Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(56)

“I know. I just agreed.”

“But you’re laughing. You don’t think I am.” He looks at the soda can he’s holding, turns it sideways, and then crushes it between his hands.

I laugh harder. “Was that meant as proof?”

He smiles. “Yes, actually.”

“You totally got that out of Ninja Wars Two. I remember that. Naoto’s eyes are like bugging out of his head while he crushes a soda can.” I bite my lip to stop my laughing. “You’re such a nerd.”

“You’re the one who remembered the comic. You can’t call me a nerd.”

“Total nerd.”

He grabs me by the wrist, pulls me toward him, and somehow lifts me up and is holding me off the ground, his arms wrapped around my thighs, before I can blink.

My heart is immediately in my throat. “Okay, that’s much better proof of your strength,” I say, patting his shoulders. “I believe you. You can put me down now.”

He doesn’t move. His face is serious again. “It’s not that I’m not strong enough to play. It’s just that specific motion.”

“Throwing?” My hands are gripping his shoulders, their solidness further proof of his claim.

“Yeah.”

So a Paranormal precisely targeted his throwing muscles? It’s hard for me to believe someone would do that on purpose. But what else could it be? I have to find out who. Trevor loosens his hold, and I slide gently to the ground. A little light-headed, I take a few wobbly steps back.

“Tonight, watching Duke play, was hard.” He pauses for a long moment, and I don’t want to push him into continuing, so I hold my tongue. “Do you ever feel like you do something or are something for so long that it defines you?”

If only he knew. “Yes. I know exactly how that feels.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Sometimes I feel like I’m slowly floating away. I’m constantly looking for something to grab on to so I don’t lose myself.” Mostly because without my ability to define me, I’m not sure who I am or how others see me.

He nods like he understands exactly what I’m talking about. “I know I was only a junior last year, but I had my whole future planned. Now I feel like I’m still trying to hold on to what I was, even though the thing that made me that person is gone. And everyone else seems to be hanging on to that person too … man, are you sure you want a future best friend who is such a whiner? Just ignore me. I’ll be back to pretending tomorrow.”

His thumb is hooked in the front pocket of his jeans, and I have an overwhelming desire to hold his hand. To comfort him. But I know I can’t. He has Stephanie for that. I’m supposed to punch him on the shoulder and tell him to buck up or something. I settle for a speech. “Whining is definitely something best friends are allowed to do in front of each other—it’s in the handbook. And you don’t have to pretend with me, Trevor. You are more than a football player to me. I didn’t even know that version of you. I only know who you are now—a great friend, easy to talk to and be around, an amazing artist, an awesome brother … a total nerd.” I smile. “And that’s just what I’ve learned in the last few weeks.”

The distant lights from the stadium mask half his face in shadows. “Thanks, Addison. And for the record, whatever you left behind, whatever has you feeling like you’re floating here, doesn’t define you either.”

I want to ask him what does define me. Who he sees when he looks at me. But I can’t get the words out. They sit in the back of my throat for fear he won’t know the answer to that question either.

“But,” he continues, “if you need something to hold on to until you feel grounded, I make a pretty good anchor.”

An unexpected feeling of warmth fills my chest and makes me want to hug him or cry. I can’t do either. “Yeah, you proved that.”

He laughs. “Do you want to go watch the rest of the game?”

“Not really, but I left Laila up there.”

“Okay, I’ll see you Monday then.” I watch him until he disappears into the blackness.

When I get back, Laila gives me a sideways glance. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh, right …”

“What did I miss?” I ask, changing the subject. When Laila gets an idea in her head, no matter how off base it is, it’s best not to try to talk her out of it.

“Only Duke being awesome,” she says with a smile. “But I’m sure he’ll do it again.”

Fifteen minutes pass, and she leans toward me. “Told you.”

I glance up at the scoreboard—21 to 3. Five minutes left. We’re getting our butts kicked. “Are you ready to cover for me? I’m going down to the locker room.”

“Yeah, go already.”

In the locker room I position myself behind a bin of soccer balls and wait. It feels like it takes forever, especially since the grass/sweat combination isn’t a pleasant smell. Why am I doing this?

A couple years ago Laila showed up to lunch holding the janitor’s golf-cart code and a skateboard attached to a rope. “We won’t get caught. Search it,” she said, when I refused. I did. Even though the skateboard path led to one of the best days ever, it also led to the principal’s office. I chose the other option. The safe one.