Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(39)

It seems to be the theme of my life lately, and I don’t even like the sport. “What’s up with Rowan always coming up with players and their injuries?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised he didn’t say it the other night. He has this theory that someone is purposefully injuring the competition.”

My throat feels dry, and I try to swallow down some moisture. “Why does he think that?”

“Well, because of the nature of my hit. It was after the whistle. I wasn’t expecting it, and neither was my line—which is odd, because I’m always on guard for a few seconds after each play. But that time I felt completely relaxed. And then I was hit. Hard. The ligaments in my shoulder were torn pretty bad. Which makes him think that someone tried to permanently injure me.”

“But you don’t think that?”

“No. Football is all about smashing into other people as hard as you can. Of course players are going to get hurt. And how could someone know how badly I would get hurt anyway?”

I clear my throat. “And these other players who have been hurt too … The ones Rowan’s been telling you about. Did they all get hurt while playing that same school as well?”

“I don’t know. I try not to take Rowan too seriously. It’s been my downfall many times.” He pauses. “But he’s a lot of fun. He lives off adrenaline. You’ll never be bored with him around.”

I’m not sure if that statement was made specifically for me or if he was speaking in generalities, but it’s time to make my feelings for Rowan clear. “Adrenaline is overrated.” Okay, so that isn’t the clear-cut ‘I hate Rowan’ statement I was looking for when I opened my mouth. But I feel bad; I don’t want to be rude about his best friend.

He readjusts his position on the floor, but it doesn’t seem to make him any more comfortable. “I never did give you that zombie quiz on Friday.”

“That’s because you were too busy driving strangers to my house.”

He groans. “I thought you might’ve been mad about that. Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve known me for such a long time. You should be able to read my looks by now. Glaring at you in the rearview mirror, like this, means: ‘You will die if you take people to my house. Come up with an alternate solution.’” I give him an example of the look.

“Good to know. I’ll start a list.”

My cell phone chimes, and I pull it out of my pocket. The text message from Laila reads, I just let the air out of the tires of one of my dad’s loser friends’ car at Fat Jacks. It felt so good.

I close my eyes, trying not to let this news affect me now, from hundreds of miles away. Because my immediate response is to ask her if she’s crazy. What’re you doing off-campus for lunch? Shouldn’t you be sitting on the stage tormenting people who walk by?

I felt like Fat Jacks. Snuck off. Apparently the entire football team hangs out here. You should see this place. Packed. What’re you up to?

I’m locked in a car with Trevor, I text back.

“Is that our rescue squad giving us an update?” Trevor asks.

Ooh, Sounds fun, Laila responds.

“Oh. No. It’s my friend Laila. Rowan doesn’t have my cell number, and I really don’t want him to, so please don’t give it to him.”

Trevor’s eyes dart to mine. “Wow, it was that obvious, huh?”

“Yeah, and I’m not really interested. No offense.”

“It doesn’t offend me. It was a best-friend favor. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Will you just let him know?”

“Yeah, sure.” He shifts his shoulders again, and I wonder if he’s in pain.

“Isn’t there a way to move the seat back or something? You look so uncomfortable.” My Compound car immediately adjusts to my settings. Was it the same here? I hadn’t paid enough attention. Maybe I just made the stupidest suggestion, because the car obviously doesn’t have Trevor’s fingerprint in its database. How is he supposed to move the seats in someone else’s car?

“Yes, the lever is probably on the side. Can you reach it?”

“Lever?” So it was a stupid suggestion for a different reason—I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“On the side of the seat. By the door.”

“Oh, right.” I reach to the side of the seat, hoping to find something sticking out. I do, but I still don’t know what to do.

“Did you find it?”

“Maybe?”

The next thing I know, his hand is on mine. His fingertips, slightly calloused, travel over mine in search of the lever. “You probably just push it back.”

Our eyes meet under the seat. The car is entirely too stuffy and hot. I take my hand out from under his. “Maybe we shouldn’t move the seats. The principal will probably be able to tell.”

“True.”

The horn beeps, and I jump.

“We’re free,” Trevor says. “Let’s take a team picture with this and then put it back.” He starts to get up.

“Trevor?”

His face reappears under the seat. “Yeah?”

“Sorry about your shoulder.”

He smiles. “No need to be sorry. Really. Rowan makes it into a much bigger deal than it is.”