had worked, and they marched down to the end zone on the first drive in five quick plays, reducing the deficit to just three points.

Skylake answered with a touchdown of their own, and the next twenty-five minutes nearly gave me an ulcer. Each drive mirrored the one before it, and the score fluctuated between three and ten points, but Skylake maintained
their lead. With two minutes left in the game, Brett ran the ball in himself to score another touchdown and reduce the deficit to three points again.

Instead of celebrating, Brett rallied the team around him and called the next play.

An onside kick.

Skylake saw it coming, and zeroed in on the ball and the Eastline players chasing after it. Player after player piled on top of it, but when the
refs got to the bottom, Ren had the ball.

Eastline had recovered with less than two minutes to score. If we got a field goal, we went into overtime. But a touchdown would win the game.

The Skylake defense came back onto the field angry and gunning for Brett. The first play ended with a vicious sack that made me forget to breathe.

Brett was slow to get up, but he shook his head and waved off
the coaches. Ten seconds later, he’d called the next play and threw a twenty-yard pass to Sanchez.

The clock kept ticking away, and with ten seconds left on the scoreboard, the offense was still thirty yards away from the end zone. Brett lined up for the next play, scanned the defense, and called time out.

I clutched Richard’s arm in excitement. “He must see something,” I murmured, wondering
if all those hours reviewing films had paid off.

Brett treated football like a game of chess. To him, it was more than just lobbing the ball up into the air and praying someone on his team caught it. He studied defenses, picked apart their weaknesses, and took advantage of them. When he called the time out, he ran back to the sidelines to talk to his coach. A few seconds later, Sanchez and the
rest of the offense joined him, their helmeted heads nodding at various times as Brett spoke. The huddle ended with a clap of their hands and a “Go Eagles!”

Skylake’s defense had used the time out to form their own little huddle, and when they lined up, every pair of eyes seemed to zero in on Brett.

Brett lined up as he usually did in the shotgun formation. Just before the ball was snapped,
the running back, Ren, dashed in front of him and took the ball from the center, Fata Tauaalo.

“Wildcat!” Richard shrieked in excitement. I had no idea what it meant, but it seemed that the pressure was off Brett for a few seconds.

But the initial shock faded from the Skylake defense, and they closed in around Ren. The clock continued to tick down to the final seconds. Just when it looked like
he’d be tackled to end the game, Ren tossed the ball back to Brett, who was running toward the end zone.

It was a sloppy pass—a wobbly spiral that Brett had to jump in the air to catch as he crossed the goal line. A Skylake defender slid into Brett at full throttle, knocking him off his feet, but Brett managed to hold onto the ball. The trick play had worked, and the refs called the winning
touchdown as the clock hit zero. Eastline had won, but the initial cheers of victory ceased when one player didn’t rise from the turf to join his teammates in the celebration.

Brett remained on the ground, his body stiff with pain, and my heart refused to beat. Then he rolled over and pounded his fist into the ground. He was conscious, but obviously hurt.

I dashed down the stands, not caring
that I knocked people out of my way. But the same metal fence I’d pressed against earlier to give him a good-luck kiss now kept me from rushing to his side.

Players on both teams took a knee while the coach and the team doc ran out onto the field.

I held my breath and offered a silent prayer that he would be okay, that he’d just had his bell rung and he would pop back up in a second and jog
off the field as the hero of the game. But as the seconds slowly passed, he didn’t move.

A large hand clamped on my shoulder and squeezed it. I looked up to see Brett’s dad standing beside me, his face sick with worry. At nearly six foot four, he towered over most of the players blocking my view of Brett, and I asked him what was going on.

“It looks like they’re working on his leg,” Mr. Pederson
replied, craning his neck to get a better view.

And when he did, he sucked in a breath between his teeth.

My anxiety tripled, and my heart squeezed so tightly, I couldn’t breathe. “What?”

“Alexis, don’t,” he warned, but I broke free and found a gap between the players that gave me a clear view of my boyfriend.

Brett lay on his back, his body arched in pain, his right foot twisted in a grotesque
angle. The bits of red and white I glimpsed above it had nothing to do with his uniform, and I swallowed back the vomit that rose into the back of my throat when I realized they were blood and bone.

A black tunnel formed around me, and I backed away in horror. Even though he’d won the game, Brett had shattered his ankle in the process. My knees started to buckle, and I would have slumped to the
ground if Mr. Pederson hadn’t steadied me.

“It’s okay, Alexis,” he said, even though his voice trembled. “He’ll be okay. Don’t cry.”

I was crying?